The underground of the royal capital had no light. Or rather, it did. Just one thin beam. A ventilation shaft had been carved into the stone ceiling—barely wide enough for a human head to pass through, though it absolutely could not—and a slender ray of light streamed through it. When Lilia found that light, she felt a small measure of relief. The floor of the stone cell was cold. The walls were cold. The air was cold. Even for Lilia, a member of the demon race—a species with body temperature slightly higher than humans, and thus losing heat to the cold more quickly—it was a bone-deep chill that seeped in gradually. The faint trace of a small horn on her forehead—barely more than a pattern now, the mark of her demon heritage—ached slightly in the damp air of the stone wall. *How many hours has it been?* Lilia leaned her back against the stone wall and hugged her knees. Her silver short bob brushed against the stone. The angle of the light beam had shifted, just slightly, from be