Amyra awoke to pounding on her door. She stumbled up, her leather jerkin halfway buttoned by the time she reached the door. She opened it fully alert, knowing that Albus, her second-in-command, would only need to wake her during his watch if it was an emergency. A firm inquiry about the nature of the problem died on her lips as she saw the spears pointed at her. The men looked at her somewhat sheepishly, but with firm resolve in their eyes. And hints of horror and accusation. "Captain Calloway, you are under arrest", came the condemning words.

She finished buttoning her jerkin while she walked down the hallway, for the first time framed by armed men serving not as an escort for safety and stature, but as guards directing her steps and preventing her escape. Albus - now acting Captain Varona of the Royal Guard of Lethvia - was walking along, continuing to explain the situation. A courtesy not afforded to common criminals. A point still in her favor, she mused, though not much else was. The queen had been murdered under her tenure as captain of the guard, which did not speak well of her leadership. Under a more strict regime she could have been sent to the dungeons for that alone. Here in Lethvia the fault would have been assigned to the actual people posted to guard the queen that night, and Amyra would have remained to lead the investigations. The reason she, too, was now being sent to the dungeons was that her own knife had been discovered coated in the queen's blood. A fact which perplexed Amyra to the utmost degree, since her knife was never far from her reach, even at night. Guards were searching her room for it even as she was being marched to her dungeon. But everything suggested that it was not there.

She crouched in her cell, uncomfortable but not yet miserable. Wheels were spinning non-stop in her mind, trying to make sense of the situation. The calm, analytical assessments which had gotten her promoted to captain of the guard would not let her down, or so she hoped. She had never yet panicked under stress.
When she had arrived in her cell, she'd looked around carefully. Nothing surprising, she knew these dungeons from having brought prisoners down here many times. Four stone walls, well sealed and regularly inspected. No window, meaning her supposed crime was too grave for a nicer cell. A straw mat, not terribly comfortable, but not rotting. A pail of water - clean - and another pail - empty and also clean. A door, wooden with metal reinforcements, and a sturdy lock. She knew how sturdy they were, having replaced half of them herself. Not that she would have broken herself out of the dungeon. That would be the utmost disgrace.
Now she pondered the problem of her knife and the queen's murder. Who could have done it, and why? She could think of many reasons to kill a queen, but not many to frame herself for the murder.