───────────────⋆˖☽ ​𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆 ☾˖⋆───────────────

A flat, bruised light filtered through the rattling windowpane, revealing a room that felt more like a cell. Outside, the wind howled a mournful song. Inside, a dull ache had settled deep in my bones, a persistent throb that promised a long and miserable day. I lay still, trying to find a corner of peace in the pain, but the rasp of a key in the lock stole even that.

Instinct coiled in my gut. My fingers tightened around the cold, heavy brass of the candle holder hidden beneath my pillow. The footsteps that followed the click were soft, almost hesitant, yet they stumbled with an unmistakable clumsiness.

“Miss?” The voice was as sweet and warm as honeyed tea. A soft gasp followed. “Right. She doesn’t like that… Alanah? I just wanted to see how you were. It’s nearly noon.”

“I’m awake.” Each word was a struggle, each movement a negotiation with screaming muscles as I pushed myself into a sitting position. When I finally faced her, the girl’s hazel eyes weren’t on mine. They were fixed on the bruised, raw skin of my neck, and a wave of pity washed through their depths. A bitter taste rose in my throat. I didn’t want her pity. I turned my head away, my gaze falling to the floor.

“How are you feeling?” Celia drifted closer, her presence seeming to shrink the room. She smelled faintly of rain and clean linen.

“Fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m fine, Celia.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended. I heard her flinch. “Sorry,” I mumbled, my eyes still glued to the floor. I don’t trust her, a voice in my head whispered. But she is the only one who bothers with kindness… or the illusion of it.

My head snapped up as a clumsy shuffle was followed by a muted thud. Celia had tripped over her own feet, sending a bundle of folded clothes scattering across the dusty floor.

“Oh! I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, a deep blush creeping up her neck. “I’ll get you new ones.”

“It’s fine.” Ignoring the fire that flared along my ribs, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and bent to help her. “Are you hurt?”

Tears glistened in her eyes as she gave a sharp, jerky nod. I offered her a hand. For a moment, hers hovered over mine, trembling.

“Let me help you,” I insisted, my voice softer this time.

She hesitated a second longer before her fingers finally, tentatively, closed around mine. Her skin was soft. I pulled her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her cheeks crimson. She immediately knelt again, snatching up the fallen clothes as if they were evidence of a crime. “I just… I came to help you get ready.”

“I can dress myself,” I said, my tone flat.

She rose and held out the folded bundle. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I’ll just… I’ll be right outside.”

She scurried out, and the heavy bolt slid home, sealing me in once more.

The clothes were simple—dark trousers and a fresh shirt. There was a heavy wool cloak as well. As I fastened the clasp at my throat, a fleeting, unwelcome sense of gratitude washed over me. I pushed it down and pulled the deep hood over my head. The rough fabric scraped against the raw skin of my neck, but the sting was a fair price for the shadows that would hide my face. Today, I find answers, I vowed. And maybe she will be the one to give them.

I was pulling on my boots when a soft knock came. “Are you decent?” Celia’s voice was muffled by the thick wood.

“Yes.”

The lock turned, and she slipped inside, a brilliant smile on her face. “It feels better, doesn’t it? Fresh clothing. Now, would you like a tour of the house?”

My head snapped up. A tour? They kept me in a cage, and now they wanted to show me around? The question must have been plain on my face.

“Mikaeus gave his approval,” she added quickly. “And Mira will be with us, of course.”

Mira. The name soured on my tongue. Was she more than a maid? A guard, perhaps? The thought fell upon me, heavy and suffocating.

​“I suppose,” I said, forcing a neutral tone. As we walked, my focus sharpened. The turn of a corridor, the distance between sconces, the placement of a servant—every detail was a piece of a map I was building in my head. “Will I be permitted to see the town?”

“Oh, I—I am sorry,” she stammered, her smile faltering. “You are not permitted beyond the estate perimeter.”

I figured as much. This was more freedom than I’d imagined. An opportunity. I wouldn’t waste it.

“Also,” Celia added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “your hands will need to be bound.”

I flinched. Of course. I was their prisoner. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste the sharp tang of copper. I wasn’t foolish enough to run without a plan. Not yet.

“Fine,” I bit out.

Her eyes filled with an unwanted sorrow, as if my pain were her own burden to carry. “I will get Mira.”

She didn’t have to. The door swung open before she could turn. Mira materialized in the doorway, silent as a specter, her arms crossed over her chest. A statue carved from judgment. She had been listening. 

My gaze fell to the coarse rope coiled in her hands. Taking a steadying breath, I held out my wrists. Mira stepped forward and began to wrap the fibers, pulling each loop brutally tight. The rope bit into my skin, a constant, physical reminder of what I was. A captive.

It doesn’t matter, I told myself, a familiar ache of self-loathing settling over me. I’ve always been a curse. A prisoner is nothing new.

When she finished, Mira gave a curt nod toward the open door where Celia waited. “Celia will lead. I will follow.”

“Thank you, Mira,” Celia beamed, turning to lead the way. I fell into step behind her, Mira’s silent presence a weight at my back. My eyes scanned everything, memorizing the texture of the walls, the pattern of the floor runners, the identical, featureless doors we passed. 

Then, a passing maid glanced up. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. The woman froze, a tray of linens slipping in her grasp. Raw, primal horror widened her eyes before she tore her gaze away, staring fixedly at the floor. Shame burned my cheeks, and I instinctively dropped my head, letting the hood conceal my face.

“Keep moving,” Mira’s voice was a low command from behind me.

“Y-yes,” the maid whimpered, then practically fled down the hall.

It doesn’t matter where I am, the old thought echoed in my head. They will always fear me.

“We’re here!” Celia announced cheerfully, her voice jarring in the heavy silence. She pushed open a set of towering double doors, revealing a library so vast it stole my breath. Shelves stretched up into shadow, groaning under the weight of a thousand leather-bound books. There were no windows, no hint of the stormy world outside. The only light came from a colossal chandelier made of a shimmering, unfamiliar crystal that pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence.

A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. All this knowledge, all these stories, locked away behind beautiful symbols. The shapes were meaningless, a language I’d never been taught.

“If you see any you wish to read, we can bring them to your room,” Celia offered.

“No, thank you,” I said flatly, straightening my back. This doesn’t make me less than them.

Celia led on, pointing out the closed door to Mikaeus’s study and a formal sitting room, neither of which we entered. Finally, she turned down a new corridor. “And now, the training grounds.”

Behind me, Mira stopped. “The training grounds?” Her voice held a rare, sharp note of surprise.

“Yes,” Celia replied, her smile unwavering. “I think the fresh air will do her good.”

“Fine,” Mira clipped out. “Lead on.”

At the end of the hall, Celia pushed open a set of heavy oak doors, and we were met with an assault of wind and drumming rain. A sliver of hope sparked in my chest at the sight of the open sky, but it was extinguished just as quickly. The training yard was enclosed by a stone wall so high and smooth it seemed insurmountable. A prison yard with a sky for a ceiling. There was only one way in or out.

My gaze swept over a group of men sparring in the mud, their grunts and the clang of steel muted by the storm. A flash of fiery red hair caught my attention—Mikaeus, correcting another man’s form.

And then I felt it. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck. A stare so cold and intense it was a physical force, a spear of pure loathing aimed directly at me. I slowly traced the feeling to its source.

Emeric.

His green eyes were locked on me from across the yard, burning with a hatred so raw and profound it threatened to swallow me whole.

The air vanished from my lungs. The world dissolved into a smear of gray and mud. The clang of steel became a dull roar in my ears, drowned out by my own heartbeat, a frantic drum against my ribs. No, no, it’s okay, you’re fine…

“Alanah.” A voice cut through the haze, grounding me. “Are you alright?”

My vision snapped back into focus. Mikaeus stood directly in front of me, his golden eyes narrowed with something that looked unnervingly like concern.

“Yes,” I lied, my voice tight and thin. “Just watching the training.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, I saw Emeric stalking toward us from the corner of my eye, his face a mask of murder. Panic, sharp and absolute, overrode everything.

“I’m ready to return to my room,” I announced, turning on my heel so sharply my cloak swirled around me.

“Very well,” Celia said, startled by my abruptness.

Locked down, my thoughts raced as we walked, the library and hallways blurring past. Every entrance guarded. Where is the main gate? Is there a window I can break? A loose stone? Anything?

Suddenly, a firm hand closed around my bound wrists, halting my retreat. I flinched, yanking instinctively, but the grip was like iron.

It was Mikaeus. His golden eyes bored into mine, stripping away the shadows of my hood. His grip was not cruel, but it was absolute.

“Can we talk?”

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