"You'll learn. Or you'll die free instead of dying caged." She sets the dress on my bed. "The choice is yours, little wolf. Butchoose quickly. Your maids will arrive within the hour to begin preparations."
The manor stirs around us as servants light hearth fires and kitchen maids begin the day's bread. Soon the halls will fill with wedding guests, noble Houses converging to witness my gilded captivity. Lord Blackmoor will don his finest clothes and practice his wedding vows, each word a link in chains I'll wear for the rest of my short life.
One life. One chance.
"Help me dress."
Aunt Ravelle's smile could melt glaciers.
The brown wool feels foreign against my skin, coarse where silk is smooth, practical where my usual gowns are ornamental. She braids my hair simply, weaving in a leather cord instead of silver ribbons. In the mirror, I look like a merchant's daughter. Unremarkable. Anonymous.
Perfect.
"Take this." She presses a small purse into my hands, heavy with coins. "And this." An eating knife in a plain leather sheath. "Keep them hidden."
"Ravelle—"
"No farewells. They only make leaving harder." She opens my chamber door and peers into the corridor. Empty. "The tunnels will be dark and cramped. Follow the map exactly, one wrong turn and you'll find yourself in the dungeons instead of the stables."
My heart pounds as I step into the hallway. Every shadow might hide a guard, every creak might herald discovery. But the servants are busy with wedding preparations, and the guards focus on external threats, not runaway brides.
The entrance to the servant passages hides behind a tapestry near the stairs, a narrow door designed for staff to move unseen through the manor. I squeeze through, grateful for my slightframe, and find myself in a cramped corridor that runs parallel to the main hall.
Darkness swallows me whole.
I feel my way forward, one hand trailing the rough stone wall, the other clutching Aunt Ravelle's map. The air grows stale and cold, thick with dust and the musty scent of disuse. Something scurries past my feet, mice or rats, I tell myself, not wanting to consider other possibilities.
Left at the intersection. Down the spiral stairs. Through the wine cellar.
My silk undershift snags on protruding stones, the delicate fabric tearing with soft protests. Father spent a fortune on these garments, each piece crafted to perfection. Now they're ruined by rough walls and my desperate escape.
Good. Let them tear. Let every thread unravel as I unravel the life they chose for me.
The spiral stairs nearly defeat me. Built for servants' quick passage, they're narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of hurried feet. My soft indoor slippers provide no grip, and twice I nearly tumble headlong into the darkness below.
Keep going. Don't stop. Don't think.
The wine cellar air hits me like a fist, thick with the scent of fermentation and aged wood. Rows of barrels march into darkness, each one holding vintages older than I am. Here, at least, I can stand upright. My spine protests after the cramped tunnels, vertebrae popping as I stretch.
The map shows the exit behind the largest cask, where the original mining tunnel begins. I squeeze past barrel after barrel, my breathing loud in the silence. Any moment, someone might discover my empty chamber. Any moment, the alarm bells might ring.
There.A gap between the wall and an enormous wine cask, barely wide enough for a person. I slide through sideways, fabriccatching and tearing further, until I find the tunnel mouth, a dark archway cut into living rock.
This passage is older than the manor, carved when House Cyrdan's ancestors sought silver in these mountains. The walls glisten with moisture, and my breath fogs in the frigid air. But ahead, distant and faint, I glimpse natural light.
Freedom.
I run now, abandoning caution for speed. My soft shoes slip on wet stone, and I stumble repeatedly, palms scraping against the tunnel walls. Blood seeps through torn fabric, but I barely notice. The light grows stronger with each step, calling me forward like a beacon.
The tunnel mouth opens into the stable courtyard, hidden behind a tangle of winter-bare thornbushes. I burst through them, branches catching my hair and drawing thin lines of blood across my cheeks, and stumble into the pre-dawn darkness.
Above me, a slivered moon hangs against the star-scattered sky. The air burns my lungs, clean and sharp andfree. For the first time in my life, no walls contain me. No guards watch my movements. No schedule dictates my every breath.
The stables loom ahead, dark and silent. Inside wait horses that could carry me beyond the Reach, beyond House Cyrdan's authority, beyond Lord Blackmoor's grasping hands. My heart hammers with terror and exhilaration as I take my first steps into the unknown.
One life. One chance.
I've made my choice.
