1
THE PRICE OF FREEDOM
She had three days to save what was left of herself.
She had been forced to wait for the cover of darkness to search for the locket. Polan had ridden out hours ago, shortly after noon, heading south toward Iron’s End to fetch the specialist.
The journey would take him three days.
The study was steeped in the tang of iron-gall ink and the dry musk of leather bindings. Beneath those distinct scents lingered the faint, cloying sweetness of Polan’s skin oil, a smell that seized the breath in Gessa’s throat. She forced herself to relax; she couldn’t freeze now.
Moving through the oppressive silence, her travel boots sank into the plush carpet, muffling her steps as she approached the large oak desk. Dominating the room, it stood as a monument to his rigid control. No scattered papers marred the order, and every quill and ledger was aligned with mathematical precision.
Her hands shook as she slid the top drawer open. The small leather pouch of coins lay right where he always left it. Though it was lighter than she had hoped, she shoved it into her satchel,not wasting time to count it. Polan draped her in silks and jewels for his guests, playing the generous husband, yet he kept his coin locked away just like he kept her. The world saw a Lady of the Manor, but as she pocketed the silver to buy her freedom, she was nothing more than a thief in her own home.
With the coins secured, she knelt to open the bottom drawer where Polan kept his travel documents. Her fingers brushed against stiff parchment, ignoring the maps for the moment to hunt for the soft nap of velvet in the far corner.
There.
She pulled out the small box and flipped the lid. Resting on the white satin lay a bronze pendant strung on a simple leather cord. Unlike the milky opacity of the Unaspected locket resting against her collarbone, this glass swirled with a deep, midnight blue, cut through by a single, shimmering silver line like a star’s path in the void.
A Wayfinder’s locket.
Her grip tightened on the bronze pendant until the metal dug into her palm. This wasn’t just jewelry; it was leverage. If she reached the Iron Spurs, if she presented this locket and claimed the Right of Sanctuary, Polan could not touch her.
She slipped the velvet box into the bottom of her leather satchel, burying it beneath the supplies she had spent weeks scavenging. Every item in that bag represented a terrifying theft.
Now she needed a map. She reached back into the drawer?—
Gessa froze. Heavy footsteps echoed on the hallway tiles outside, stopping right at the threshold. The rhythmic, dragging gait was unmistakable. Marin.
The brass handle of the study door turned with a slow, deliberate groan.
The solid door swung inward.
Gessa scrambled backward on her hands and knees, throwing herself into the narrow, dusty alcove between a tallbookcase and the wall. She prayed the high-backed oak chair, positioned between the door and the desk, was enough to obscure the open bottom drawer.
A beam of yellow lantern light sliced through the darkness, sweeping across the plush carpet. It washed over the desktop she had just vacated, illuminating the inkwell and the stack of ledgers. From her angle in the shadows, Gessa saw the light catch the back of the chair, casting a long shadow over the drawer she had failed to close.
“Nothing” Marin grunted, his voice a gravelly rumble just feet away. “Draft must have rattled the window.”
The light swung away. The door clicked shut, sealing the room in darkness once more.
Gessa sagged against the bookshelf, the air rushing out of her in a silent tremble. She gave the valet a count of ten to move down the hall before she peeled herself from the shadows. There would be no second chances.
Once silence returned to the hallway, she scrambled back to the open drawer. She pulled out the top scroll and unrolled it across the desk, her hands shaking.
Confusion slowed her racing heart. The map was wrong. Polan had drilled the geography of the region into her, yet this chart depicted lines that defied the known world. Thick, dark strokes cut through the distant forests and across mountain ranges, ignoring trade roads to intersect in places of impassable wilderness.
Whatever game Polan was playing, it offered her no safe path to Oakhaven.
She shoved the useless scroll aside and dug deeper into the drawer. Her fingers brushed against stiff parchment at the very bottom. She yanked it out—the standard regional map.
Salvation.
Rolling it tight, she shoved it into her bag. She slipped out of the study and into the corridor, moving toward the servants’ entrance and the stables beyond.
Gessa kept to the shadows of the carriage house, her eyes fixed on the stable doors. Behind her, the manor stood as a cold stone heart of meticulous order, but she didn’t look back.
