Then came the choker.
Caelum lifted it from its velvet box himself. The necklace caught the light like liquid starlight—a delicate band of platinum set with a single large flawless sapphire at the center, flanked by smaller diamonds that formed the intricate Thorne family sigil. The stone matched the gown’s deep midnight blue perfectly. Tiny diamonds trailed down from the central piece like falling stars, brushing the hollow of her throat as he fastened it.
“It belonged to my mother,” he said quietly, fingers lingering at the clasp. “It cannot be removed by anyone but me. Not by you. Not by any magic or tool in this world. It stays until I take it off.”
Lyra felt the weight settle against her skin—cool, beautiful, and absolute. A collar disguised as jewelry. A claim disguised as inheritance. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled softly. “It’s beautiful.”I’ll feel bad stealing a family heirloom when I run,she thought,but that’s a problem for later.
Caelum’s gaze darkened with satisfaction. He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above the choker. “You’ll wear it tonight. And every night after.”
The stylist finished the final adjustments, then stepped back with a small bow. “She is ready, Lord Thorne.”
Caelum studied Lyra in the mirror, eyes tracing the way the gown hugged her body, the way the crystals caught the light against her dark red hair and green eyes, the way the choker sat perfectly at her throat as if it had always belonged there. He looked at her like she was already his in every way that mattered.
“I have final arrangements to manage at the gala hall,” he said, voicelow and satisfied. “The stylist will escort you there when you’re ready. I’ll meet you on the dais. Behave until then, my perfect girl.”
Lyra nodded, eyes soft and obedient. “I will.”
He kissed her once more—slow, possessive—then left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
The moment his footsteps faded, Lyra moved.
* * *
She changed quickly.
The dark navy gown was too conspicuous, too memorable. She stripped it off with shaking fingers, crystals and diamonds catching the low firelight as the heavy silk pooled at her feet like a discarded skin. In its place she slipped into the plain black servant’s cloak the stylist had left behind—rough wool, hooded, the kind of garment that blended into shadows and service corridors. She pulled the hood low over her dark red hair, tucking every stray strand away until nothing of the gala-ready girl remained.
Her hands moved with ruthless efficiency, every motion practiced in the quiet hours when Caelum was away. The small pouch of stolen coins went into the inner pocket. The folded map, the stolen signet imprint pressed into wax, and the narrow razor-sharp knife all disappeared beneath her sleeve and into the hidden seams. She tested the knife once, feeling its balance in her palm, then sheathed it against her forearm where it could be drawn in a heartbeat.
She stood in the center of the room for one final moment, heart hammering. The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the stone walls and the rumpled sheets where Caelum had held her only hours earlier. The choker sat heavy at her throat—cold platinum and midnight sapphire, the Thorne sigil winking like a promise.It cannot be removed by anyone but him,she reminded herself.Not by me. Not by any magic or tool in this world.
She touched it once, fingers trembling against the sapphire, and felt rage surge through her—clean, bright, and absolute. She would not let the Collegium watch while he bound her to him forever in blood and sigil and name.
Lyra took one last look at the room—the bed where he had whispered her name like a prayer, the table where he had fed her by hand, the window where she had stood sharpening her mind into a weapon—then she moved.
The corridors of North Tower were in utter chaos. Servants rushed past with armloads of crimson banners and crystal lanterns, footsteps echoing off black stone. Faculty barked orders about final ward calibrations. Students clustered in nervous groups, whispering about the presentation order and the powerful guests who had already arrived. No one spared a second glance for a hooded servant moving with purpose.
Lyra kept her head down, cloak drawn tight, steps measured but quick. She slipped through the narrow service passages she had mapped days earlier, heart steady, mind sharp as the knife against her skin.
Every corner felt like a trap.
She paused at the junction near the western kitchens, pressing into a shadowed alcove as two guards passed. Their voices drifted back:“…Thorne’s anomaly is the main event tonight…”She held her breath until they vanished. The choker at her throat felt heavier with every step, a cold reminder of the man and life she was leaving behind. She ignored it. She would deal with it later.
She reached the western ward line at the exact blind spot she had noted—a narrow gap where the suppression hummed just a fraction lower. The air tasted thinner here, the hum vibrating at a lower register. She slipped through without triggering any alarm.
The trees loomed ahead. Dark. Dense. Swallowing light and soundlike a living thing.
Freedom.
She broke into a run the moment the tree line closed behind her. Branches snagged at her cloak like desperate fingers. The ground was uneven, roots snaking across the path. Her breath came fast but controlled, lungs burning. Every snap of a twig sounded like thunder. Every rustle in the underbrush made her flinch.
She kept running.
The old service tunnel was just ahead—a forgotten passage that led beyond the Collegium grounds and into the wild forest. If she could reach it before anyone realized she was gone, she might actually have a chance.
She was almost there when a figure stepped out from behind a thick oak.
Adrian.
