The moment the door shuts behind us, everything changes. We move quickly, efficiently. Changing into our leathers. Packing our bags. No one speaks. There’s no need. The conclusion is shared.
We leave. Immediately.
The halls feel altered as we move through them, the temperature lower, the air heavier. Whether that is perception or reality is irrelevant. It affects our responses all the same. Shadows deepen. Light sharpens. Every variable becomes suspect.
I remain aware of Alette.
Always.
Her breathing is elevated. Her steps slightly uneven. She stays close to Oberon, her hand gripping his arm, and I adjust my position accordingly, close enough to reach her, far enough not to impede movement.
“Try that one,” Ashton says, already redirecting toward another exit.
Sylvian reaches it first and applies force, but there’s no movement. It’s locked. Again.
I move to the next door without comment. Test the mechanism. Reinforced. Sealed. I proceed to the next. Identical result.
All exits are secured.
The pattern is deliberate.
“This is bad,” Ashton says, tension stripping the ease from his voice. “What kind of castle locks every exit?”
Oberon answers immediately. “One that plans to keep us here.”
Accurate.
Alette’s grip tightens. I note the change without looking directly at her. She’s bordering on panic. We need to keep her as calm as we can. We continue moving. Stopping serves no function.
“There,” Sylvian says.
There’s a light source up ahead. Consistent. The kitchen. Logically, it remains accessible. Kitchens in castles are busy all day, and the servants have to be able to go outside frequently. Even under hostile conditions. But even though there should be an exit there, there’s likely also people.
We reduce our speed as one. No verbal instruction required. Oberon shifts slightly, positioning himself between Alette and the corridor ahead. I raise a hand, signaling silence.
We listen.Voices.
The door is partially open. Light spills into the corridor. I advance first, positioning myself just enough to see without exposing the group.
The space is extensive. There are high ceilings. Multiple workstations. Copper suspended overhead. Heat sources active.
Too active. Their preparation levels exceed necessity. Their food volume is disproportionate to the visible occupants. My conclusion… they’re preparing for a celebration.
Hearing the murmuring of voices, I adjust my position and shift closer until I can see that Lord Ferngull stands near the central hearth. Back turned. Voice controlled. Measured.
“…each one prepared properly.” The phrasing is precise. Intentional. “The human female should be tender,” he continues. “Handle her carefully.”
My thoughts freeze. Not from uncertainty. From confirmation.
“The fae will require additional effort,” he adds, tone shifting slightly. “More seasoning. Longer preparation.”
I withdraw immediately, stepping back before I’m caught. Behind me, the others are still.
I step closer without hesitation, lowering my voice. “Do not react,” I say quietly. “Not here.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s fear, but also comprehension.Good.
I maintain my proximity to her. “He’s outlining preparation methods,” I continue, tone controlled. “For us. Confirming what we’ve been told.”
