Ashton exhales sharply. Oberon curses under his breath, fists tightening. Sylvian’s attention flicks toward the corridor, already recalculating. Alette sways slightly.
I steady her immediately, one hand on her arm. I don’t blame her the least bit for her fear, but we can’t afford it right now. If we don’t keep our heads, we’re likely to lose them.
“We can’t stay here,” Sylvian says. “We leave. Now.”
Agreed. But our movement must be precise. And Alette must remain protected at all costs.
I nod once, the conclusion settling into place with uncomfortable clarity.
“This may be our only exit,” I say quietly.
No one argues. They understand.
“But we can’t just… stay here and wait to be caught,” Sylvian says.
Oberon makes a suggestion, his voice as sharp as a blade. “We could kill all of them and run.”
Alette draws in a sharp breath. “Maybe there’s a better way.” And I can tell she doesn’t like the idea of killing anyone, even cannibals.
I consider her words. “We could wait in the room across the hall and keep an eye on the kitchen. When there’s fewer of them, we can escape, killing only who we have to.”
Oberon looks irritated. “Or there could end up being more people in the kitchens if we wait.”
“But with how few fae we’ve seen here, and the strength of our magic, we should even be able to handle that if we have to. As long as it isn’t the full-force of the castle’s fae guards,” Ashton argues.
We look at Alette.
She straightens her back. “Let’s wait and see.”
Oberon doesn’t look happy, but I suspect Ashton and Sylvian are committed to doing whatever makes Alette happy, even with cannibals sharpening their blades for us. We withdraw before the risk increases, moving to a door opposite the kitchen. I test it. It’s unlocked. Glancing inside, I find it empty.
Acceptable.
“Inside,” I murmur.
We slip in one by one, closing the door without a sound. The room is small, likely a storage space, empty enough to serve our purposes. I position myself near the door, listening.
Alette stays close. I remain aware of her breathing, still uneven. I want nothing more than to hold her and promise her that she’ll be okay, but I don’t like giving promises I might have to break.
“We wait,” I say.
Time stretches on. Then, there are more voices. Not Lord Ferngull’s. Different ones filled with urgency.
I shift closer to the door, listening as footsteps approach the kitchen.
“My lord,” a servant says from the hall, breathless. “There’s a problem in the lower gardens. The storm has damaged the harvest. The outer rows are flooding.”
Lord Ferngull’s voice follows, sharper now. “All of it?”
“Not yet, my lord, but if we don’t act quickly?—”
“Fine,” Lord Ferngull snaps. “All of you, with me. We salvage what we can. Leave the preparations. We’ll return.”
Footsteps shift immediately. There’s movement. Multiple people leaving.
I wait and count the steps. Track the direction. Ensure distance. Only when the sounds fully fade do I move.
“This is it,” I say. “If there’s anyone left in the kitchens, we can handle them.”
