With that decision, something shifts inside me. For the first time since the bombing and since my life was uprooted and forced into someone else’s design, I am no longer reacting. I am taking control. Whatever waits at the end of this corridor, it will be becauseIchose to go there.
It takes several turns before I finally find another door.
The passage winds and bends in a way that feels intentional, as if whoever designed it wanted to disorient anyone foolish enough to wander down here without knowing the layout by heart. Each corner looks the same as the last—bare stone and exposed pipesrunning overhead, the faint hum of electricity overhead from the flickering blubs.
When the door finally comes into view, it feels almost anticlimactic.
It stands at the end of the passage, old and worn, its surface scarred with shallow pockmarks and scratches that time has softened but never erased. The wood is darker, polished smooth by years of hands passing over it from opening and closing it without ceremony. I can’t help myself when I reach out and trace my fingers over the marks, following the grooves like they’re a language I might learn if I touch them long enough.
So much history lies beneath the surface of this place…
That thought presses in on me constantly lately, an unspoken presence in every wall and hallway. This estate didn’t spring into existence fully formed and sterile. It was lived in and fought over, expanded, fortified with secrets buried here long before I ever crossed its gates.
Those thoughts always make me wonder about Sasha.
What had his life been like when he was a child? Did he explore these underground passages too, slipping away from watchful eyes just to see where they led? Or had his family deemed him too valuable, too important, to ever be anywhere but the spotlight upstairs, groomed and guarded from the very beginning?
Was he ever allowed to be curious? Or was that curiosity beaten out of him early, replaced by vigilance and control?
I shake the thought from my head sharply. This is not the time to romanticize him like I tend to do during the nights I can’t helpstaring at my ceiling. Wondering about his childhood won’t help me now, and it certainly won’t get me out of this damn house.
I grip the handle and unlatch it, the metal cool beneath my palm. The door creaks softly as I push it open, the sound echoing louder than I’d like in the narrow corridor behind me. On the other side, I find myself staring into a supply closet.
A single string hangs down from the ceiling, barely visible in the dim light spilling in from the passage behind me.
I grab it and yank.
The bulb flickers once then blooms to life, flooding the cramped space with harsh white light. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the sudden harshness, then I let my gaze wander over the cluttered contents, more out of curiosity than necessity.
It’s small and utilitarian, nothing like the grand rooms upstairs. Shelves line the walls, stacked with boxes and cleaning supplies, folded linens sealed in plastic, spare lightbulbs, bottles of solvents and polish. A faint, stale smell hangs in the air that makes my nose wrinkle.
Beyond it is another door that looks nothing like the one I just came through. Where the first was scarred and darkened by age, this one is newer, smooth and unmarked by generations of hands. That alone makes my pulse quicken.
I pull the door behind me closed as softly as I can, listening until the faint click of the latch settles into place. Then I shuffle toward the newer door, my weight rolling carefully from heel to toe so the soles of my shoes won’t scuff against the floor.
I pause, fingers hovering over the handle.
Locked would mean I turn back, retreat into the quiet of the library, slip back into my chair and pretend none of this ever happened, pretend I’m still the obedient guest who eats when told, sleeps when allowed, and waits patiently for decisions to be made about her life without her consent.
It would mean choosing ignorance.
The thought settles uncomfortably in my chest. Would that make me a coward, stopping before I even try?
A part of me understands the appeal of it. That part of me is tired. Waking up every morning braced for disappointment and going to sleep rehearsing the worst possible outcomes has been my constant over these last few weeks. That part of me whispers that survival sometimes means knowing when not to push things too far, that staying small and unseen until the storm passes is the only way to get through this alive.
Unfortunately, that part of me also sounds an awful lot like my father. Caution dressed up as wisdom. Fear disguised as prudence.
But the other part of me that’s been growing since I arrived at this estate pushes back.
That voice reminds me that every time I have obeyed without question, something has been taken from me. My phone. My freedom. My future. That compliance has never protected me the way it was promised it would. That waiting patiently for answers has only ever left me more in the dark.
I think of Sasha’s gaze when he looks at me like I’m something volatile. Something he hasn’t decided whether to keep or destroy. I think of the Iron Pact whispered like a curse, of my father’s trembling voice when he spoke about them. How easilyeveryone else seems to make decisions about my life as if I am a detail to be managed rather than a person who has to live with the consequences.
Locked would be safer.
But safe has never meant true freedom.
The handle turns easily beneath my palm. The door opens without resistance, swinging inward with barely a whisper, and I step through.
