It's been nearly two weeks since my capture. The first few days blurred into fevered dreams and hushed voices, but I've since recovered—at least physically. I've been eating, walking the gardens, and pretending to adjust. But I've also been watching. Listening. Planning.
"Friya," I ask as she walks beside me down the gravel path, "where is your Lord Commander? I haven't seen him in days."
"He's been busy, Princess. Duties and all. Preparations for the coronation, too."
I arch a brow. "Craven never called himself king. Seems odd Kaelen would bother with a coronation if he's just going to inherit the same title."
"Well," Friya says brightly, "Lord Craven was clear on the fact. He said he wanted power to serve, not rule. That's why he refused the title of king yet still chose to wear the crown. Said being called 'king' might make a man forget why he fought for."
"And Kaelen? The dutiful son carrying on the illusion of humility?"
Friya sighs but doesn't say anything about my slight jab. "The old Lord Commander—may he rest—was a hard man, cold even. But people respected him. They say he used to laugh so loud it'd rattle windows, but after losing his wife and sons during the first years of the war... something in him died. He poured everything into the revolution. Without him, well... we wouldn't be standing here."
"And Kaelen's parents?" I ask carefully.
"I don't know much, Princess. Only that he wasn't born into nobility. He fought for us as a child—too young to hold a sword, yet still very determined for the cause. Craven saw something in him and made him his son."
I nod, picking at the hem of my sleeve, pretending interest in a speck dust.
"I'll go prepare your tea. Shall I escort you back?"
"No, I'll stay a little longer," I say with a faint smile, gesturing to the two guards trailing us. "I've got company."
She laughs and curtsies. "Very well, Your Highness."
As she leaves, I walk toward the edge of the garden—the point where the path curls back. This is as far as I'm allowed to go. Beyond the trees, barely visible through the summer haze, I glimpse the towers of Aureliath Castle—my true home. So close, yet unreachable.
I turn away. There's nothing left for me there anyway. Nothing but ghosts.
In truth, these walks are more than exercise. I've spent days noting patrol routes, guard rotations, and the quirks that make men predictable. The shift change leaves a ten-minute gap near sundown. One night guard can't resist the kitchens. Another reads love letters beneath a lantern on the outer wall.
Friya is a wealth of innocent gossip, too trusting to suspect the princess she serves is filing away every word like blades in a drawer.
The wind kicks up, tossing strands of hair across my face. I squint against the light and decide to return. I'm halfway to the steps when I feel it—that cold, assessing gaze I've come to recognize.
"You keep a fine routine, Princess," Kaelen says, descending from the manor's entrance.
"I have to pass the time somehow," I reply coolly, lifting my chin. "Though I admit I expected more from the so-called Lord Commander. You've vanished. Can't say I'm surprised—some men simply aren't meant to lead."
He grins, it seems out of place on his face makes him almost seem human. It's extremely unnerving and annoying
"Good thing I have a princess here to keep me grounded."
"Tyrants often find clever ways to justify their cruelty." I scowl
"Tyrant?" he echoes, amused. "You wound me, Princess"
"You kidnapped me. You hold me here against my will. You tell me—what else would I call you but a tyrant?"
I move past him, taking the steps two at a time. Just before I reach the door, his voice follows me.
"There are always two sides to a coin, Princess. What one calls tyranny, another may call liberation."
I don't look back.
But I file his words away, like everything else.
I keep up the routine for a few more days, never straying from the schedule I've so carefully constructed. I make a point to linger in hallways, to explore every room I'm permitted in, to be seen often enough that my presence becomes unremarkable. The guards still watch me, but with less intensity. Even Kaelen, it seems, has grown distracted—too consumed with coronation duties to check on his prisoner.
Perfect.
Last night, Friya mentioned where the servants change into their work uniforms—hooks by the back entrance of the kitchens, just out of view. It's a small detail, shared in passing. But to me, it was a key.
And tonight, I use it.
I wait until the Manor has quieted. Midnight. A bitter wind whispers through the corridors. The firelight has thinned, the halls have gone still. My heart thuds as I slip from my room, keeping to the walls. I make for the library as usual, just in case anyone's watching. Then I double back—silent steps toward the kitchens.
The scent of soap and wet stone hits me first. Dishes clatter faintly at the far end—no one should see me if I'm careful. I crouch low and hurry past the shelves of dry goods and down the corridor. At the back entrance, I find the hooks: cloaks, smocks, boots. I snatch a thick servant's cloak, a plain tunic, and a worn pair of boots roughly my size. I change quickly, my trembling fingers fumbling the laces.
I exhale.
Then I step outside.
The night bites at my skin, sharper than I expected. I duck behind a pillar just as one of the guards rounds the corner. It's the snacker. True to habit, he heads inside, no doubt in search of leftover bread or sweet buns. I wait until the door closes behind him. Move.
The second guard—my real concern—sits near the wall under a flickering lantern, love letters in hand. His mouth moves in a silent rehearsal of words he'll never say aloud. He doesn't even glance up.
I slip past him like a shadow.
The laundry cart is just ahead—battered wood, a stench rising from within. My stomach turns as I climb inside, burrowing deep beneath the mountain of uniforms. The smell is rancid: sweat, mildew, something far worse. I press the hem of the cloak over my mouth and lie perfectly still.
Moments later, I hear voices.
"That should be the last of it," someone calls.
A thump on the side of the cart. Then motion. The wheels creak into life.
I'm moving.
The cart jolts over the Manor's stone path and down the road. Every rattle feels like thunder in my ears. I count the minutes, heart hammering. Fifteen. That should be halfway to town. My fingers close around the small rock hidden in my pocket—my distraction, my one shot at cover.
I push it through the layers of cloth and drop it beside the wheel.
A sharp clink. Then it bounces off the path and disappears into the woods.
"Wait! Stop!" one of the drivers shouts, yanking the reins. The cart groans to a halt.
"What now?"
"I heard something fall."
"It's laundry, you dolt. Clothes don't clink when they hit the road."
"Well, they'll dock our pay if anything's missing."
Footsteps approach. One man rustles through the pile. My breath locks in my throat.
"All here," he calls. "Told you it was nothing. Probably a falling acorn."
"You sure you checked properly?"
A scoff. "Always doubting me. No wonder Cammy won't marry you."
"Don't bring Cammy into this!"
Their argument becomes a gift in disguise. It's all I need. I inch upward, quietly shifting cloth until I find the edge of the cart. One leg over. Then the next. My boots hit the dirt with barely a sound.
I run.
Into the woods, deeper with every step, branches slapping my face and snagging my borrowed cloak. I don't stop, not until my lungs burn and my legs buckle. Somewhere ahead, I hear the gurgle of a creek. I stumble toward it, fall to my knees, and drink greedily from the ice-cold water.
No time to rest.
Kaelen will know soon. He might know already.
I force myself up, staggering toward a narrow deer path, following the stars as my guide. West, toward the hills. Away from Aureliath.
By dawn, the sky is bruised purple and gold. I spot a hollow between two trees—a small space just big enough to curl into.
I sink to the ground.
I tell myself I'll sleep lightly, that I'll wake at the first sound of pursuit.
But the moment my head touches the earth, sleep swallows me whole.