Delphara: Villain. Power-hungry. Dangerous.
Priest: Delphara’s weapon. Identity unknown. Definitely a monster.
Alder: Manipulative liar.
Alderic: Complicated. Not off the hook. But… maybe not the enemy.
Sylvie: Cautious, capable. She knows more than she lets on. I can work with her.
The other women working in the castle: They’ve been surviving this place longer than I’ve been breathing its air. They’ll help me. If I can convince them to trust me.
Step Three: Weigh the risks.
If I can’t stop this, more women will die. The kingdom will collapse—or worse, become something even darker than it already is. And I’ll never get back home.
Step Four: Craft the strategy. Execute the plan. Fix everything.
“Shit.”
A muffled shout cuts through my brainstorming session, shattering the quiet like a dropped glass.
I go still, breath caught, heart slamming against my ribs.
The sound doesn’t come again, but I know what I heard.
And I’m done pretending things away. Done rationalizing the strange or brushing aside what I feel in my gut. I’ve ignored too many instincts since stepping into this world. Looked away from too many truths.
Not this time.
My eyes sweep the room. I move to the hearth, fingers grazing the worn mantel until they close arounda thick pillar candle nestled in a silver holder. It’s heavy in my hands, the metal cool against my skin as I crouch beside the embers and coax the dying flames toward the wick. It catches on the second try.
Faint, flickering light pushes back against the dark. Shadows slither across the stone walls, darting through the gaps between counters and cupboards like things with teeth.
Another shout—louder this time. A single word too muffled to understand. But I know what fear sounds like.
My pulse spikes. I tighten my grip around the candleholder, and the flame wavers as I move toward the pantry.
The larder is cavernous, carved deep into the bones of the castle. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, heavy with jars of amber and ruby colored preserves that catch the candlelight like jewels in a dragon’s hoard. Burlap sacks of grain are stacked in neat rows, their rough edges softened by dustings of flour. Bundles of drying herbs are strung from the rafters, their earthy scents mixing with the brine of cured meats hanging on iron hooks.
The air is colder here. My breath fogs in the low light as I press deeper into the room, the candle’s flame trembling with each step.
The shouting has stopped, but the silence it leaves behind is worse.
I move carefully toward the back of the pantry, where my candle throws just enough light to illuminate bare stone walls. And a seam in the stone.
I move closer, holding my breath. A golden glint slices vertically down the stone, thin as a blade. I press my palm against it and feel it—a groove, almostimperceptible, like the hidden switch in the frame of the painting. A crack in the castle that leads to something secret.
The wall shifts beneath my hand, and the panel moves with a soft grind, stone scraping against stone, revealing a narrow passage.
A rush of cold air spills out. Beyond, a spiral staircase winds into the dark. Oil lamps hang from the low ceiling at irregular intervals, their pale flames throwing long, nervous shadows.
I glance back. The kitchen remains silent. No one is coming to save me. I have to do that myself.
I blow out the candle and set it on a shelf. Then I suck in a breath, brace my shoulders, and squeeze through the narrow gap.
The panel slides shut behind me with a quiet click, sealing me in with the cold and the dank.
The voices are clearer now. Low. Urgent.
