The days that followed felt like walking through a labyrinth coated in ice. Every step was a risk. Every breath, a challenge. Saphira's eyes had grown sharper, her senses keener, but the danger was no less real.
Rowen kept his distance, yet their silent alliance pulsed between them like an unspoken heartbeat. He had begun to share fragments of his world—stories laced with bitterness, betrayal, and a darkness that clawed at the edges of his soul.
But the Duke was no fool. His suspicion thickened like a storm on the horizon. Servants vanished without a trace; whispers of traitors were met with harsh punishments. The house was tightening its grip, suffocating any spark of rebellion before it could ignite.
One night, as rain hammered against the windows, Saphira found herself cornered in the kitchen by two stern-faced guards.
"You've been seen speaking with the young master," one growled. "Explain yourself."
Her mind raced, but her voice was calm.
"I seek only to serve."
The guards exchanged a glance—skepticism painted across their faces. Then, a cold smile.
"Lies don't save you here."
Just as tension reached its peak, the door slammed open. Rowen stood there, eyes blazing with fury.
"Let her go," he commanded, his voice cutting through the air like steel.
The guards hesitated, then obeyed.
Saphira's heart pounded. For the first time, she felt the weight of being protected—not just as a servant, but as someone who mattered.
The war was only beginning.