Aurelia did not look back.
SWING...
The open door gaped behind her like a silent scream, she did not hesitate.
She stepped over the threshold and into the dimly lit corridor, the stone cold and smooth beneath her bare feet. Her torn dress whispered around her ankles as she moved, and the lingering chill from Tenebrarum's room clung to her skin.
Master.
The word rang in her head—ugly, dehumanizing.
She shook it away with a sharp turn of her head, as if she could physically dislodge the sound from her ears.
The hallway was wide, lined with dark tapestries depicting battles she did not recognize.
Sconces flickered with pale witchlight, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to lean toward her as she passed.
Servants in muted livery paused in their tasks—a maid with an armful of linens, a page scurrying with a message—their eyes darting toward her before quickly looking away.
Their silence felt heavier than any accusation.
Then she heard it—a hiss of words from an arched alcove to her right.
Three ladies-in-waiting stood clustered like glossy crows, their fine silk gowns shimmering in the low light. One, with sharp features and raven-dark hair piled high, leaned toward the others, her voice a carrying whisper.
"Look at her," she murmured, not bothering to lower her tone. "The stupid human whore who thinks she can play two brothers against each other. As if either would truly want her once the novelty wears off."
Aurelia feet stopped.
What did I just hear?
Why do you monster speak so freely?
She thought , her legs turned slowly.
Her violet eyes found the speaker—a young woman with a cruel, satisfied curve to her mouth. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked.
The lady's smile didn't falter, but she dipped into a shallow, mocking curtsy, her eyes dropping to the floor as if suddenly fascinated by the stone pattern. The other two imitated her, a synchronized display of false deference.
Aurelia's hands tightened at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She could feel the heat of humiliation rise in her cheeks, but deeper than that, a cold, solid anger began to form.
Sorana was dying. She had just been threatened, bruised, and locked away by Tenebrarum. And now this—gossip in the hallways, spit like poison from pretty mouths.
She took one step toward them.
The ladies flinched, their composure cracking for an instant, one held the wall as anchor.
But before Aurelia could speak—before she could decide whether to unleash the fury boiling inside her—a movement at the end of the corridor caught her eye.
A figure emerged from the doorway.
It was Sorana.
Sorana stood tall, her posture straight and unbroken, her face clean of blood and color restored. And there, tracing the path where Camilla's claws had torn her cheek, were thin, delicate silver lines—the unmistakable mark of a dark healer's work.
Aurelia's own skin prickled with the memory of pain, and then with a deeper, colder realization.
She too had been healed by their kind before. Yet no silver ever marked her.
Her wounds closed clean, leaving only smooth skin behind—a fact that had always quietly unsettled her, though she had buried the wondering.
Why did the healers' magic scar Sorana, but not on me?
Sorana's eyes, clear and calm, met Aurelia's. There was no sign of pain, no weakness—only a deep, unsettling steadiness, and something else… something watchful in her gaze that hadn't been there before.
"My lady," Sorana said, bowing her head slightly. Her voice was even, quiet.
The whispering in the alcove cut off abruptly.
Aurelia forgot the gossiping ladies. She forgot her anger, her shame, the open door behind her. She could only stare, her breath caught somewhere between relief and a slow-dawning chill.
Sorana was alive.
She was healed.
But the silver on her skin was a reminder of a difference Aurelia could not explain—a difference that, in this court of secrets and power, might be more dangerous than any scar.
"Let's go."
Aurelia grabbed Sorana's hand and pulled her down the corridor. The torn lace of her sleeve caught on a protruding sconce, ripping another inch before she yanked it free. Her bare feet were cold against the stone, and the ragged hem of her gown whispered behind her like a ghost keeping pace.
When they reached her chambers, she pushed the door shut behind them and slid the heavy bolt. The sound was final, a promise of privacy she didn't truly trust.
"My lady, is anything wrong?" Sorana's voice was calm, but her eyes—newly healed, silver-lined—were watchful.
"Yes," Aurelia said, already moving toward the wardrobe. "We're escaping today. Did you forget?"
She pulled out dark wool trousers, a hooded tunic, then knelt to pry up a loose floorboard. Her hands trembled; a fresh tear in her sleeve gaped where Tenebrarum had gripped her earlier.
Sorana stood frozen by the door. Her expression shifted—clarity dawning, and with it, hesitation.
That's when it hit her.
Calvus's words.
He had found her in the servant's passage just before dawn, his voice low and urgent.
If Lady Flavia comes for you, tell her we're not going today. Tell her to meet me in the den instead.
Sorana's hand rose to her temple. The silver lines on her cheek seemed to pulse faintly under her touch.
"My lady," she said quietly, "we can't leave today."
Aurelia stopped packing and turned. "What?"
"Lord Calvus sent word," Sorana continued, her gaze steady but troubled. "He said… if you came for me, to tell you we're not going today. That you should meet him in the wolf den instead."
Aurelia's violet eyes narrowed. "The wolf… den? What is that? Some tavern? A guard post?"
Sorana's hesitation lasted a heartbeat too long. "It's… a place in the lower levels. Where the shadow-hounds are kept. Beneath the east wing."
Aurelia stared. She'd been in the palace only a handful of days. She didn't know its basements, its kennels, its secrets. The name alone felt heavy—wolf den. It sounded like a place for beasts, not meetings.
"Why there?" Her voice was tight. "Why not the gardens, the stables… anywhere else?"
"I don't know," Sorana admitted. "He said it was urgent. That the plans have changed."
The room grew still.
The escape Aurelia had vowed to make—the one she'd promised herself just hours ago—was being postponed by a man she barely trusted, to a place she'd never heard of. And Sorana, freshly healed and eerily calm, was the one delivering the message.
Outside, the distant sound of court bells began to toll—deep, resonant strokes that vibrated through the stone.
Aurelia looked down at her torn gown, her scraped feet, the strip of lace still tangled around her wrist.
She had been ready to run. Now she was being told to walk deeper into the dark.
Like there was something to find?
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To be continued...