Ophelia Ashvale's POV
The guards were already moving toward her.
Ophelia watched them approach—armored men with blank faces and the casual cruelty of people who'd never been told no. One reached for her arm, and something inside her—something that had survived fifteen years in the slums, that had taught itself to read and sew and dream—rebelled.
She jerked away from his reaching hand.
"I can walk on my own," she said, and her voice was steadier than she felt.
The guard hesitated. In that hesitation, the Duke turned back.
The silver mask caught the torchlight, reflecting her own terrified face back at her. But his eyes—those impossible ice-blue eyes—were suddenly very close, studying her with an intensity that made her feel like he could see straight through her skin into the trembling mess of her heart.
"Most of your predecessors fainted upon arrival," he said softly.
The word predecessors hung in the air like a blade.
Ophelia's chin lifted. "I'm not them."
"No," he agreed, and his voice carried something dangerous underneath it—something that sounded almost like respect. "Which makes you either very brave or very foolish. We'll discover which soon enough."
He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the shadows of the courtyard, and Ophelia understood that she'd just made a terrible mistake.
The guards didn't bother being gentle after that.
The tower stairs seemed to go on forever.
Up, up, up—in a spiral that made her dizzy. The guards didn't speak. They just gripped her arms and pulled, their footsteps echoing off stone walls. Torches lit their path, casting moving shadows that looked almost alive.
Ophelia tried to count the steps. Gave up at two hundred. Tried to remember the layout of the fortress from what she'd seen in the courtyard. It was useless. She was being dragged into the heart of a place she didn't understand, by people who didn't care what happened to her.
Finally, they stopped.
A heavy wooden door with iron bands stood before them. A guard produced a key—large and ornate, more weapon than tool—and unlocked it.
The room beyond made her breath catch.
It was beautiful. That was the worst part.
The tower room was circular, with windows along one curved wall that faced the mountains. There was a bed with silk covers, a desk, a wardrobe, shelves with books. Everything a prisoner could want, except freedom.
Everything a bride waiting to die could want except escape.
"Your accommodations until the wedding," one of the guards said, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone. "Food will be brought three times daily. You're not to leave without escort. Those are the Duke's orders."
The door closed.
The lock clicked.
Ophelia stood alone in the tower room and felt reality collapse around her like a building made of cards.
Five days. The Duke had said she had five days until the wedding. Five days before she became his bride. Five days before she became his victim.
She moved to the windows and looked out at the mountains. The peaks were obscured by mist. Somewhere below was the courtyard. Somewhere far below was the world she'd known. Somewhere impossibly far away was Marta, and the seamstress shop, and the corner on Miller Street where she'd planned to build a life.
All of it was gone.
She was trapped here with a masked man who'd looked at her like she was already dead. A man who'd killed six girls before her. A man who had absolutely no reason to keep her alive.
Ophelia sat on the edge of the bed and let herself fall apart.
She didn't cry—she was too terrified to cry. She shook instead, her entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her hands curled into fists. Her nails dug crescents into her palms.
She should have run when the guards first grabbed her. Should have fought harder. Should have done something. Instead, she'd been dragged like a doll to a tower where no one could hear her scream.
The sun moved across the sky. Shadows stretched across the floor. And Ophelia sat on the bed, counting the hours until her wedding day like a prisoner counting time until execution.
Which, she supposed, was exactly what she was.
Hours passed.
A servant brought food—rich food, the kind she'd eaten at Ashvale Manor before her father revealed the truth. Ophelia couldn't eat. She left the tray untouched on the desk.
As darkness fell, she lay on the bed in her clothes and stared at the ceiling. The fortress was so quiet. Not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet that came from emptiness, from absence, from death.
How many girls had lain in this tower? Had any of them been housed here? Had any of them planned escape? Had any of them screamed?
She didn't know which was worse—that she didn't know what had happened to them, or that she could imagine all the possibilities.
Her mind spun through scenarios. Poison. Violence. Terror. Something worse than any of those things. She thought about the Duke's eyes—cold, empty, containing depths of something she couldn't identify. Cruelty? Pain? Madness?
Around midnight, as exhaustion finally pulled at her edges, Ophelia heard it.
Footsteps in the hallway outside her door.
Her heart stopped.
They came closer. Slower now. Deliberate. The footsteps of someone moving with purpose, not rushing. Someone confident in their right to be here.
The footsteps stopped directly outside her door.
Ophelia pressed herself against the headboard, pulling the silk coverlet up like it could protect her. Her mouth went completely dry.
The lock didn't turn. The door didn't open.
But she heard breathing on the other side. Slow, deep, controlled. Someone was standing in the hallway, listening. Waiting. Choosing not to enter.
"Sleep well, Miss Ashvale," a voice said—the Duke's voice, cold and measured. "You'll need your strength."
The footsteps moved away.
Ophelia sat in the darkness, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. You'll need your strength. For what? For the wedding? For what came after?
She didn't sleep that night. She sat with her back against the headboard, watching the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for the Duke to return.
He didn't.
But just before dawn, when exhaustion was finally dragging her toward unconsciousness, she heard something else. A soft sound. Metal on stone.
Someone was opening the lock from outside.
Ophelia's eyes snapped open.
The lock was clicking. The mechanism was turning. And then—
The door remained closed. But the lock was no longer engaged.
The door wasn't locked anymore.
Whoever had been outside had deliberately unlocked it, then left.
An escape route. A test. A trap.
Ophelia stared at that unlocked door for a long moment, her mind racing. The Duke had locked her in. And now, someone had unlocked her.
She could leave. She could try to escape.
But the fortress was full of guards. And wherever she ran, he would find her.
Or...
Or this was some kind of test. Some way to prove her bravery or foolishness. Some way to determine if she was worth keeping alive.
Her hand reached for the door.
And in the hallway beyond, in the darkness, something stirred.
Something was waiting for her to try to escape.
Something was hoping she would try.