Page 12

MIRA

N ight drapes the manor in a tense hush that refuses to settle.

The echoes of Lord Rahlazen’s agonized cries from earlier linger in every corridor, like the remnants of a thunderclap that never fully dissipate.

My heart still hammers whenever I recall Vahziryn’s lethal bite, the way his venom brought that arrogant nobleman to his knees in an instant.

And he did it for me—or at least, because of me.

I can’t stop replaying the sight of Rahlazen sprawled on the floor, gasping, his face twisting in fear.

Part of me struggles to grasp how swiftly Vahziryn snapped.

One moment, I was pouring wine and avoiding Rahlazen’s lecherous stare.

The next, the warlord’s fangs were at the noble’s throat.

Any illusions of safety I once clung to vanish, replaced by a disorienting mixture of terror and awe.

He defended my honor—or his own property, more likely.

It’s impossible to say if that protective rage means I’m secure or in even greater danger.

Regardless, the entire household remains on lockdown.

Guards patrol the gates, and none of us are permitted to leave, not even for routine errands.

It’s as though the estate has become a fortress overnight, with every servant tiptoeing in the halls, afraid that one misstep might stoke their master’s wrath.

That tension gnaws at me, making my skin prickle each time I pass a guard or glimpse Vahziryn’s silhouette in the distance.

I can’t keep living in this confusion—constantly second-guessing whether he’s a monster or a shield.

I’m certain that if he decides I’m no longer worth protecting, I’ll be at his mercy, too.

After all, how many times have I seen powerful masters turn on their servants once the initial fascination fades?

Late in the evening, I drift back to my cramped chamber.

The single lamp flickers, casting my slender shadow across the walls.

Rest is impossible. My body refuses sleep, every muscle taut with the urge to flee.

The memory of Vahziryn’s voice thrums through my mind, the low timbre that carried both command and unspoken concern when he told me no one would touch me again.

Yet that does nothing to ease my dread. The same hands that shielded me from a noble’s abuse could easily close around my throat if I provoke him—perhaps for reasons I can’t even predict.

At times like this, I remember how I survived my old masters by slipping away at the first sign of real danger.

Here, I see the risk growing with each passing hour.

I can almost sense the storm building. Rahlazen’s humiliation will surely invite council scrutiny.

Vahziryn might become more paranoid, or worse, lash out again.

I stand in the middle of my small room, mind racing.

The corridors outside lie in silence, the staff presumably holed up wherever they can find safety.

If the gates are sealed, escaping might be a fool’s errand.

But the entire estate borders a dense jungle, and I’ve caught glimpses of overgrown areas where the outer walls meet thick foliage.

Perhaps there’s a hidden route the guards don’t bother to patrol thoroughly.

Given my skill at moving quietly, I might slip away before anyone notices.

All I need is the nerve to attempt it. My chest feels tight as I gather the few possessions I own—a ragged shawl, a waterskin, and a small bundle of dried food I squirreled away from the kitchen.

I doubt it’ll last more than a day or two, but that might be enough time to put distance between me and this place.

After that, I’ll rely on my wits. It’s the same approach I took when I fled my old town years ago, though back then I didn’t have naga soldiers to contend with.

Sliding open the door, I move into the corridor.

A cold draft whispers against my arms. Most lamps are extinguished by now, leaving the hall in murky gloom.

My footsteps barely make a sound on the stone floor.

The hush is so complete I swear I can hear my own heartbeat pulsing in my ears.

One corner, then another. I pass the closed door of an empty parlor.

Farther on, I skirt around the kitchens, where a single candle flickers through a narrow window in the door, revealing only shadows.

No one appears. The staff must be staying in their quarters after nightfall, following the new unwritten rule of not wandering.

That leaves only the guards posted at key points.

I creep along until I reach a window that overlooks an inner courtyard.

Moonlight spills across the stone fountain at the center, bathing everything in silvery light.

For a moment, I recall the day I saw Vahziryn there, trailing his fingertips in the water.

The memory sends a shiver through me. That man is the reason I’m trying to run, yet he’s also the only person who’s ever defended me so directly.

The contradiction twists my thoughts into knots.

Focus. I slip away from the window and find a stairwell that descends to the lower level, where storerooms and a side entrance lead to the garden.

My pulse quickens, tension coiling in my stomach.

Each step downward feels monumental. The darkness here is thicker, the air damp.

Finally, I reach the bottom of the stairs, pausing in the shadows.

Down the corridor lies the door that opens onto the garden, which borders the outer walls of the estate.

I tiptoe closer, keeping my body pressed against the wall.

A single torch burns near that door. A guard stands there, a broad-shouldered naga with dull brown scales and a spear in hand.

He looks bored, his eyelids drooping, but that weapon is a lethal reminder.

My heart flutters in my throat. If I can’t slip past him, there’s no chance of reaching the jungle.

Despair seeps in for a moment. Perhaps the gates are watched too closely to risk it.

But as I watch, the guard yawns, shifting his stance.

He sets his spear against the wall and rubs his eyes.

A glimmer of hope sparks within me—maybe he’ll grow complacent, or even step away to find a corner to doze in.

I wait, breath shallow. Time crawls, each second an agony of doubt.

Then, as if the gods grant me a boon, another guard’s voice echoes faintly from somewhere else, calling his name.

He mutters a soft curse and picks up his spear.

Glancing around once more, he trudges off in the direction of that summons.

My shoulders sag in relief. This is my chance.

The corridor stands empty. Without waiting for second thoughts, I dash toward the door, slip the latch, and push it open.

The night air engulfs me in an instant—cooler than inside, tinged with the scent of lush vegetation.

My shawl flutters around me as I step into the garden, where large ferns and exotic blooms shimmer in the moonlight.

The path beneath my feet is damp from earlier rainfall.

Every step across it feels shockingly loud.

I keep moving, heart pounding. The garden transitions into a narrow walkway lined by twisted red-barked trees, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.

Above, the moon peeks through thick clouds, providing just enough light for me to see.

The estate’s towering walls loom ahead. I recall noticing a place where a low-hanging vine drapes over a crack in the stone.

If it’s not heavily guarded, I might squeeze through or climb over.

My plan is half-formed, but adrenaline pushes me onward.

Just as I approach that crumbling section of wall, movement flickers at the edge of my vision.

I freeze, breath catching. A dark silhouette detaches from the side of the wall, revealing slender limbs and faintly glinting scales—another guard, or maybe a patrolling soldier.

Panicked, I drop behind the trunk of a sprawling tree, hoping the leaves hide me.

My heart thuds. If I’m caught, the consequences could be dire.

Vahziryn might punish me more harshly than he punished Rahlazen.

Or perhaps the guard will interpret my attempt as espionage and strike me down immediately.

Footsteps approach, then pause. Silence.

I hold my breath, hardly daring to move, certain that I’m about to be discovered.

Then the steps resume, retreating in the opposite direction.

Relief floods me so abruptly I almost collapse against the tree.

I wait several long beats before I peer around the trunk, checking for signs of watchers.

No one stands in the open. The path to the wall looks clear.

Clinging to that momentary advantage, I hurry forward.

My palms brush wet leaves, collecting droplets that trail down my wrists.

The night forest wraps around me in breathless silence.

The vine-draped wall looms ahead, a jagged crack running up part of its surface.

It’s not exactly a hole, but the mortar has crumbled enough that someone agile might find handholds to climb.

I swallow my fear. This is it. I fling my shawl around my shoulders, brace a hand against the cold stone, and begin hauling myself up.

The effort strains my arms and legs. My foot slips on wet rock once, nearly sending me tumbling.

Gritting my teeth, I keep going, forcing trembling muscles to push me higher.

My mind hums with a single refrain: I have to escape.

The estate is suffocating, and I can’t bear the uncertainty any longer.