The summons came just after the bells for midmorning.
A single knock at my door. Too polite to refuse. Too firm to ignore.
“Lady Alora,” the maid said softly through the wood. “Your father requests your presence in the eastern salon. Immediately.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of my dressing table. The Moonbrand stirred faintly at the word father, as if it, too, had learned the shape of his voice and the danger behind it.
“I’ll come,” I said.
She did not meet my eyes when she opened the door.
The eastern salon was the most formal room in the Everthorn manor not reserved for full court gatherings—tall arched windows, pale marble floors veined in gold, velvet seating arranged in neat symmetry around a low central table. Every curtain was drawn back to admit the late-morning light. No shadows to hide in. No corners left uncertain.
They were all already there.
My father stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar stance of quiet authority. My mother sat to his right, posture elegant, hands folded in her lap so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Emerson was not present.
Of course he wasn’t.
Dorian lounged opposite them with practiced ease, one arm draped along the back of his chair as if he already belonged there. His smile curved the moment he saw me. Possessive. Expectant.
And beside him—new arrivals—
Lord and Lady Halewyne.
Dorian’s parents.
My breath faltered for half a second before I forced it steady.
They rose as I entered, the polished sort of courtesy that carried no warmth in it. Lord Halewyne was tall and severe, his greying hair cut sharply at the jaw. Lady Halewyne was composed and exquisitely dressed, her dark eyes bright with scrutiny as they took me in from head to toe as though assessing fabric for purchase.
“Lady Alora,” she said, inclining her head just shy of a bow. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”
“Sit,” my father said before I could reply.
Not please. Not child. Just the command.
I obeyed.
My chair faced Dorian’s at an intimate distance I had not chosen. I could feel his presence immediately, the faint heat of his body, the low hum of satisfaction rolling from him like perfume.
My mother’s eyes flicked to me, then away.
“This gathering will be brief,” my father said. “We are here to formalize what has already been discussed privately.”
My stomach turned.
Dorian’s smile widened.
Lord Halewyne nodded once. “We appreciate your hospitality, Duke Everthorn. And your efficiency.”
Efficiency.
My heartbeat thudded too loudly in my ears.
“As you are aware,” my father continued, “our houses have long maintained… professional regard. Your son’s position within the Theros court, and the influence of your bloodline, align well with Everthorn’s standing.”
Lady Halewyne’s gaze sharpened. “And your daughter’s—condition,” she said delicately, “has been fully disclosed.”
My mother’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
“Yes,” my father said. “Lady Alora has always been… delicate. But she is obedient. Well educated. And she will make no trouble.”
No trouble.
I kept my hands folded in my lap so tightly my nails bit into my skin.
Dorian leaned forward slightly. “I have assured my parents that I will see to her comfort personally.”
My stomach clenched.
Lord Halewyne studied me as though I were a map he intended to use but did not yet trust. “And is the girl… amenable to the arrangement?”
The girl.
Before anyone else could answer, my father spoke for me.
“She will be.”
The words fell like a sentence.
My chest tightened painfully. The Moonbrand pulsed once beneath my collarbone—quiet, contained, but not silent.
My mother’s lips parted as if to speak.
Then closed.
Lady Halewyne smiled faintly. “How sensible.”
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then Dorian rose.
He moved around the small table with infuriating confidence and extended his hand toward me. His gaze was bright with triumph, his voice gentle enough to sound like kindness to anyone who did not know him.
“Lady Alora,” he said, “it would be my honor to formally request your hand in betrothal. As a symbol of alliance between our houses. And of my… devotion.”
The word tasted wrong in his mouth.
Every instinct in me screamed to run.
I looked to my mother.
She would not meet my eyes.
My father had already turned away—toward the window, toward the light, toward anything that spared him from watching my face.
I was alone in the room.
My fingers shook as I placed my hand in Dorian’s.
His grip closed instantly—gentle, firm, proprietary.
“I accept,” I said, the words sounding as though they belonged to someone else.
The silence broke into polite murmurs. Lady Halewyne clasped her hands together with satisfaction. Lord Halewyne inclined his head in approval.
My father gave a single nod.
“It is done, then,” he said.
Something in my chest splintered.
Dorian lifted my hand and pressed the barest kiss to my knuckles. His lips were warm.
“Soon,” he murmured so quietly only I could hear, “you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”
I did not answer.
Across the room, my mother’s eyes finally lifted to mine.
They were full of apology.
And fear.
_____________________________
Emerson learned of the engagement from a servant who wasn’t supposed to speak.
It was in the south corridor, the one that smelled faintly of soap and old stone, where the lattice windows rattled softly with the wind. He had just come from the kitchens with a folded cloth of bread hidden under his arm for one of the stable boys when he heard the whisper.
“—betrothed already, they say…”
“To the Halewyne boy?”
“Yes. Signed this morning. The duke didn’t waste a breath.”
Emerson stopped so suddenly the bread nearly slipped from his grasp.
The servants froze when they realized they had been heard. One of them crossed herself. The other tried to smile.
“Lord Emerson,” she said nervously, “we—we thought you already knew.”
His mouth felt full of ash. “Knew what?”
The words came gently. The truth did not.
“That your sister has been promised,” the woman said. “To Lord Dorian. The contract was signed not an hour past.”
The corridor tilted.
For a heartbeat Emerson could not breathe. The stone beneath his boots felt too far away, as though the world had dropped a few inches without warning. He forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears.
“That’s not possible,” he said. “My father would have—”
“He did,” the servant whispered.
The other woman touched her arm sharply, eyes darting down the hall. “You’ll get us whipped for speaking.”
Emerson didn’t hear the rest of it. The bread slid from his arm and struck the floor without sound. He turned and walked away before either of them could say another word.
He did not run.
He did not need to.
Every step burned.
So this is how it ends, he thought dimly as he moved through corridors he had known all his life. They didn’t even tell me.
His father had not summoned him. His mother had not sent for him. Alora had not been allowed to speak to him.
They had simply decided.
He reached the narrow stair that led to the servants’ balcony overlooking the eastern wing and gripped the rail until his knuckles went white. His pulse thundered in his ears so loudly he thought it might give him away.
Dorian.
The man who watched Alora as if she were a locked door meant only for him.
The man who smiled like kindness and moved like ownership.
The man who had already dragged her into danger beneath the city and nearly let her die.
Emerson’s fingers shook.
They are sealing her into a cage, he thought. One with silk on the inside.
His mind raced now—faster than his fear.
—Evander’s words in the training hall.
—The token now hidden in the lining of his sleeve.
—The unlocked road he had been promised.
—The moment he’d told Alora soon.
Soon had just been stolen from them.
He turned and took the servants’ stairs two at a time, boots striking softly against the worn stone. He did not go back to his rooms. He did not go to his father. He went to the one place in the house his father never thought to look:
The abandoned glass corridor.
It was a narrow passage once meant to grow winter herbs, the glass panes clouded now with age and frost. No servants came here anymore. Nothing was kept here. Nothing but dust and shadows.
It was perfect.
Emerson pressed his back to the cold stone and dragged in a shaking breath.
“She’s not safe anymore,” he whispered into the empty corridor. His voice broke on the word anymore. “They won’t wait. They’ve already chosen him.”
His hand slid into his sleeve.
His fingers closed around the metal token.
The twin serpents dug into his palm, cold and unforgiving.
Evander had said—
Tell me when she breaks.
Emerson squeezed his eyes shut.
“She’s breaking now,” he whispered.
Decision moved through him then like a blade drawn clean from a sheath—cold, bright, irreversible. Fear did not vanish. But it no longer ruled.
He straightened.
Tonight, he would send word.
Tonight, he would reach Alora in secret.
And before the world could finish closing its fist around her, he would tear her free.
Far above him, unaware, the manor breathed on.
And somewhere in a quiet room behind locked doors, Alora sat alone with the weight of her future pressing down on her ribs, not knowing that her brother had just chosen to gamble everything she believed he’d already lost.