They do not give me time to breathe.
The very next morning, my room fills with strangers.
It begins with a knock—sharp, decisive, nothing like the hesitant taps I am used to. Before I can answer, the door opens and three women spill inside with the purposeful stride of people who belong where they stand. Two are seamstresses I recognize from the capital. The third…
She is tall and elegant, dressed in deep pearl-gray silk, her dark hair swept into a style so precise it looks sculpted rather than arranged. Her eyes are a cool, appraising brown. Sharp. Intelligent. Not unkind—just unsentimental.
Lady Halewyne.
Dorian’s mother.
I rise from my chair at once, my heart lurching into an uneven rhythm. No one warned me she would come herself.
“Lady Alora,” she says smoothly, inclining her head just enough to acknowledge my rank without granting me control of the moment. “I trust you slept well.”
“I… yes, my lady,” I lie.
Her gaze flicks briefly to the shadows beneath my eyes. I know she sees the truth. She simply chooses not to comment.
“Excellent,” she says. “We have a great deal to do.”
The seamstresses are already moving, setting down bundles of fabric, cases of pins, measuring tapes unfurling like pale serpents across my floor. My small room feels instantly too tight, too intimate for what is happening inside it.
Lady Halewyne circles me slowly, the way one might circle a horse being considered for purchase.
“You are slighter than I expected,” she murmurs. “Fragile, but not weak. That can be shaped.”
The word shaped sends a chill through my spine.
She gestures to the nearest seamstress. “Take her measurements.”
Cold hands touch my waist, my shoulders, the line of my ribs. I stand still while numbers are murmured, written down, folded into future garments I am not yet allowed to see. My body feels less like my own with each passing second.
“We will begin with four primary gowns,” Lady Halewyne continues. “Engagement dinner. First public court appearance. Private family ceremony. Final procession. Colors will be decided later once my son confirms the preferences of the royal council.”
Royal council.
I am not marrying into governance by birth—only by arrangement.
One seamstress gently lifts my chin to measure the angle of my throat. Lady Halewyne watches with quiet, exacting focus.
“You have unusual coloring,” she says thoughtfully. “Silver-gold hair. Emerald eyes. You will photograph beautifully beneath candlelight. The court will adore you if presented correctly.”
Her words are almost kind.
Almost.
“And if I am not?” I ask quietly before I can stop myself.
She pauses.
For the first time since she entered my room, her gaze sharpens directly on my face.
“Then they will adore you anyway,” she replies calmly. “Because they will be told to.”
The seamstress releases my chin.
A mirror is propped in front of me. For a moment, I do not recognize the girl reflected there—pale, still, trapped inside silk and measured futures.
Lady Halewyne moves closer to stand beside me in the glass.
“You have been hidden,” she says, not accusing—observing. “That will not continue. The court does not trust what it cannot see.”
My fingers curl against my skirt.
“And Dorian?” I ask.
A faint smile touches her lips. “My son has always preferred his possessions visible.”
Possessions.
The word echoes long after she turns away to speak to the women.
By midday, my room no longer belongs to me.
Every surface is covered in fabric samples, pale jewel tones and heavy brocades pressed flat like prisoners waiting sentence. I am seated on a small stool while my hair is unpinned, brushed, reworked again and again into styles meant to test how I will be displayed in public.
“Your posture is too withdrawn,” one attendant says gently, lifting my shoulders. “You must not fold into yourself. You are soon to be Lady Halewyne.”
The irony nearly steals my breath.
Another woman instructs me in walking—how to take measured steps that show confidence without arrogance. How to incline my head just enough to acknowledge nobles without inviting familiarity. How to let my eyes rise slowly instead of darting.
Lady Halewyne watches from a chair near the window, hands folded serenely in her lap.
“You have lived as if invisible,” she says at one point. “That is over. You will learn to inhabit attention. You will learn to survive within it.”
Survive.
I wonder if she realizes how accurate that word truly is.
In the late afternoon, I am dressed in a pale practice gown and guided—yes, guided—from my room to the small sun salon where a table has already been set.
Dorian is waiting.
He rises immediately when I enter, crossing toward me with a relieved smile that feels far too intimate for a man who has already conquered what he wanted.
“There you are,” he says softly. “I was beginning to fear they’d lost you beneath all that silk.”
“They are only beginning,” Lady Halewyne replies dryly as she takes her seat.
I sit opposite Dorian.
The air feels tight. Charged.
He pours my tea himself, careful, attentive. Anyone watching would think him gentle.
“I trust Mother isn’t being too overwhelming,” he says, fingers brushing the porcelain.
“She is being thorough,” I answer.
His smile deepens with satisfaction.
“Good.”
Lady Halewyne studies us both in silence for a long moment before speaking again.
“My son is accustomed to order,” she says calmly. “As are you, I suspect, Lady Alora. You will find that two ordered lives align well—if one is willing to be guided by the stronger will.”
Dorian’s gaze never leaves my face.
“I will take excellent care of her,” he assures his mother smoothly. “Her safety will be my highest priority.”
The Moonbrand stirs faintly at the word safety. I stiffen without meaning to.
Lady Halewyne notices.
“You are uncomfortable with the idea of protection,” she says.
“I am uncomfortable with cages disguised as care,” I reply quietly.
Silence snaps into place.
Dorian’s smile tightens.
His mother studies me with new interest.
“How honest,” she murmurs. “Good. Lies rot marriages from the inside.”
Her gaze shifts to Dorian.
“You will remember that honesty does not require weakness,” she says to him.
His jaw flexes slightly.
“Yes, Mother.”
The rest of the afternoon unfolds like a dream I cannot wake from.
They discuss the tentative date of the engagement announcement.
Which nobles will be invited.
Which kingdoms must receive early notice.
What colors I will wear.
Who will escort me.
What image of the Everthorn house will be presented to the court.
I speak when prompted. I nod when expected. I drink when the cup is lifted to my lips.
Inside, something quietly suffocates.
I think of Caelen’s voice in the Crown Gallery.
I think of Emerson’s note.
I think of how small my room feels now, even miles away from it.
Every word they speak builds a future I am not meant to survive whole.
When evening finally settles and the servants arrive to escort Lady Halewyne and Dorian back to their chambers, Dorian walks beside me through the corridor.
“You did well today,” he says.
I do not answer.
“You will do better tomorrow.”
That time, his tone is not optional.
I return to my room long after the last voices in the corridor have faded.
The manor settles into its nighttime hush—the distant echo of closing doors, the soft tread of servants on lower floors, the quiet breathing of a house that believes everything is in its proper place.
I close my door behind me and stand still until the latch clicks into its hollow, final sound.
Only then do my shoulders sag.
My small room feels even smaller after a day spent being measured, studied, spoken about as if I were already gone. The fire in the hearth is low. Shadows gather in the corners like listening things. I cross to the window and watch the moon climb slowly through the thin clouds, its pale light spilling across the floor like silver dust.
For a long moment, I do nothing.
Then—
Three soft taps.
They do not come from the door.
They come from the wall behind the tapestry.
My breath catches painfully in my throat.
Slowly, carefully, I rise and cross the room. My fingers slip beneath the edge of the faded cloth and draw it just far enough aside to reveal the narrow service passage hidden behind it—an old bypass once used by servants and forgotten by everyone else.
A folded scrap of parchment slides through the gap and lands soundlessly at my feet.
I know his handwriting before I open it.
Emerson.
My hands shake as I unfold the paper.
Midnight.
The glass corridor.
Come alone.
That is all.
No explanation.
No reassurance.
No promise.
My heart pounds so loudly I am certain it will be heard through stone and mortar. Emerson never risks leaving notes anymore. Not after the last punishment. Not after the walls grew eyes.
If he is doing this now, it means something is wrong.
Something urgent.
Something dangerous.
I press the paper to my lips without thinking, then fold it carefully and slip it into the hidden seam of my sleeve.
“What are you planning?” I whisper into the quiet.
The Moonbrand answers with a slow, aching warmth—uncertain, restless.
Hope tries to rise in my chest.
I crush it before it can fully form.
Hope is dangerous.
Especially here.
Outside my window, the moon climbs higher, pale and watching. The manor sleeps. The corridors grow still.
And somewhere within these walls, my brother is moving pieces I cannot see—toward an end I do not yet understand.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and wait for midnight to arrive.
Midnight arrives without a sound.
The bells do not ring. The corridors do not stir. Even the wind seems to hold its breath outside my narrow window, as though the world itself is afraid to announce the hour too loudly.
I sit upright on my bed, my heart has not slowed since the note arrived. Each thud feels like it might betray me to the walls.
Come alone.
He didn’t need to write the rest.
I rise quietly and cross the room, lifting the tapestry just enough to slip into the narrow service passage beyond. The stone inside is cold and faintly damp, the air thick with the forgotten breath of the manor. I move by memory alone, counting my steps, keeping my shoulder from brushing the wall too loudly.
The passage twists once, then twice, before widening into the shell of the old glass corridor.
Moonlight spills through the clouded panes overhead in pale, fractured sheets. The glass is warped with age, cracked in long silver veins, fogged by years of frost and neglect. Dead vine shadows crawl along the stone floor like reaching fingers.
And at the far end—
Emerson.
He steps forward the moment he sees me.
The sight of him hits my chest so hard I nearly make a sound. He looks older than he did this morning. More rigid. His shoulders are tense beneath his coat, his expression tight with something like fury barely leashed.
“You came,” he breathes.
“Of course I did,” I whisper. “You never call for me unless—”
Unless something is wrong.
The words die between us.
He studies my face as though memorizing it, green eyes sharp with fear and resolve tangled together. “They told me.”
My pulse stutters. “Told you what?”
“The engagement.”
The word lands like a blade.
I look away instinctively, pressing my fingers into the fabric of my sleeve. “I was going to tell you. I just… I didn’t know how.”
“I wasn’t supposed to know at all,” he says quietly. “Not yet. Not until it was announced.”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t agree because I wanted to. Father—”
“I know,” he cuts in. His voice softens immediately after. “I know.”
We stand there in the moonlight like ghosts of ourselves, neither daring to step too close, as if the corridor might collapse if we move too quickly.
Emerson exhales slowly. “This changes everything.”
The calm in his tone terrifies me more than anger would have.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He hesitates just long enough for dread to pool in my stomach.
“I wasn’t planning to move yet,” he admits. “Not until I had everything secure. Not until I knew for certain—”
“For certain what?” My voice shakes.
“For certain you wouldn’t disappear the moment I tried.”
Cold spreads through my fingers.
“You think I’d abandon you?”
“No,” he says fiercely. “I think they would take you before I could reach you.”
The Moonbrand stirs faintly beneath my skin, a quiet ache blooming near my heart.
“You saw him today,” Emerson continues. “Didn’t you? Dorian.”
I nod.
“He’s already tightening the noose,” Emerson says. “That’s how his family works. They don’t wait. They claim.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
He steps closer now, closing the distance between us until I can see the familiar scar near his chin, the one he got sneaking into my wing years ago.
“I’m saying you don’t have time anymore.”
My breath catches painfully. “Time for what?”
“For anything except leaving.”
The word rings in my ears.
Leaving.
The Moonbrand pulses once—stronger this time.
“You mean… running?” I ask faintly.
Emerson swallows. “I mean surviving.”
Silence crashes between us.
The glass above us creaks softly as the wind finally stirs.
I think of my father’s face in the salon. Of my mother’s silent grief. Of Dorian’s hand closing over mine like a promise and a threat all at once. Of the gallery. Of the light that had burned too bright to be ordinary.
“Where would we go?” I ask.
He exhales shakily. “Far enough that he can’t reach you. Somewhere the court’s shadow doesn’t stretch. Somewhere the truth about you won’t get you killed before it can protect you.”
My heart hammers wildly.
“You’ve already chosen a place,” I realize.
He does not deny it.
“You’ve spoken to someone,” I continue.
Another pause.
“Yes.”
My pulse spikes with a strange, cold understanding. “Someone powerful.”
“Yes.”
Emerson’s jaw tightens. “Someone who knows what it is to be born into a curse.”
His words pull a thread through my chest that I didn’t know existed.
“Who?” I whisper.
He meets my eyes fully now.
“The Crown Prince of Theros.”
My breath leaves me in a soft, broken sound.
Evander.
The boy who used to watch me across marble halls like a challenge he was forbidden to accept.
The prince who carries death in his bloodline.
“What did he say?” I ask.
Emerson’s fingers curl into fists at his sides.
“He told me to come back when you break.”
Something inside me fractures quietly.
“And now?” I whisper.
Emerson’s voice is steady when he answers.
“Now I think we’re closer than he expected.”
The Moonbrand flares faintly beneath my skin.
For the first time, real fear—not distant, not theoretical—takes full shape in my chest.
“Emerson,” I breathe, stepping closer. “What are you planning to do?”
He looks at me like someone memorizing a face for the last time.
“Something dangerous,” he says softly. “Something that might not give us a second chance.”
My hands tremble as I reach for his sleeve.
“I don’t care about chances,” I whisper. “I care about losing you.”
His control breaks for just a moment.
He pulls me into a fierce, shaking embrace.
I cling to him without thought, pressing my face into his shoulder, breathing him in like a memory I am afraid the world will steal. For a heartbeat, we are children again, whispering plans beneath blankets and believing we can outrun fate if we are fast enough.
“We’ll talk again,” he murmurs into my hair. “Soon. I just needed you to know: you are not as alone as they want you to believe.”
Footsteps echo faintly somewhere far down the manor.
We freeze.
Emerson releases me at once, his hand briefly squeezing mine.
“Go,” he whispers.
“Be careful,” I beg.
His smile is small and unbearably familiar. “Always.”
I watch him vanish into the shadows of the passage before I turn back toward my hidden door—with my heart in pieces and my future no longer tethered to the world I was taught to survive in.