I do not return to my room right away.
I walk past it once, twice—my hand hovering near the handle each time before pulling away. My mother’s words still echo too loudly in my chest. Her fear. Her quiet permission wrapped in denial. The way she said when you go, not if.
My pulse has not slowed since.
The Moonbrand beneath my collarbone is warm again, not burning, but alert. Listening.
The glass corridor is only a short distance away, down the narrow servant passage and past the collapsed winter garden. It has always been our place. The one forgotten artery of this house where we could breathe without being seen. I prayed he would be there.
I slip through the hidden door and into the cold.
Moonlight pours through the cracked panes overhead, spilling across the floor in silver ribbons. The dead vines along the walls look almost alive in the pale glow. Frost rims the edges of the glass like lace.
And at the far end, just as before—
Emerson waits.
He straightens the moment he sees me. Relief flashes across his face, unguarded, before he schools it back into something steadier. He takes three quick steps toward me, then stops himself, as if remembering every rule our father ever carved into him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“So are you,” I answer.
We both notice it at the same time and almost laugh—but the sound never makes it past our throats. The tension is too thick. Too real now.
“I spoke to Mother,” I tell him softly.
His jaw tightens. “And?”
“She knows,” I say. “About everything. About the mark. About Father’s fear. About… what he might do.”
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. “Did she stop you?”
“No,” I whisper. “She told me how to leave.”
That stuns him.
For a long moment he only stares at me as if I’ve spoken another language. Then something in his expression breaks open—disbelief tangled with fierce gratitude and a grief so old it feels inherited.
“She still loves you,” he breathes.
“I think she always did,” I say. “She was just too afraid to prove it.”
Silence settles gently between us, not heavy this time—soft. Familiar.
He steps closer.
I don’t stop him.
We stand within arm’s reach now, close enough that I can see the scar along his knuckle from when he tried to climb the eastern wall at eight years old. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the cold corridor. Close enough to remember that this is the boy who used to crawl through stone passages just to bring me stolen bread and secrets.
“I don’t want to leave you here,” I whisper.
His mouth twists. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“You’re all I have,” I say.
For a heartbeat, his composure cracks completely. He pulls me into him, hard and sudden, his arms locking around my shoulders like he’s afraid the world will tear me away if he loosens his grip even for a second. I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing him in—home, safety, childhood, everything I am about to lose.
I cling to him even tighter. “You don’t have to be brave for me.”
“Yes, I do,” he replies. “You’ve been brave alone long enough.”
We stay like that for several breaths. The glass above us creaks softly in the wind.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me seriously.
“We can’t wait anymore,” he says. “Dorian is escalating. Your engagement sped everything up. The guards around your wing are doubling. My movements are already questioned. If we don’t move now—”
“We won’t get another chance,” I finish.
He nods once. “We leave in three nights.”
My heart lurches painfully. “Three?”
“The night of the half-moon,” he says. “The guards switch at the river gate for the festival patrols. I bribed one of the outer watchmen weeks ago—he thought it was for smuggling. He doesn’t know who he’s really helping.”
My breath stutters. Three nights. Three dinners. Three final sunsets trapped inside these walls.
“How?” I whisper.
“By water,” he answers. “It’s the only way they won’t track you immediately. The river bends into wild territory after half a day. Horses will be waiting beyond that.”
“And you?”
“I’ll go with you to the river,” he says. “After that—”
“No,” I cut in sharply. “You’re not staying behind.”
“I have to,” he says. “If I vanish with you, they’ll hunt us as a pair. If I stay, they’ll look for me first. It gives you time.”
“Time to do what?” I demand. “Run alone?”
“To survive long enough for me to reach you again,” he says simply.
My chest tightens painfully. Every instinct screams that this is wrong.
“I won’t leave you behind,” I whisper.
“You will,” he says gently. “Because you love me.”
Tears blur my vision. “I love you too much to lose you.”
“Then don’t make my sacrifice useless,” he replies softly.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
The Moonbrand pulses faintly beneath my skin, not hot, not cold—steady. As if marking time.
I reach into the hidden seam of my sleeve and draw out the folded piece of parchment I took earlier in the day. My father’s study seal. A crude sketch of the river gate layout I stole yesterday while he was at council.
“I can help,” I say. “This is the guard rotation near the southern channel. If we time it between the third and fourth bell after dusk, the inner patrol will be thinnest.”
His eyes widen. “Alora…”
“I refuse to be carried like cargo,” I say fiercely. “If I’m leaving, I leave as myself.”
Something like pride flickers through his fear.
“Then we do it together,” he says.
We move closer again, foreheads almost touching now. I can feel his breath, warm against the chill.
“When this is over,” he murmurs, “we’ll go somewhere your name isn’t a secret or a curse.”
“Say it like you mean it,” I whisper.
He smiles a small, aching smile. “Somewhere with water and books and loud markets and people who don’t know what a Moonbrand is.”
I laugh weakly through my tears. “You’ve thought about it.”
“Every night.”
The sound of distant boots echoes faintly through the manor.
We freeze.
“Go,” he whispers urgently. “If you’re seen here now—”
“I know,” I breathe.
He takes my hands in his, squeezing tightly, memorizing the shape of my fingers as if he doesn’t trust memory alone.
“Three nights,” he repeats. “Half-moon. River gate. Do not be late.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
His voice trembles just once. “If something goes wrong—if you don’t see me—go anyway.”
The words slice straight through me.
“Don’t say that,” I beg.
He doesn’t reply.
I watch him vanish until there is nothing left but cold air and moonlight.
My hands are still held out long after he’s gone.
Three nights.
Three days left in the world I was raised to survive.
I turn back toward my hidden entrance with my heart in pieces and my future burning quietly beneath my skin.
And this time, the Moonbrand does not feel like a curse.
It feels like a countdown.
By the time I reached my wing, my hands had stopped feeling like they belonged to me.
The world felt too sharp after the glass corridor—the bite of the stone beneath my slippers, the draft in the seams of the walls, the bite of the Moonbrand beating quietly under my collarbone like a second, secret heart. Three nights. The number marched with my footfalls: three, three, three.
I slipped into the narrow servants’ passage and out again behind the faded tapestry near my room, listening the way I had learned to listen all my life. For raised voices. For guards. For the particular weighted silence that meant my father was near.
Nothing. Only the soft, distant clatter of dishes in the lower halls and the low murmur of a hearth in some other room.
I eased my door open, already exhausted, already tasting the relief of solitude—
And froze.
Someone stood at my window.
For a moment my body didn’t recognize him. Just a tall, dark figure outlined in molten amber light from my hearth, hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but controlled. Then he turned his head slightly, profile catching the glow.
Dorian.
My throat closed.
“You shouldn’t be out after dark,” he said mildly, as if continuing a conversation we had never started. He didn’t sound surprised to see me. That rattled me more than anything else. “People might begin to talk.”
My fingers tightened around the door handle until it creaked. “You shouldn’t be in my room.”
He turned the rest of the way then, fully facing me. His gaze skimmed over my face, my hair, the cloak I had forgotten to straighten. The faint flush still burning high in my cheeks from cold and fear.
He smiled a little. “Soon, that distinction won’t matter.”
The fire behind him threw long shadows across the small space. It was too warm in here now, the air thick with smoke and some faint, unfamiliar spice. My sanctuary smelled like him.
“How did you get in?” I asked. My voice came out steady, at least. It was one of the few things I had.
“Your father.” He said it simply, no triumph, just fact. “I requested the right to pay you a visit after dinner. He agreed.”
Of course he did.
Dorian’s gaze softened, or the illusion of softening. “I knocked,” he added. “You must not have heard.”
Of course I hadn’t. The passage walls were thick; my ears were still ringing with visions and vows.
I forced my hand to leave the handle and moved into the room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. That he shouldn’t be here, in the one space that had ever been mine—even when it had been a cage.
“You look pale,” he observed. “Or perhaps it’s just the light.”
“I’m tired.” I moved toward the small table near my bed because my body needed to be doing something, anything, that wasn’t standing there waiting for him to choose the next move. “The seamstresses were here all day.”
“They told me.” He watched me with a familiarity he had not earned. “Mother is pleased. That is not an easy feat.”
A ridiculous part of me—the part that had been raised to search for approval like scraps under a table—registered that and tucked it away like a half-starved creature. I hated that part. I hated that he could feed it with so little effort.
“Tomorrow will be busy as well,” he went on. “There will be more fittings, and my mother wants to speak with you about the guest list. She’s very particular about these things.”
“I gathered,” I said.
His smile curved. “Were you afraid of her?”
I met his eyes. “She seems afraid of very little.”
“You’d be surprised,” he replied. “Even lions fear loss.”
That sounded like something he thought was profound. I said nothing.
He pushed away from the window and crossed the room with unhurried steps, the way a man might approach a skittish animal he fully expected to break eventually. When he stopped in front of me, he was close enough that I did not have to look up much to see his eyes.
“You’re angry with me,” he said.
“I’m tired,” I repeated.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” His gaze searched my face, too intent. “If you are angry, you should say so. Better that than letting it ferment into something inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient,” I echoed faintly.
“For us,” he said. “For our future.”
Our future.
The words slotted into place like a lock.
“I didn’t agree to this,” I said quietly.
His brows lifted a fraction. “You did,” he reminded me. “In the salon, in front of both our houses. You accepted my hand. My mother heard it. Your father witnessed it.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I whispered.
“Everyone always has a choice.” His tone remained mild, but something colder glinted underneath. “Simply not always one they like.”
My fingers curled in my skirts. “What would you have had me do? Refuse you? Humiliate both our families in front of the court?”
“No.” He reached out and gently smoothed a piece of hair back from my face, like he had at the last meeting. I flinched, but he acted as though he didn’t notice. “I would have had you understand that what is happening now is… inevitable. Fighting it only hurts you.”
“I thought you said everyone has a choice,” I said.
“And I chose you,” he replied. “That’s done. The sooner you stop scrambling against the current, the less you’ll drown yourself in the process.”
Anger rose sharp and hot in my chest, but I swallowed it down until it sat bitter at the back of my tongue. Three nights, I reminded myself. Three nights. If I pushed him now, if I frightened him into watching closer, I could take that from myself.
He studied me a moment longer, then dropped his hand.
“I wanted to be sure you understood,” he said. “What was decided today was not a rumor. Not a hope. Not a wild suggestion on my part. It is formal. It is binding. You are no longer merely the duke’s daughter. You are a Halewyne bride.”
I thought of Emerson’s arms around me in the glass corridor. We leave in three nights. The words steadied me like a hand on my spine.
“Then why are you telling me this now?” I asked. “You could have waited until morning. Or not told me at all.”
“Because,” he said, stepping back toward the window, “I prefer my things informed.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Your things.
He watched something flicker across my face and smiled, almost kindly.
“You are frightened,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You’ve been hidden. Controlled. You’re not used to anyone choosing you for yourself.”
“You don’t know me,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
“I know enough,” he said. “And I will know more. That’s how this works.”
He turned toward the window again, glancing out at the dark courtyard below as if he had already dismissed the conversation from his mind.
“I’ll let you sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow is important.”
“That’s generous,” I said, before I could stop myself.
He looked back, head tipping slightly. “You’re sharper when you’re tired,” he observed. “I like it.” His smile returned, easy and confident. “Sleep, Alora. Dream of silk instead of shadows. They’ll fit better in the life you’re walking into.”
He moved to the door. His hand hovered on the handle.
“Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “and next time you feel restless enough to wander the house after midnight… come find me first. Your father would be… unsettled to learn you’re developing habits of secrecy.”
The blood froze in my veins.
He looked over his shoulder, saw it, and his smile deepened a degree.
“Goodnight,” he said, and left.
The latch clicked.
Silence collapsed in on itself.
My legs went out from under me.
I sat where I dropped, back pressed to the door, hands fisted in my skirts. My breath came in short, panicked bursts. I tried to slow it, counting my inhales, my exhales. One, two, three. Three nights. Three breaths. Three chances.
The fire crackled merrily, indifferent.
My room felt smaller than it ever had before. Not the safe, lonely box I had learned to survive in, but something already closing its jaws around me. It smelled like Dorian’s cologne and new smoke and the faintest trace of the outside air he’d brought in with him.
I hated that smell.
I sat there until the fire burned down and my pulse finally began to let go of my throat. Only then did I push myself up and drag my body to bed, where sleep stalked me in faltering snatches—broken by flashes of glass and blood and Dorian’s fingers smoothing hair from my face like he was rearranging a painting he already owned.