The next three days blurred into a careful dance of survival and secrets.
Gerffron woke every morning to the same routine: Selfi with breakfast, Madam Vesper with another hour of torturous etiquette drills ("No, Your Grace, the consort bow must be exactly thirty degrees—any more and you look subservient, any less and you look arrogant"), and Lady Elowen appearing like a shadow to deliver fresh insults wrapped in motherly advice.
"Your posture is still that of a servant, boy. Try not to embarrass my daughter at the winter ball. The Crown Prince will be watching." Each word landed exactly where it was meant to, but Gerffron had stopped flinching. He smiled instead. Small. Polite. Empty. The same smile he had perfected in school hallways back in India when Birsha would corner him after class.
Inside, though, he was counting. Every slight. Every narrowed amber glance. Every time Lady Elowen mentioned how "the Cliff blood is thin." He wrote them all down in his hidden ledger each night, pages filling with tiny, coded lines only he could read. Evidence. Always evidence.
But the real hours—the ones that mattered—happened after midnight.
The first night after Gorgina's return he had slipped out again, heart hammering so loud he was sure the guards would hear. The hidden gate opened without protest this time. He left two water skins, a thicker blanket he had stolen from the linen closet, and a small pot of healing salve Selfi kept in the east-wing stores. When he whispered "Styrmir?" through the bars, the answer came faster.
"…Here."
The voice was still cracked, but stronger. Gerffron's chest tightened. "I brought salve. For… whatever they did. Rub it on the worst spots. I'll bring food again tomorrow."
A pause. Then a soft, almost disbelieving huff. "Why?"
Gerffron stared at the iron bars. Why? Because he knew what it felt like to be locked away and forgotten. Because the computer-lab night had taught him that silence killed faster than any blade. Because in this second life, he had promised himself he would never again be the one who looked away.
"Because no one deserves to rot alone," he answered. "Eat. Heal. I'll come back."
He left before the boy could reply. But the next night, the blanket was folded neatly inside the window, and a small pebble sat on top of it like a thank-you note. Gerffron smiled in the dark and added another bundle—bread, dried meat, a sliver of cheese.
By the third night they were talking. Short sentences at first. Then longer.
"My name... is Gerffron." Well… it is now.
"Styrmir Bremen."
"Bremen? Like the old duke?"
A bitter laugh from inside. "The previous one. Illegitimate. They threw me down here when I was eight. Said I was dead to the world. Mother sold me to the Wadees to hide the shame."
Gerffron's blood ran cold.
"I'm getting you out," Gerffron whispered one night, fingers curled around the bars. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. I need time to plan. Can you walk if I help you?"
Silence. Then, quieter: "I think so. Legs are… weak. But I remember how."
That was the night Gerffron started teaching him small things through the bars. How to breathe through pain. How to stretch cramped muscles without making noise. Simple things he had learned in physiotherapy after the… incident in school. Styrmir listened like a man dying of thirst. And every time Gerffron left, he felt a little less like the scared boy who had died under a truck and a little more like someone who could actually change things.
During the day, he played the perfect consort.
Gorgina watched him constantly now. At breakfast, she would appear without warning, leaning in the doorway with that unreadable golden stare while he practised the consort bow for the hundredth time. At dinner, she asked questions that felt like tests. "Tell me about your childhood, Gerffron. Your mother collected siblings the way others collect jewels, didn't she?"
He answered carefully, weaving truth and lies until even he wasn't sure where one ended, and the other began. She seemed to like it. Sometimes she would reach out and trace the gold ring on his finger, thumb pressing just hard enough to remind him who owned it.
The hug from the first night hadn't repeated, but the tension between them had shifted. It wasn't kindness. It was… curiosity. Like she was trying to decide whether to crush him or keep him as a pet. Gerffron hated how familiar it felt. The same way Birsha used to toy with him before delivering the final blow.
On the fourth morning Lady Elowen cornered him in the rose garden while he was pretending to read.
"You've been sneaking out at night," she said without preamble. Her riding crop tapped against her palm. "Don't bother denying it. The stable boy saw you near the old fountain."
Gerffron closed the book slowly. "I like the night air, my lady. It clears the head."
She stepped closer. The scent of roses on her made his stomach turn. "My daughter is starting to notice you, boy. She asked me yesterday if you seemed… happy. Happy." She spat the word like poison. "A Wadee consort does not need to be happy. He needs to be useful. Produce an heir when the time comes, smile at balls, and stay out of the west wing. Especially the lower levels."
The lower levels. Gerffron kept his face blank, but his pulse roared. The dungeon was under the west wing. She knew. Of course, she knew.
"I understand," he said softly.
Lady Elowen's eyes narrowed. "Do you? Because if I find out you're meddling where you don't belong, I will personally see to it that you join your precious half-siblings scrubbing floors for the rest of your short, pathetic life. And don't think Gorgina will stop me. She listens to me more than you know."
She turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The Crown Prince Teivel will be attending the winter ball. He has… taken an interest in my daughter lately. You will be charming. You will be invisible. Or I will make sure the next terrace you visit has no railing."
The threat landed like a slap. Gerffron bowed. "As you wish."
That night, he visited Styrmir earlier than usual, hands shaking as he passed fresh bread through the bars.
"They know I've been coming," he whispered. "Lady Elowen threatened me today. We have to be more careful."
A rustle from inside. Then Styrmir's voice was clearer than it had been a week ago. "You should stop. If they catch you—"
"I'm not stopping." Gerffron's voice came out fiercer than he intended. "I almost died once because I let people like them win. Not again. Just… hold on a little longer. I'm learning the patrols. I'm making a map. I'll get you out before the ball. I promise."
Silence stretched. Then a soft sound—almost a laugh. "You're either the bravest idiot I've ever met… or the kindest. Maybe both."
Gerffron felt heat creep up his neck. He hadn't been called kind in two lifetimes. "Get some sleep, Styrmir. Tomorrow I'll bring something for your legs. There's an old healer's book in the library. I'll copy the exercises."
He left the garden with his mind spinning. The winter ball was three weeks away. The Crown Prince—Teivel Scougall, the crown prince—would be there. Gorgina would be expected to smile at him. And somewhere beneath the villa, a boy who was supposed to be dead was starting to believe in escape because of him.
Back in his rooms, he added another page to the ledger. Lady Elowen's threat. The Crown Prince's name. The exact patrol times he had memorised. Then he stood at the window and watched the moon again. Same moon. Same hide-and-seek game.
But tonight the game felt different.
He touched the black rose in the vase—petals now fully open, thorns still sharp. Gorgina had sent a fresh one yesterday with a note that simply read: For the consort who quotes poetry about thorns.
He smiled at it. Small. Sharp. Dangerous.
Let them watch. Let them threaten. Let them think he was still the broken boy they had bought with gold and a royal decree.
Because while they were busy deciding how long to keep their pretty little house-husband, Gerffron was learning every crack in their perfect walls.
And soon—very soon—he would bring the whole damn house down.
He slipped the dagger from his boot and tested its edge with his thumb. A tiny drop of blood welled up. He watched it run down the blade like a promise.
Roses had thorns.
And he was done being the one who bled.