Sophie's POV
The torches outside her chamber burned late into the night, their orange glow seeping through the cracks beneath the door. Two guards still stood outside, their shadows long and unmoving.
Sophie paced the chamber like a caged bird. Every creak of the floorboards under her slippers reminded her of Alexander's warning, of Draven's eyes, of the prophecy carved into her skin like invisible ink.
She couldn't sit still. Not when the answers were only halls away.
"Stop walking before you wear a hole in the floor," Eira muttered, pulling the curtains shut tighter. Her voice trembled beneath the sharpness.
Sophie turned on her. "I can't. Eira, if we don't move now, Draven will. He's already circling. And Alexander—he's locking me down like I'm some prisoner."
"You are a prisoner!" Eira hissed, her voice breaking with fear. "Can't you see? These guards aren't here to protect you—they're here to make sure you don't step out of line again."
Sophie stopped pacing. Her eyes narrowed, determination hardening her features. "Then we'll step out of line anyway."
Eira paled. "Sophie—"
But Sophie was already moving to the desk, pulling parchment and a quill. Her hands trembled as she scribbled out a quick note, folding it tightly.
"What are you doing?"
"Testing them." Sophie pressed the note into Eira's hand. "You'll go out with the laundry. Drop this in the courtyard—where someone will find it. If the guards stop you, we'll know they're not just watching me. They're watching us."
Eira's eyes widened in horror. "That's madness. If they catch me—"
"They won't. You're invisible to them. Just a servant. If anyone can slip past their notice, it's you."
Eira clutched the note as though it burned. "And if you're wrong?"
Sophie met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "Then we'll know how tight the bars of this cage really are."
The plan unfolded in quiet, nervous steps. Eira carried the laundry basket against her hip, her head bowed. Sophie lingered by the chamber door, her heart pounding so loud she thought it would give them both away.
Through the crack, she saw the guards straighten as Eira approached.
One stepped forward. "Where are you going?"
Eira's voice came out small, trembling. "Laundry for the servants' wing, my lord."
The guard's eyes narrowed. He reached into the basket. Sophie's heart slammed into her throat—he sifted through the folded linens, close, too close.
But then he grunted, dismissing her with a flick of his hand. "Be quick."
Eira bowed low and shuffled past. Sophie sagged against the door, her knees weak with relief.
Minutes stretched like hours until Eira returned, her face pale but triumphant. "It's done. The note is gone."
Sophie grabbed her friend's hands, squeezing tight. "Then we wait. If there's any reaction at all—"
The words died on her lips.
Because at that moment, the lock on the door clicked.
The handle turned.
Both women froze, terror crawling up their spines.
The door swung open, and in the torchlight stood not a servant, not a guard—
—but Alexander himself.
His gaze swept over the room, sharp as a blade, landing first on Sophie, then on Eira still clutching the empty basket.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Alexander stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The sound of the latch sliding home echoed like a death knell.
"Sophie," he said softly, dangerously. "Tell me—what game are you playing now?"