The realization that the hunters were not scouring the earth for a foreign prince, but for a peasant girl," settled into Marianne's bones like a slow-creeping frost. She stood in the dust of the yard, watching the tail end of the Imperial capes flutter out of sight.
In her first life, she had been a moth drawn to Alaric's flame, believing the warmth was love when it was actually the heat of a furnace. This time, she wasn't the moth; she was the ash that would choke the fire. If she stayed in the slums, she was a target. If she fled, he would burn this village to find her. But if she entered the palace... she would be the dagger hidden in the heart of his home.
She would accept the offer. She would become a palace maid," the silent shadow in his chambers, and she would dismantle his life piece by piece until there was nothing left but the memory of her betrayal.
That evening, the air in the shack was thick with the smell of the pine wood Gerald was whittling by the hearth. The firelight played across his face, highlighting the noble curve of his brow and the quiet, almost domestic peace he seemed to find in her presence. It broke Marianne's heart to look at him. She knew that if she told him her plan, he would drop the wood and the knife, grab her by the shoulders, and refuse to let her walk into the lion's den.
She waited until the moon was high and Gerald had finally succumbed to exhaustion, draped awkwardly across the lumpy winged chair. His breathing was steady, his fingers curled loosely around the handle of his whittling knife even in sleep.
Marianne crept into the back room where her mother was mending a pair of Maya's stockings.
"Mother," Marianne whispered, kneeling beside her.
Elara looked up, her eyes tired but bright. "Marianne? Why aren't you asleep? You have a look about you, girl... the same look your father had before he went to the mines."
"I'm going to the palace tomorrow," Marianne said, her voice a flat, cold iron. "I'm going to accept Prince Alaric's offer to be a palace maid."
Elara's breath hitched. She dropped the stocking, her hands trembling. "But the boy... Gerald... he said the Prince was cruel. And you, you've been looking at that boy as if he were the sun and stars. Why would you leave him for that gilded monster on the hill?"
"Because if I don't go, the monster will come here," Marianne said, taking her mother's hands. She didn't tell her that Gerald was a prince; she didn't want to burden her mother with a secret that carried a death penalty. "I can send money home, Mother. Real gold. Maya will never have to cough in the damp again. You won't have to scrub lye until your skin bleeds. But you must promise me something."
"Anything, child," Elara whispered, a tear tracking through the lines on her face.
"Do not tell Gerald the truth when I leave. Tell him... tell him I decided to take a job in the next town over. Tell him I found work at a bakery, or a farm. Anything to keep him from following me to the Citadel."
"He'll know I'm lying, Marianne," Elara said sadly. "The way that boy looks... he sees more than you think."
"Then let him," Marianne replied.
Marianne did not sleep. She spent the hours of darkness preparing. She moved through the tiny shack like a wraith, packing a small bundle of her few belongings. She found a piece of charcoal and, on a scrap of parchment she had scavenged, she wrote a single sentence. She didn't sign it. She didn't need to.
Stay in the shadows until the sun sets on the eagle.
She tucked the note into the lining of Gerald's tunic while he slept. She lingered there for a moment, her hand hovering just inches from his chest. She watched the way his hair fell over his forehead, the vulnerability of his sleep, and the memory of him writing their names in the Book of Fate flashed through her mind.
I am doing this for us, Gerald, she thought. In the last life, you died trying to save me. In this life, I will destroy the man who killed us before he ever gets the chance.
She looked at her own hands. They were small, thin, and lacked the callouses of a warrior. But the soul inside them was a veteran of a thousand battles. She didn't need a sword to ruin Alaric. She needed access. She needed to be the one who poured his wine, the one who polished his boots, the one who knew every secret whisper that echoed through his halls.
The first grey light of dawn began to bleed through the cracks in the wall. Marianne stood by the door, her bundle slung over her shoulder. She looked at her mother, who was standing by the hearth, her face a mask of silent grief. She looked at Maya, still dreaming of a world that was kinder than the one they lived in.
And finally, she looked at Gerald.
He moved in his sleep, his brow furrowing as if he were having a nightmare. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the empty air where Marianne had been sitting just hours before.
"Marianne..." he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the lump in her throat down. She couldn't stay. If she stayed, she was just a peasant girl waiting for a tragedy. If she left, she was a weapon being aimed at the heart of an empire.
Without a sound, she stepped out into the biting morning air. The mist was heavy, clinging to her skin like a shroud. She didn't look back at the shack. She set her gaze on the white spires of the Citadel, which glittered like salt in the distance.
As she walked the long, winding path toward the palace gates, she felt the weight of her sixteen years drop away. Every step closer to Alaric was a step closer to her revenge. She wasn't going there to serve; she was going there to colonize his world with her presence until he couldn't breathe without her permission.
The guards at the main gate sneered as she approached, their spears crossing to block her path.
"State your business, slum-rat," one growled.
Marianne didn't flinch. She looked the guard in the eye with a coldness that made him shift his weight uncomfortably.
"My name is Marianne Freil," she said, her voice ringing out in the morning quiet. "The Prince invited me. Tell him his new maid has arrived."