The Throne Room of the Citadel was an expanse of oppressive grandeur, but today it felt more like a cage for a pacing tiger. Prince Alaric was not a man accustomed to being denied, nor was he accustomed to waiting. To him, the world was a map of things he already owned; it was simply a matter of when he chose to collect them.
The six Imperial Guards stood in a jagged line before the dais, their armor dusty and their faces etched with the exhaustion of a thirty-hour search. They had combed the slums, the riverbanks, and the surrounding forests, yet they had returned with nothing but excuses.
"Fools," Alaric hissed, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous edge. He stepped down from the dais, his boots clicking with terrifying precision on the marble. "I sent you to find one girl. Not an army. A peasant girl in a threadbare dress."
"Your Highness," the lead guard stammered, his eyes fixed on the floor. "We searched every hovel in the district. We questioned the Miller, the tanner, the weavers... no one said a thing that led us to her. It's as if she vanished into the very mud she was born in."
"Then dig her out of the mud!" Alaric roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling and making the guards flinch. "I do not pay you to bring me reports of your own incompetence! If she is not in my presence by sundown, I will find six men who can do their jobs, and I will find six gallows for the men who couldn't."
The guards trembled, their knuckles white as they gripped their spears. Alaric turned his back on them, his hands clasped tightly behind him. His obsession had moved past mere curiosity; it was now a matter of his ego. Marianne Freil had looked at him with eyes that didn't blink, and he could not rest until those eyes were lowered in submission.
The heavy, gilded doors at the far end of the hall groaned open. The Palace Butler, a man named Haman who had served the crown for forty years and seen many such tantrums, stepped inside. He did not look at the cowering guards; his gaze was fixed solely on the Prince.
"Your Highness," Haman said, bowing with practiced, stiff elegance.
"Unless you have her head or her hand in marriage, Haman, leave me," Alaric snapped without turning.
"I believe I have something better, Sire," Haman replied calmly. "There is a young woman at the main gate. She claims her name is Marianne Freil. She says she has come to accept your invitation to serve as a maid."
The silence that followed was absolute. Alaric froze. Slowly, a slow, predatory smirk spread across his face. He turned, his eyes bright with a triumphant, cruel light. He looked at the guards, who were visibly exhaling in relief.
"It seems," Alaric purred, "that the bird has flown into the cage of its own accord. She realized that the slums offer nothing but hunger, and the Prince offers the world." He adjusted the gold chain at his neck, his posture regaining its arrogant poise. "Usher her in. Immediately. I want her brought through the Great Hall so she can see exactly how small she is compared to the house she now serves."
Outside the massive iron gates, Marianne stood with her small bundle clutched to her chest. The morning sun was beginning to burn through the mist, turning the white stone of the palace into a blinding glare. She was centering herself, pulling the memories of General Marianne Freil to the surface. She was ready to step into the mouth of the beast.
The gates began to creak open, the heavy chains rattling like the bones of the dead. Marianne took a deep breath, her foot hovering over the threshold—
"MARIANNE! MARIANNE, STOP!"
The scream was frantic, high-pitched, and filled with a terror that broke Marianne's concentration. She spun around to see a woman stumbling up the steep, cobbled incline of the Palace Hill. It was Sarah, their neighbor, a woman who had often shared a crust of bread with Marianne's mother during the hardest winters.
Sarah's hair was wild, her apron torn, and she was gasping for air as if her lungs were on fire.
"Marianne! Thank the gods I caught you!" Sarah cried, collapsing against the stone wall near the gate, her chest heaving.
Marianne ran to her, her heart plummeting. "Sarah? What is it? What happened? Is it Maya?"
"Your mother..." Sarah wheezed, clutching Marianne's arm with a grip that left bruises. "She... she was at the well. She just... she went white and collapsed. She wouldn't wake up, Marianne. We had to carry her to the village physician's cellar. He says her heart is weary, that the years of toil have finally broken something inside."
Marianne felt the world tilt. The palace behind her—the revenge, the Prince, the long game of shadows—suddenly felt like a triviality, a dream she had forgotten. The image of her mother's tired, kind face flashed before her eyes. In the first life, she had been at the palace when her mother died alone. She had received a cold letter two weeks after the burial.
"Is she... is she alive?" Marianne asked, her voice trembling.
"She's breathing, but barely," Sarah sobbed. "She was calling for you. She kept whispering your name before she went under. You have to come, Marianne. Now."
The palace guards were now standing at the open gate, looking confused. One of them stepped forward, reaching out a hand. "The Prince is expecting you, girl. You can't leave now."
Marianne turned on the guard. For a second, the aura of the Great General flared—a look of such icy, murderous authority that the armored man actually recoiled.
"Step aside," she hissed, her voice a low, lethal vibration. "If you touch me, I will make sure the Prince is the least of your worries."
Without another word, Marianne turned her back on the Citadel. She didn't look at the white spires. She didn't think about Alaric's fury or the trap she had been about to set. She dropped her bundle of clothes in the dirt—it would only slow her down—and began to run.
She sprinted down the Palace Hill, her feet flying over the cobbles. Her heart was a drum of panic. Not again, she thought, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy. I will not let her die alone again. I changed the script to save us, and I will not lose her now.
Behind her, the gates of the palace stood wide open, a hollow mouth waiting for a meal that had escaped. Marianne didn't care. She was no longer a martyr or a maid. She was a daughter, and she was racing back to the only home that truly mattered, leaving the Prince of Aethelgard to rot in his own anticipation.