1. Laia

1

LAIA

T he cold stone beneath me offers no comfort; its rough surface digs into my bruised flesh. I can’t move. Each breath sends sharp pain through my ribs, and I taste blood on my lips. The courtyard feels vast and empty, but Eryndor’s presence lingers like a shadow.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of his cruel smile as he held the dagger to Liora’s throat. My own voice, pleading, cracking under desperation.

"Kill her," he commanded, the words as cold as the blade he pressed into my hand.

"No," I whispered, the knife trembling in my grip. "I can’t."

His eyes narrowed, a predator scenting weakness. "You will."

"I won’t," I said, louder this time. Defiance tasted bitter on my tongue.

Eryndor’s hand moved with a speed that defied reason. One moment Liora stood before me, tears streaming down her face; the next, she lay crumpled on the ground, her life draining away with each heartbeat.

"See what you made me do?" His voice dripped with false sorrow.

The memory twists inside me like a knife of its own. Liora’s lifeless eyes haunt me, accusing and empty. My tears mix with the dirt beneath me, silent sobs wracking my body.

I force myself to stand, each movement a battle against my own battered body. If I stay outside, I’ll freeze to death.

My legs shake as I push off the cold stone, my breath hissing through clenched teeth. Every step toward my quarters feels like wading through molasses, slow and agonizing.

The familiar path twists before me, and I stumble through it on autopilot. Each painful drag of my feet echoes in the silent corridors. Where is everyone? The estate never lies this still, this lifeless.

I reach my quarters and pause, hand on the wooden door. Silence presses in from all sides, thick and unsettling. No murmurs of servants. No clatter of weapons from the guards. Nothing but a heavy, oppressive quiet.

Pushing open the door, I step inside and scan the room. Empty. Just like the hallways.

My heart races as I realize what this means. An opportunity. A sliver of a chance.

I grab a cloak from my bed and wrap it around my shoulders, its rough fabric scratching against my bruised skin. With one last glance at the room that’s been both prison and refuge, I slip back into the hallway.

The estate remains eerily deserted as I make my way toward the outer gates. My footsteps quicken, urgency propelling me forward. I half expect Eryndor to appear from the shadows, his cruel smile ready to crush this fleeting hope.

But he doesn’t.

Reaching the gates, I find them unguarded and slightly ajar. My pulse pounds in my ears as I push them open wider and slip through.

For the first time in years, I stepped out of the estate. My feet moved on instinct.

I run, my blood rushing to my feet and pushing me to the limits. Despite the pain wracking my body, I don’t stop. This is my only chance.

The cold night air of Protheka's wilds bit into my skin as I sped up, each breath coming in ragged gasps. My lungs burn, and the pain is sharp and unforgiving. The dense foliage closes in around me, branches clawing at my coat like desperate hands.

I have no particular direction, only the desperate need to escape. The wind howls behind me, a predator on my heels, each gust carrying phantom whispers of Eryndor’s cruel laughter. Every shadow feels like his presence, looming, waiting to drag me back into darkness.

My vision blurs, the edges of the world fading as dizziness threatens to take me. My body protests—starved, exhausted, and trembling with fear—but I push on. The one thought pulsing in my mind: freedom.

I stumble and catch myself on a nearby tree, its bark rough against my palm. The forest stretches out before me like a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. I force myself to move again, every step a battle against the weariness threatening to pull me under.

My cloak snags on a tree, and it’s beyond damaged. Without it, the freezing air wraps around me, chilling me to the bone. As my heart pounds against my rib cage, a frantic rhythm that drowns out the silence of the night, I imagine Eryndor's eyes watching, waiting for the moment I falter.

But I won't give him that satisfaction. Not now that I’ve tasted freedom. The outside. I look back, and I still see the faraway lights of the estate.

Not enough. I need to move faster before they realize I’m free.

I continue, and the forest thickens further, branches intertwining overhead like a cage of darkened bones. The path grows uneven, each step more treacherous than the last. I push forward, driven by the hope that somewhere ahead lies safety. I can barely see, but thanks to moonlight, it chases some of the shadows away.

A sharp pain shoots through my ankle as I trip over a root and fall hard onto the ground. For a moment, I lie there, gasping for breath and fighting back tears of frustration and the agonizing pain of my injuries worsening.

"No," I whisper to myself. "Not here."

Suddenly, the wind feels like Eryndor’s cold hands clamping down on my shoulders like iron. I shudder, feeling the phantom weight of his touch even now. The memory of his cruel smile, his voice dripping with malice as he whispered promises of pain, invades my mind. I try to shake it off, but the images flash violently before me—the broken bodies of my friends, their lifeless eyes staring at me, haunted and accusing.

"No," I murmur to myself. "Focus."

I crawl, trying to push myself up. I must run away if it’s the last thing I do.

"Get up," I whisper through gritted teeth. I would rather brave these treacherous woods than go back to Eryndor.

I scrambled back to my feet, blood smeared down my leg. Each step sends jolts of agony through my body, but I push on. The wilds felt like a suffocating embrace as I threaded deeper.

I can’t stop. Not now, not ever.

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