Elia shortens the world.
"Garden. Solar. Sept," she tells Rhaenys, gentle but firm. "That is your kingdom for now, my sun."
Rhaenys nods and does not argue. She reads louder these days. She laughs quieter.
I take the rest.
Pre-dawn is for numbers. Cool air. Fewer eyes. Boots move different when men are half asleep.
I leave the sill before first light and ride the thin draft along the corridor ceiling. Past the gallery. Down the service bend. I keep to the dark shadow near the beam. If anyone looks up, I am just a lost bird.
I'm not playing lost. I'm finding exits.
First chute I find by smell. Hot flour, mouse, a little damp. A linen drop behind the laundry room wall. The hinge is a hook; the door is a plank. It sticks unless you lift while you pull. Same trick as the garden door. I peck the corner to test weight. It swings just enough to show me what I want.
Could a child fit? Yes. Could a woman in pain? Maybe, with help. Could three? No. Don't lie to yourself. I thought myself.
Second chute is ash. Warm even this early. It opens behind the ovens, knee-high. Two steps from a water bucket that's almost always full. Good mask for scent. Bad if the oven dumps at the wrong time. I sit on the lip and count carts rolling past the kitchen door. One every eight breaths at breakfast. Slower after. Noted.
The third is the fat one. Trash and peelings and bones. It drops to a pit that smells terrible. Gate above it held by a warped latch. Rhaenys could wiggle under if the latch is up. If it's down, we'd need a hand. Whose? No idea over that.
Back up through the side hall.
I watch the guard change without being seen. Bored scratches. Cruel smiles at no one in particular. Honest today it's the man with the scar checks the bucket, then the bolt on the garden door, then the shadows. He sees nothing. That's on me.
I ride the heat line up the stair where cooks nap off-shift in chairs. A scullion snores. I learn the rhythm so his snort won't make me flinch when it matters.
At first light, I am on the sill like I never left. Rhaenys wakes and tells me her plan to draw the world's biggest "S." I nod like plans don't scare me.
Day is for pretending we live like normal people.
Night is for my plan never know it works.
Two nights later, I test the ash chute with weight. I drop a pebble wrapped in thread. It hits the pit at twelve. I count back up the corridor. If someone chases, that's twelve to reach the bend and six more to the barrel gap in the flour room. Eighteen heartbeats. I can do a lot in eighteen if panic doesn't eat the first ten.
"Why do I care this much?" I ask myself in the quiet. Because they're mine now. That's it. That's the whole essay.
The past flashes sometimes. Wet street. Siren. A room with one fork and no reason to wash it right away. I used to be good at being alone. I was proud of it. Stupid.
Now I count exits because two small people sleep a door away and I can hear their breathing when the hall is quiet.
The postern door takes a week to find.
Not the outer one by the river everyone knows. That one is watched. I need the ugly cousin.
I smell pitch first. Then rotted rope. The corridor beyond the pantry slopes, not enough to see, enough to feel in claws. At the end, a wall that looks like a wall. Bottom edge scuffed where boot heels have lied. I peck under the plank, find iron, and worry it until it gives the smallest sigh.
The door lifts if you pull up and toward you in one motion. Human wrists hate that angle. A desperate child could do it once. A tired mother could do it once if someone set the hinge loose.
Outside is a narrow stair that sinks toward the river. Moss. Slime. Rats that do not run, only waiting for it's next prey. The last ten steps are half-broken. Good. Bad feet avoid them. Better for ghosts.
At dawn I map the noises. Dockmen swear about day. A waterman talks to his boat like it's a wife that loves him anyway. No one looks up.
Back to the garden.
Elia watches Rhaenys trace letters. She doesn't ask where I go at night. Never been a person to wander, just a intelligent bird. That's all she could think of, nothing else.
When we pass each other in the hall once near the pantry, she pauses. "Little Velmir," she says softly, eyes quick and kind, "Don't wander off too long."
I wish I could.
Weeks teach me the guard timings like prayers I don't believe but won't risk forgetting.
Cruel swaps late once every six days. Bored begs a cup early when his stomach turns. Honest checks the same three bolts twice when rumors are loud. The white cloaks avoid the lower kitchens like it's beneath them. Good. Pride is an advantage, too.
I set contingency perches along the way. Beam above the ash flue. Hook by the laundry door. Cracked statue niche in the sept corridor where even the Seven seem bored. Places to park a child while I scout the next turn. Places to breathe without calling it fear.
No heroics. No delusions. No speeches to nobody.
Just hopes.
Garden to flour room through the barrel gap. Flour room to linen chute. Linen chute to ash flue if smoke helps. If not, flour room to pantry, pantry to postern, postern to river stair. If the postern sticks, plan B is the trash pit and a crawl under the grating that makes me want to scream but will work if we bring a rock to wedge the gate.
I practice pulling the postern in one smooth motion until my wing ache. I will not be the reason it sticks when it can't.
Rhaenys never asks why I check the hinge on the garden door twice each evening. She just watches and all curious. But never bothered me.
Before sleep, I sit on the sill and look at the city.
I could leave. I could try for air and forget what's behind.
I don't.
We are three exits and a bad plan away from "maybe." It's not comfort, but it's better than nothing.
I adjust the ribbon on the edge of the table for no reason.
Rhaenys whispers from the bed, half-asleep, "Stay, father."
He won't. I will.