Maria's PoV
Calla's chambers felt suffocating despite their size.
Rich fabrics. Expensive furniture. Everything arranged with the kind of careful precision that came from years of noble training.
It all felt like a tomb.
I sat on the edge of her bed, still wrapped in Garrett's jacket. Underneath, I wore nothing. The blood had dried on my skin—sticky, cold, making me want to claw my flesh off just to feel clean again.
Calla moved through her wardrobe, pulling out clothes. A simple dress. Undergarments. A cloak.
"Here." She set them beside me. "Change. Please."
I stared at the clothes like they were written in a language I didn't understand.
My hands wouldn't move. My body wouldn't respond.
The image kept replaying behind my eyes—Daemon's face as he approached. The brothers circling like wolves. The moment I'd realized no one was coming to help.
Then Garrett. The axe. The blood.
A sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Then another.
Then I was wailing—ugly, broken sounds that came from somewhere deep inside where hope had lived and died tonight.
Calla's arms wrapped around me. She held me while I shattered, making soft sounds that might have been words or just noise meant to soothe.
"I know," she whispered. "I know."
But she didn't. She couldn't.
She hadn't been the one naked on the ground. Hadn't felt hands grabbing. Hadn't seen her own blood looking at her with hunger.
Still, I clung to her. Because she was all I had left.
***
Eventually, the sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths.
Exhaustion settled over me like a weighted blanket—crushing, inescapable.
Calla pulled back gently. "Let me help you dress."
I nodded mutely.
She was careful. Gentle. Treating me like I might break if she moved too quickly.
The undergarments first. Then the dress—plain brown wool, servant's clothing. She laced it with practiced efficiency.
The cloak last. Dark grey. Warm.
When she finished, I looked like any other common girl. Nothing special. Nothing worth noticing.
Maybe that was the point.
Calla sat beside me, taking my hands in hers.
"Maria." Her voice was soft but urgent. "I need you to listen to me."
I looked at her. Really looked.
Her eyes were red from crying. Her perfect hair was disheveled. For once, she looked less like a noble lady and more like... like a frightened girl.
"I'm leaving soon," she said. "Three months, maybe less if Father accelerates the wedding. Once I'm gone—" Her grip tightened. "—there's no one left to protect you."
The words sank in slowly. Like stones dropping through dark water.
"Mother will kill you," Calla continued. "Maybe not immediately. But she'll find a way. An accident. An illness. Something deniable."
She wasn't wrong. I'd seen it in the Countess's eyes tonight—pure, crystallized hatred.
"You need to leave," Calla said. "Soon. Before I'm gone and before Mother has time to plan."
I wanted to argue. To say I had nowhere to go, no money, no skills beyond cleaning and serving.
But the words died unspoken.
Because she was right.
Staying meant death. Slow or fast, but certain.
Silence stretched between us.
Then, quietly: "Is there... is there any way to save Garrett?"
Calla went very still.
"Maria—"
"He saved me." My voice cracked. "Those who were my brothers—who shared my blood—they didn't think twice before trying to violate me. But he came. He killed for me."
Tears burned my eyes again. "How can I turn my back on him?"
Calla was quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traced circles on the back of my hand—an absent gesture, something to do while she thought.
Finally, she sighed.
"I can arrange his escape."
Hope flared in my chest. "You can?"
"The guards are loyal to Father, but they're also greedy." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Enough coin in the right hands, and they'll look the other way for a few minutes. Maybe longer if I pay well enough."
She looked at me directly.
"But if I do this—if I help him escape—you need to go with him."
"What?"
"You heard me." Calla's expression was firm. "If Garrett escapes alone, Father will assume you helped. You'll be tortured for information, then killed. The only way you both survive is if you disappear together."
The implications crashed down like a collapsing building.
Leave. Forever. With a man I barely knew beyond tending his wounds and watching him practice in the dark.
But what was the alternative?
Stay and die?
"When?" I asked quietly.
"Tonight." Calla stood, moving to her desk. She pulled out a small pouch that clinked with coins. "The longer we wait, the more time Father has to increase security."
She pressed the pouch into my hands. "This should be enough to get you far from here. A different county.
Wait- go to north...
There is village, named Greyhollow you might be safe there."
"Calla—"
"Don't thank me." Her smile was sad. "Just... be safe. Be happy. Find a life that doesn't involve this cursed family."
She pulled me into one last embrace.
"Go," she whispered. "Before I change my mind."
***
The dungeons smelled of mold and old blood.
Stone walls wept with moisture. Torches sputtered in their brackets, casting shadows that danced like demons.
I moved through the corridors with steps that barely made sound—years of servant training making me nearly invisible even now.
The guards at the entrance were gone. Calla's coin had done its work.
I found his cell at the end of the deepest corridor.
Garrett sat against the far wall, arms chained above his head. His shirt was torn. Blood—fresh blood—ran from new wounds across his chest and arms.
They'd already started.
The door creaked as I pushed it open.
His head lifted. Eyes focusing on me through the darkness.
"Why are you here?" His voice was rough. Tired. "You should be in Calla's chambers. Safe."
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "Those who were my brothers didn't even think twice before trying to violate me."
My hands shook as I reached into my dress, pulling out the key Calla had given me. "Yet you came. You saved me."
I moved to his chains. Started working on the locks. "How can I turn my back on you?"
"Maria." His voice hardened. "Leave. Now. If they find you here—"
"They won't." The first lock clicked open. His left arm dropped. "The guards are paid off. We have maybe an hour."
"We?"
The second lock released. Both his arms were free now.
I looked at him. Really looked. At the man who'd killed for me. Who'd surrendered to torture rather than let me be punished too.
"Let's leave," I said quietly. "Together."
Garrett stared at me like I'd spoken in a foreign tongue.
"You don't know what you're saying." He stood slowly, joints cracking. "I'm a wanted man now. A murderer. Anyone seen with me will be considered an accomplice."
"I don't care."
"You should—"
"I DON'T CARE!" The words burst out louder than intended. I lowered my voice. "I have nothing left here. No family that wants me. No future that doesn't end in death." My throat tightened. "At least if I'm with you, I'll die free. On my own terms."
Silence pressed down between us.
Then, softly: "Please. Don't make me do this alone."
Something shifted in Garrett's expression. The stone facade cracked just slightly.
He sighed—a sound like mountains settling. "You're stubborn."
"I learned from watching you."
Despite everything, his lips quirked. Almost a smile. "Alright. But you follow my lead. No arguments. Understood?"
Relief flooded through me. "Understood."
***
Calla had drawn us a map.
Through the dungeons' back passages. Up through the old servants' tunnels that hadn't been used in decades. Out through a hidden exit in the eastern wall that opened into the forest.
We moved quickly. Quietly.
Garrett went first, checking each corner, each corridor. I followed in his shadow, heart hammering so hard I was sure someone would hear it.
We reached the eastern wall. The hidden door—barely visible, overgrown with vines—stood before us.
Freedom. Right there.
Garrett pushed it open. Fresh air rushed in. Cold and clean and smelling of pine.
Then—bells.
Loud. Insistent. Ringing from every tower.
The alarm.
"Run," Garrett said. "NOW!"
We ran.
Through the door. Into the forest. Branches whipping at our faces, roots trying to trip us, darkness pressing close on all sides.
Behind us—shouts. Dogs barking. The sound of pursuit gaining ground.
"They found out too fast," I gasped. "How—"
"Doesn't matter!" Garrett grabbed my hand, pulling me forward. "Just move!"
We burst through the tree line into a clearing.
And stopped.
Soldiers. Dozens of them. Surrounding us in a loose circle. Weapons drawn. Torches creating walls of light we couldn't cross.
Count Haroth stood at the center. His face was twisted with rage beyond reason.
Beside him—
A man I'd never seen before. Tall. Lean. Dressed in leather armor decorated with scales. His eyes were yellow. Reptilian.
"Tareh," Garrett breathed. "The Wyvern Tamer."
The man smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "Count Haroth has made me a generous offer."
He gestured, and from the darkness behind him—
Wings. Massive. Leathery. Blocking out stars.
A wyvern landed with earth-shaking force. Its scales gleamed black in torchlight. Its eyes—the same yellow as its tamer's—fixed on us with predatory intelligence.
Count Haroth's voice cut through the night.
"I want them." Each word dropped like stones. "Alive if possible. But if you can't manage that—" His smile was terrible. "—bring me bodies too destroyed to recognize. I want to make sure they suffered."
Tareh's grin widened. "As you wish."
The wyvern opened its jaws.
And roared.