Chapter 6: Beneath the Sleeping Crown
Lyria's POV
For some weird reason, Jacinta and my stepmother had let me go after Jacinta's words. I thought they would have more to say, but they didn't. They just dismissed me.
I walked the path back to my room with measured steps, spine straight despite the dull throb pulsing beneath my skin. Each movement tugged faintly at the healing wounds across my back, but there was no fresh sting of reopened flesh.
For that alone, I was grateful.
Tonight had spared me new scars.
That was a rare mercy.
My chamber greeted me with familiar quiet — the narrow bed pressed against the wall, the small writing table cluttered with charcoal sketches and folded scraps of parchment, the single candle burned halfway down from earlier. I closed the door behind me softly.
I moved to the narrow window and observed. There were still people moving about now, so I had to wait.
Soon enough, everyone would be asleep, and that's when I'd be given the opportunity to move as discreetly as I wanted.
I waited for hours, listening for the distant murmur of other servants, the sound of doors closing, of feet moving.
Eventually, even the restless murmurs of late-night activity thinned into silence.
And only then did I move.
I stripped off the gown I had worn to the ball, peeling the stiff fabric carefully away from my back so it did not scrape the tender skin beneath the bandages. The perfume clinging to the material made my stomach twist — a reminder of chandeliers and velvet laughter and cruelty disguised as elegance. I folded it and set it aside without ceremony.
From the bottom of my wardrobe, I pulled free a pair of old trousers and a loose linen shirt. The clothes were worn thin and faded, but they allowed freedom of movement and quiet steps. I laced my boots over my feet, taking note of the opening at the mouth; I'd likely fix that when I came back. I tied my hair back tightly so it would not brush my neck or catch on anything.
Then I reached for a different mask.
Not the porcelain one I wore within the palace walls.
This one was darker, plain and unremarkable, designed to disappear rather than draw attention. I fastened it over my face and pulled a heavy cloak around my shoulders, lifting the hood so it shadowed my features completely.
I checked my reflection briefly in the small mirror by the table.
Good.
I crossed the room and knelt beside the bed, fingers finding the familiar loosened floorboard near the wall. I slid the bed aside just enough to expose the edge and pressed my fingers against the wood. One practiced strike of my knuckle loosened it.
The plank lifted easily.
A small concealed box lay hidden beneath.
My breath steadied as I pulled it out and opened it carefully. Inside sat a leather pouch, its weight reassuring in my palm. I loosened the drawstring and counted the coins quickly in the dim candlelight.
It was enough for at least two dosages of the herbs my mother needed.
Relief washed through me. I did not let myself linger on it. Hope was something that could be crushed far too easily in this castle.
I tied the pouch securely and fastened it against the inside of my trousers where it would remain hidden and close to my body. Then I returned the box to its place beneath the floor, lowered the plank back into position, and nudged the bed carefully into place until there was no sign it had been disturbed.
From the small drawer near my table, I retrieved a second pouch.
This one contained crushed masking herbs — bitter-smelling leaves and resin that dulled a wolf's ability to track scent. I rubbed a small amount between my palms and along the edge of my cloak, the sharp fragrance biting at my nose.
Satisfied, I extinguished the candle.
Darkness swallowed the room.
I opened the door slowly and slipped down the stairs, making sure to avoid the parts that creaked.
The palace lay hushed and still, the air cool and faintly echoing.
I reached the kitchen wing without incident. The great ovens were dark now, embers long cooled. Copper pots hung in neat rows, reflecting faint moonlight spilling through the narrow windows. I slipped through the back door quietly and into the night air.
The chill brushed my cheeks, refreshing after the stagnant warmth of the palace.
I moved swiftly along the garden paths, keeping close to the hedges and statues. The moonlight silvered the gravel beneath my boots, but the shadows were generous tonight. Crickets chirped softly, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
The abandoned fountain waited near the far edge of the garden — its cracked basin dry, vines crawling along its stone rim, moss creeping between fractured tiles. The royal family claimed it had simply fallen into disrepair.
They never mentioned where the funds meant for its restoration had gone.
That negligence had become my quiet blessing.
Behind the fountain, concealed by overgrown ivy and collapsed stone, yawned a narrow breach in the outer wall — just wide enough for a slim figure to slip through sideways. I crouched and passed through carefully, the rough stone brushing my cloak.
And just like that, I was beyond the palace grounds.
The city breathed differently at night.
Lanterns glowed in tavern windows, spilling amber light onto cobbled streets slick with spilled ale and rain residue. Laughter drifted from open doorways. Music pulsed faintly from pleasure houses further down the road. The sharp scent of smoke, oil, sweat, and spiced meat layered thickly in the air.
Figures moved through the streets in clusters and alone — gamblers weaving unsteadily, merchants closing late stalls, cloaked individuals slipping between alleys with practiced stealth. Thieves worked best when everyone assumed danger came from darkness rather than proximity. And since the kingdom had started going downhill, there were more of them — and beggars too.
I kept my head low and my pace steady. I made sure to blend in so as not to arouse suspicion.
I followed the curve of the streets, keeping to the edges where shadows pooled and lantern light weakened. My cloak concealed my frame, my hood hiding my face. The masking herbs dulled my scent until even a sharp nose would struggle to trace me clearly.
The pharmacy lay several streets away, nestled between a closed tailor's shop and a candle maker that operated through the night. Its lantern burned dim but steady — a quiet promise of safety for those who knew what to seek.
I approached cautiously and slipped inside.
Warmth enveloped me immediately.
The shop smelled of dried leaves, crushed bark, alcohol tinctures, and faint floral sweetness. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with labeled jars and sealed drawers. A small counter stood near the back, illuminated by a single oil lamp.
The apothecary looked up from his ledger.
Recognition flickered briefly in his eyes before his expression smoothed into professional neutrality.
"You're here. The usual?" he asked, and I nodded.
He nodded once and turned without further questions. From a locked cabinet beneath the counter, he retrieved two small wrapped bundles and placed them carefully on the wood.
He already knew what I wanted, and I knew that the bundles contained everything correctly.
I slid the pouch of coin across the counter.
He weighed it quickly in his palm, then inclined his head. "Alright."
"Thank you," I said softly.
I tucked the bundles securely into the inner pocket of my cloak and turned toward the door.
The moment I stepped back onto the street, the noise of the city surged around me again — laughter, footsteps, distant shouting, the clatter of hooves echoing faintly through stone corridors between buildings.
I angled left automatically, already calculating the safest route back. But I missed something I should not have. I should have looked where I was going after all.
I froze as a carriage barreled toward me, its wheels skidding dangerously on the uneven stones, the driver hauling desperately at the reins.
My eyes widened in shock as I stared at the carriage, frozen.