The Great Hall of Silverwood Castle was not merely warm; it was stifling, a suffocating embrace of perfumed bodies, roasting venison, and the cloying, heavy scent of thousand-bloom lilies that draped every pillar. To the three hundred nobles gathering under the vaulted ceiling, the heat was a sign of festive exuberance. To Princess Isolde, it felt like the breath of a beast that had already swallowed her whole.

She sat upon the dais, her spine rigid against the carved wood of her chair. Her gown, a masterwork of azure silk and crushed velvet commissioned specifically for this night, felt less like a garment and more like a ceremonial shroud. It was heavy, encrusted with enough pearls to feed a village for a year, and the corset beneath it was laced so tight that every breath was a shallow, calculated effort.

"Smile, my love," a voice murmured beside her. "They are cheering for you."

Isolde turned her head slowly. Duke Valerian sat to her right, occupying the seat that should have belonged to her father, the King, had he not been "indisposed" with grief. Valerian was undeniably beautiful. With his high cheekbones, raven-dark hair that fell in perfect waves, and eyes the color of polished obsidian, he was the hero of every ballad sung in the kingdom.

He reached out and took her hand. His fingers were long, elegant, and terrifyingly strong. As he raised her gloved hand to his lips, Isolde had to fight a visceral, physical urge to recoil. His touch didn't feel like flesh; it felt like cold marble, like the statues in the royal crypt.

"I am smiling, my Duke," she replied, her voice light and airy, a perfect imitation of the vapid girl he believed her to be. "I am overwhelmed by their love."

Valerian’s dark eyes bored into hers, searching for a crack in the porcelain mask. "As you should be. You are the jewel of the North, Isolde. And soon, I will be the setting that holds you safe."

Safe. The word tasted like ash.

She looked out at the crowd. They were cheering, raising golden goblets in toasts to the happy couple. They saw a fairy tale: the grieving princess, rescued from sorrow by the King’s most loyal advisor. They didn't see the viper coiled around the throne. They didn't know that the wine they drank was bought with coin diverted from the northern garrisons. And they certainly didn't know that the man sitting beside her, playing the role of the doting fiancé, was the same man who had poisoned her brother, Prince Alaric, not three moons ago.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. Alaric, laughing in the gardens, his face flushed with life. And then Alaric, pale and convulsing in his bed, the physicians helpless, muttering about a "burst heart." Only Isolde had seen the ledger Valerian had carelessly left open in the council chamber weeks prior. Only she knew about the shipment of Wolf’s Bane.

“Don’t trust Valerian’s smiles, little sister,” Alaric had whispered to her once, pulling a leaf from her hair. “He is the snake in our garden. He waits for the frost to kill the flowers, so he can inherit the earth.”

"Is something wrong, Princess?" Valerian’s voice dropped an octave, the edge of steel surfacing beneath the velvet. "You’re trembling."

Isolde forced her hand to remain still in his grip. She widened her eyes, projecting an image of innocent frailty. "It is just the excitement, my lord. And the heat. I fear I am feeling a trifle faint."

Valerian studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied with her weakness. He stood, pulling her up with him. The crowd fell silent.

"My lords! My ladies!" his voice boomed, charismatic and commanding. "My betrothed is overcome by the joy of the evening. Let us allow her to retire, so she may rest for the... festivities... that await us."

Laughter rippled through the hall, bawdy and knowing. Isolde curtsied, a movement she had practiced until it was muscle memory.

"Goodnight, my Duke," she whispered.

"Sleep well, Isolde," he said, leaning in close. His breath ghosted over her ear. "I have doubled the guard on your corridor. For your protection, of course. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you before the wedding."

It was a threat, plain and simple. I own you. There is no escape.

Isolde turned and walked away, her head high, the heavy train of her dress hissing over the stone floor like a serpent following in her wake.

The walk to her chambers was an eternity. The castle, usually her home, had transformed into a labyrinth of enemies. Every guard she passed wore the King’s livery, but she knew they answered to Valerian now. They watched her with eyes that were too bold, too assessing.

When she finally reached the heavy oak doors of her suite, she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting.

"But, Your Highness," the eldest protested, "who will unlace your gown? Who will brush your hair?"

"I wish to be alone," Isolde said, injecting a note of petulant grief into her voice. "I wish to pray to my brother’s spirit. Leave me."

The mention of the dead Prince silenced them. They bowed and retreated.

Isolde slipped inside and threw the heavy iron bolt. Only then did she allow the mask to fall. The vapid smile vanished, replaced by a look of grim, desperate determination. She leaned against the door, gasping for air, her hands clawing at the pearl necklace until the clasp snapped. She tore the jewels from her throat and threw them onto the vanity table. They clattered loudly, a sharp rebuke to the silence.

She moved to the tall, arched window and threw open the shutters.

Outside, the night was wild. A storm was brewing over the jagged peaks to the north, the wind howling around the stone towers of Silverwood. Rain lashed against the sill, cold and sharp. It was perfect. The noise of the storm would mask the sounds of a struggle.

If he came.

Isolde paced the room, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had taken a risk that terrified her to her very soul. Through a trusted kitchen maid—the only servant she dared speak to—she had sent a message and a heavy purse of gold to the seediest tavern in the lower city. The instructions had been vague, the location specific, and the target infamous.

Gareth. The Broken Sword.

She had never met him. She knew only the whispers. That he was a disgraced knight. That he was a mercenary who would kill his own mother for the right price. That he was a monster.

I need a monster, she told herself, her hands trembling as she poured a goblet of water. To fight a devil like Valerian, I need a monster.

She checked the hourglass on the mantelpiece. The sand was running out. Midnight was approaching.

What if he didn't come? What if he had taken the gold and laughed? Or worse, what if he had gone straight to Valerian to sell her out? If the Duke walked through that door instead of the mercenary, her life was effectively over.

A sudden gust of wind blew out the candles in the wall sconces, plunging the room into semi-darkness, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth and the flashes of lightning outside.

Isolde froze. The wind had changed. It wasn't blowing in anymore. The air in the room felt... occupied.

She turned slowly toward the balcony.

A shadow detached itself from the stone archway. It was huge, filling the opening, blocking out the storm. A man stepped into her room. He moved with a silent, predatory grace that belied his size. He was soaked to the skin, water dripping from a heavy, battered leather cloak.

Lightning flashed, illuminating him for a split second. Isolde suppressed a gasp.

He was terrifying. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and armed to the teeth. A longsword was strapped to his back, and a dagger rested at his hip. But it was his face that held her gaze. It was a hard face, all sharp angles and rough stubble, marred by a thin, jagged white scar that cut through his left eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. His eyes were cold, cynical, and devoid of any deference.

"You're late," Isolde said. Her voice trembled, ruining the commanding tone she had aimed for.

The man stepped closer, bringing with him the smell of rain, ozone, and old leather. He looked around the opulent room, his lip curling in a sneer.

"The guards were more attentive than I was led to believe," he said. His voice was a low gravelly rasp, like stones grinding together. "Your 'Duke' keeps you on a short leash, Princess."

"I paid you for a service, not for your commentary," she snapped, backing away until her legs hit the edge of her bed.

Gareth stopped in the center of the room, the water from his cloak pooling on her expensive rug. He looked at her—really looked at her—taking in the disheveled hair, the pale face, and the heavy, restrictive gown.

"You paid me for a kidnapping," he corrected. "Though looking at you, it seems you've already done half the work of terrifying yourself."

"I am not terrified," she lied.

"You're shaking so hard I can hear your jewelry rattling," he pointed out dryly. He unclasped his cloak and let it drop to the floor with a heavy, wet thud. Beneath it, he wore worn chainmail and dark leather. He looked like a weapon that had seen too much use.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Once we start this, there is no going back. The moment the alarm is raised, you are no longer a princess. You are baggage."

"I am aware of the stakes," Isolde said, lifting her chin. "And I am not baggage. I am the one who is saving this kingdom."

He laughed, a short, harsh bark devoid of humor. "Right. Save the kingdom. Just try not to trip over your own dress while you're doing it."

He moved toward her, and the reality of what she had asked for crashed down on her. She had hired a strange, dangerous man to manhandle her, to drag her into the night.

"Wait," she said, her breath hitching.

He stopped, his hand hovering near his dagger. "Cold feet, Highness? If I walk out that door alone, I keep the gold."

"No," she whispered. She reached out and grabbed a heavy silver pitcher from the table. Her hands were shaking, but her grip was firm. "It has to look real. Valerian... he is suspicious. If there is no struggle, he will know I went willingly. He will hunt me as a traitor, not a victim."

Gareth raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest sparking in his dead eyes. "You want me to rough you up?"

"I want you to make a mess," she said.

She hurled the silver pitcher at a mirror on the wall. It shattered with a deafening crash, shards of glass raining down onto the floor.

Gareth smirked. It was a dangerous, sharp expression. "Finally. A language I speak."

He drew his dagger and, in one fluid motion, slashed the expensive tapestries hanging by the bed. Then he kicked over the heavy oak table, sending books and candles flying. The noise was tremendous.

"Scream," he ordered, moving toward her again.

Isolde took a breath, thinking of Valerian’s cold hand, of Alaric’s dead eyes, of the cage that had been closing around her for months. She didn't have to act. The terror and the rage were real.

She screamed. It was a piercing, blood-curdling sound that echoed off the stone walls, a sound of pure desperation.

"Good," Gareth grunted. He grabbed her arm. His grip was not gentle; it was iron-hard, bruising her skin through the silk. He spun her around, pressing the cold flat of his blade against her neck, just in case anyone entered before they were gone. "Now, the window."

"Open in the name of the King!"

The shout came from the hallway, accompanied by the heavy pounding of armored fists on the door. Valerian’s doubled guard. They were faster than she had expected.

"Time's up," Gareth growled.

He hauled her toward the balcony. Isolde stumbled, her heavy dress tangling in her legs, but he didn't slow down. He practically threw her over the stone railing.

"Jump!"

"Are you mad?" she cried, looking down at the dizzying drop into the darkness.

The door to her chambers splintered with a massive crash. Through the rain-lashed balcony doors, Isolde saw the room fill with light as guards poured in, swords drawn.

"There!" one of them shouted, pointing at the balcony. "He has her!"

Gareth didn't wait for her permission. He sheathed his dagger, grabbed her around the waist with one massive arm, and stepped up onto the railing.

"Hold your breath, Princess," he whispered against her ear.

And then, as the guards rushed the balcony, Gareth kicked off the stone, launching them both into the roaring, empty night.