The fall was a sickening lurch of the stomach, a terrified gasp trapped in a throat tight with fear. For a heartbeat, there was only the roaring wind and the terrifying sensation of weightlessness. Isolde squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the crushing impact of the stones below.

It never came.

Instead, there was a violent, bone-jarring jerk that nearly wrenched her arms from their sockets. Gareth hadn't jumped blindly. In the chaos, unnoticed by her, he had kicked a heavy coil of rope off the side of the balcony—a line he must have secured during his silent arrival. His free arm, like a band of iron around her waist, took the brunt of the shock as the rope went taut.

They swung wildly in the dark, slamming against the rough, wet stone of the castle wall. Ideally, they would have rappelled. In reality, they slid. It was a controlled plummet, Gareth’s gloved hand smoking against the hemp as he broke their fall, slowing them just enough to keep them from dying, but not enough to make it gentle.

"Brace yourself!" he roared over the wind.

Isolde didn’t have time to ask what for. The black surface of the moat rushed up to meet them.

They hit the water with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. It was paralyzing—a wall of freezing, stagnant darkness that swallowed them whole. The weight of her velvet gown, soaking up water instantly, became an anchor, dragging her down into the silt and filth of the castle’s refuse.

Panic, sharp and primal, clawed at her. She thrashed, tangling in the endless yards of silk and pearls. I am going to drown, she thought with a strange, detached clarity. I escaped the Duke only to drown in his moat.

Then, a hand seized the back of her collar. It wasn't a gentle rescue; it was a brutal haul. Gareth kicked for the surface, dragging her with him like a sack of wet grain. They broke the surface, gasping for air that smelled of rain and rot.

"Kick!" he snarled, spitting out moat water. "Move your legs, or you'll sink us both!"

Isolde kicked, her limbs heavy and numb. Gareth towed her toward the far bank, his strokes powerful despite the weight of his armor. They scrambled up the slick mud embankment, slipping and clawing at the roots of the willow trees that lined the water's edge.

When they finally collapsed onto the grass, Isolde could only retch, coughing up foul water. She was shivering so violently her teeth clattered together. She looked up at the castle looming above them. Torches were flaring to life along the battlements like angry fireflies. The alarm bell began to toll—a deep, mournful sound that echoed through the entire city. Dong... Dong... Dong...

"Up," Gareth ordered. He was already on his feet, wringing out his heavy cloak. He looked at the castle, judging the reaction time of the guards. "They’ll have riders at the gates in ten minutes. We need to be invisible in five."

"I... I can't," Isolde gasped, trying to push herself up. Her dress felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "It's too heavy."

Gareth didn't offer a hand. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet with a strength that bordered on rough.

"You hired a kidnapper, Highness," he hissed, his face close to hers. In the dark, the scar over his eye looked like a fresh wound. "Kidnappers don't carry their victims. They drag them. Now move."

He pulled her into the shadows of the trees, away from the main road and into the labyrinth of the lower city.

The journey that followed was a blur of misery. Isolde had lived in the capital her entire life, but she had never seen this side of it. Gareth led her through narrow, winding alleys that smelled of fish guts, tannery piss, and unwashed bodies. They waded through drainage ditches to avoid patrols, the freezing muck rising to her knees.

Every time she stumbled, Gareth jerked her forward. He didn't speak, save to issue sharp, curt commands. “Head down.” “Quiet.” “Wait.” He moved with the paranoia of a hunted wolf, freezing at the sound of distant hoofbeats, pressing them into the alcoves of boarded-up shops until the danger passed.

Isolde’s initial adrenaline faded, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a simmering, cold anger. She had expected danger. She had expected fear. She hadn’t expected this... indignity. To be dragged through the gutter, treated like cargo, dismissed and manhandled.

Is this what freedom tastes like? she wondered bitterly, wiping mud from her cheek. It tastes like dirt.

After what felt like hours, the architecture changed. The stone buildings of the merchant district gave way to the leaning, timber-framed shanties of the slums near the docks. Here, the fog from the river mixed with the smoke of coal fires, creating a thick, gray soup that hid everything.

Gareth stopped before a building that looked as if it were being held together by rot and sheer stubbornness. A faded, wooden sign creaked above the door, depicting an anchor with a bent shank.

"The Crooked Anchor," he muttered. "Charming."

He didn't go to the front door, where the muffled roar of drunken shouting and the stomp of boots could be heard. Instead, he led her down a side alley to a rickety wooden staircase that clung to the outside wall of the tavern, leading to a second-floor gallery.

"Careful," he whispered. "The third step is rotten."

Isolde climbed, her wet boots slipping on the mossy wood. At the top, there was a single, heavy door. Gareth produced a rusted iron key from his belt—he must have secured the room beforehand—and worked the lock. It gave way with a grinding protest.

He shoved the door open and gestured for her to enter.

Isolde stepped inside.

The room was small, barely ten paces across. The ceiling was low and slanted, stained with soot from the single tallow candle that sat on a wobbly table. There was a narrow cot with a straw mattress that looked lumpy and gray, a heavy wooden chest in the corner, and a single window, shuttered tight against the night. The air was stale, smelling of sour ale and damp wool.

It was squalid. It was a prison cell without bars.

Gareth stepped in behind her and closed the door. He threw the heavy iron bolt, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small space.

He leaned back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out. He ran a hand through his soaking wet hair, exhaling a long breath. For the first time since entering her chambers, he looked tired.

Isolde stood in the center of the room, dripping water onto the warped floorboards. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the shaking.

"Is this it?" she asked, her voice trembling. "This is your safe house?"

Gareth opened one eye. "It has four walls, a door that locks, and the landlord is deaf for the right price. It's a palace compared to where we’ll be if Valerian catches us."

"It smells like a stable," she whispered, looking at the stained mattress with horror.

"It smells like safety," he corrected. He stood up slowly, peeling off his sodden leather jerkin. The chainmail beneath clinked softly. He walked over to the window and peered through a crack in the shutter.

"The bells have stopped," he noted. "That means the initial panic is over. Now the organized search begins. They'll sweep the upper city first, then the gates. We have until dawn before they start kicking down doors in the slums."

He turned to face her. In the flickering candlelight, he looked dangerous—a large, armed man in a tiny room. The reality of her situation crashed down on Isolde. She wasn't in the castle anymore. There were no guards to call, no servants to command. She was locked in a room with a mercenary who had killed men for less gold than she wore on her fingers.

She was completely at his mercy.

Gareth seemed to read the fear in her eyes. His expression hardened, the brief flash of fatigue replaced by his usual mask of cynical detachment. His eyes swept over her, taking in the ruined, muddy masterpiece of her gown, the shivering, and the defiant tilt of her chin.

"Welcome to your new life, Highness," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Try not to get too comfortable."