"Take that off," Gareth ordered.

He didn't look at her face. His eyes were fixed on the sodden, ruined velvet of her gown, which was currently pooling dirty water onto the floorboards.

Isolde froze, her arms wrapped tighter around herself. The chill that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold night air. "Excuse me?"

"The dress," he said, his voice flat and impatient, like a man discussing the weather. "It’s blue. It’s silk. It’s covered in pearls. You might as well be wearing a sign that says 'I am the missing Princess.' Burn it, bury it, or eat it, I don't care, but get it off."

He kicked a battered wooden chest in the corner of the room. "There are clothes in there. Put them on."

Isolde stared at him, indignity warring with fear. "You expect me to... to undress? Here? In front of you?"

Gareth let out a short, harsh sigh. He turned his back to her, walking over to the small, rickety table where the solitary candle burned. He pulled a rag from his belt and began to methodically wipe the moat-water from his dagger.

"I am not looking, Highness," he said to the wall. "And frankly, I’ve seen enough wet, shivering refugees in my life that the novelty has worn off. Be quick. If you freeze to death, I don't get paid."

Burning with humiliation, Isolde moved to the chest. The hinges groaned as she threw it open. Inside, the smell of camphor and old wool wafted up. There were no silks here. No linens spun from flax so fine it felt like water. There was a coarse, gray woolen skirt, a shapeless tunic that had once been white but was now the color of oatmeal, and a pair of worn, sturdy leather boots.

They were peasant clothes. Nobody clothes.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the laces of her gown. The water-logged knots were stubborn, fighting her. She had to break a fingernail to loose the corset. As the heavy, wet velvet finally slid from her shoulders and dropped to the floor with a squelching thud, she felt a strange, terrifying lightness.

That dress had been her armor. It was the symbol of her station, her history, her protection. Without it, standing in her thin, soaking chemise in the freezing room, she felt utterly exposed. She wasn't stripping off clothes; she was stripping off her identity.

She pulled on the rough wool skirt. It was scratchy against her skin, heavy and stiff. The tunic was too big, swallowing her frame. The boots were a size too large, but they were dry.

She laced them up, her hands shaking. When she stood, she caught her reflection in the darkened window pane. A gray, shapeless ghost looked back at her. Princess Isolde of Silverwood was gone. In her place was just... a girl. A girl in a dirty room with a dangerous man.

"I'm done," she whispered.

Gareth turned. His eyes swept over her, critical and cold. He nodded, once.

"Better. You look like a washerwoman who’s fallen on hard times. Perfect."

He walked over to the pile of wet velvet on the floor. He drew his dagger and, with efficient, brutal strokes, cut the pearls from the bodice, shoving them into a pouch at his belt. Then he rolled the dress into a tight, dripping ball and shoved it deep into the bottom of the chest, covering it with a moth-eaten blanket.

"We leave the pearls," he said. "We can trade them later. The dress stays here to rot."

Isolde watched him, a sudden flare of anger cutting through her fear. "Is that all I am to you? A disguise to be managed? A payday?"

Gareth stopped. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes."

"I demand respect," she said, her voice trembling but gaining strength. She drew herself up to her full height, trying to summon the authority that used to come so naturally. "I am your employer. I am the future Queen of this realm. I am not a sack of grain to be dragged through the mud and mocked."

"You are not a queen," he cut her off, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He stepped closer, invading her space until she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. "Not here. In this room, in this city, you are prey. You are a liability. Respect is earned, Isolde. And so far, you have done nothing but shiver and complain."

The use of her name, stripped of any title, felt like a slap.

"I hired you," she hissed.

"And I am doing the job," he countered. "The job is to keep you alive. Not to pamper your ego."

He reached behind his back and pulled a second dagger from his belt. It was smaller than his own, but no less wicked. The steel was dark, non-reflective, the handle wrapped in rough leather.

He grabbed her hand, ignoring her flinch, and slammed the hilt of the weapon into her palm. He curled her fingers around it, his grip bruising.

"You want respect?" he growled. "Learn to use this."

Isolde stared down at the weapon. It was heavy. Cold. It felt alien in her hand, an object of violence that had no place in her world.

"I... I don't know how," she stammered.

"Learn," he said harshly. "Because if someone comes through that door and I am busy killing the first two, the third one is coming for you. You strike for the neck. Or under the ribs, upward, into the heart. You do not hesitate. You do not close your eyes. If you hesitate, you die. And if you die, I don't get paid."

"Is that all that matters?" she cried, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "Gold?"

"It's the only thing that's real," he said. "Honor is a lie. Titles are a lie. Steel and gold. That's the world."

He released her hand and stepped back. "Now. Show me. Hold it up. Don't let your wrist go limp."

Isolde gripped the dagger. She hated him in that moment. She hated his cynicism, his brutality, his complete dismissal of everything she believed in. But she raised the knife. She widened her stance, mimicking what she had seen guards do in the training yard.

"Higher," he corrected, tapping her elbow. "And stop shaking."

She glared at him, her fear transmuting into a hot, burning focus. She would show him. She wasn't useless. She wasn't—

Thump.

The sound came from below. It was heavy and muffled, vibrating through the floorboards.

Gareth froze instantly. His head snapped toward the door, his entire demeanor shifting from bully to predator. He held up a hand for silence.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Heavy boots on the wooden stairs outside. Not the stumbling, uneven gait of a drunk. These were rhythmic. Measured. Purposeful.

"Boots," Gareth whispered, the color draining from his face. "City Watch. They’re sweeping the building."

Panic, cold and sharp, doused Isolde's anger. "What do we do?"

"Quiet," he hissed. He moved to the candle and snuffed it out with wet fingers, plunging the room into darkness. The only light now came from the slivers of moonlight cutting through the shutter slats.

The footsteps grew louder. They reached the landing outside. There was a pause, then a heavy fist hammered on the door of the room next to theirs.

"Open up! City Watch!"

A muffled protest from the neighbor, the sound of a door being kicked in, and the crash of furniture.

"They're searching every room," Gareth whispered. He looked around the tiny space. There was nowhere to go. The window opened onto the alley, but they were on the second floor, and jumping would make noise. The bed was too low to hide under.

His eyes landed on the corner. A small, narrow alcove where the chimney breast jutted out, covered by a ragged, grease-stained curtain. A storage closet, barely wide enough for a broom.

"There," he pointed.

"It's too small," she whispered.

"Get in."

He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the corner. He swept the curtain aside and pushed her into the dark, dusty recess. It smelled of old onions and dry rot. He stepped in after her, pulling the curtain closed.

It wasn't just small; it was suffocating. To fit, Gareth had to press his body against hers, pinning her to the rough brick of the chimney. She could feel every hard line of his armor, the heat of his body radiating through her thin tunic. His arm came around her waist to steady them, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear. "Do not. Make. A sound," he breathed. "If you scream, we are dead."

She nodded, her cheek brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was sure the guards outside could hear it. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

The heavy boots moved again. They stopped right outside their door.

The handle rattled. Locked.

"This one's bolted," a gruff voice grumbled from the hallway.

"Kick it," another voice ordered. "The Duke said turn them inside out."

Isolde gasped, a tiny intake of breath. Gareth’s hand instantly clamped over her mouth, sealing the sound inside. He pressed her head back against his chest. She could feel the tension in him, a coiled spring ready to snap. He wasn't just hiding; he was waiting. If that door opened... if they looked behind the curtain... there would be blood.

Bam!

The door to the room shuddered under a heavy impact. Dust rained down on them from the ceiling of the closet.

Bam!

Wood splintered.

Isolde squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the dagger he had given her so hard her knuckles turned white. She prayed to gods she hadn't believed in for years. Please. Not like this.

The door gave way with a crash. Heavy footsteps stomped into the room.

"Clear!" a voice shouted. "Check the bed! Check the chest!"

Isolde felt Gareth’s grip on her tighten. They were inside.