The chains pulled hard enough to wrench Soraya off balance.
"Move."
The guard didn't look at her as he dragged her through the corridor, the gold ceremonial irons already replaced with rough iron links that bit into her wrists. The polished marble of the Great Hall gave way to stone hallways damp with cold and torch smoke.
The Conquest Tribute was over.
The screams, the laughter, the humiliation—all of it already being washed from the floors above.
And yet her punishment had only just begun.
Soraya stumbled, catching herself before she fell. Her slate-grey gown had been stripped from her, replaced with a coarse wool shift that scratched her skin. Every step felt like a reminder of how quickly dignity was taken in Emberfell—how easily it was returned only to be torn away again.
She didn't understand it.
If Damien had never intended to sell her…
If she had never been meant as a gift…
Then why?
Why parade her before kings and monsters, only to drag her back into darkness?
As they descended the last set of stairs, Soraya's fingers slid along her side.
The book was still there.
She didn't understand how the book always hides so perfectly. As if it were alive.
It had slipped halfway into her.
Not inside her body, not outside it either—but caught between worlds, folded into the space where her magic breathed. She could feel it hovering there, tethered to her alone, unreachable to anyone else.
If they searched her, they would find nothing.
If they cut her open, they would still find nothing.
The book would only come back when she called it.
Soraya didn't know that behind her, on the Obsidian Throne, Damien was fighting a war of his own. His wolf was pacing behind his ribs, snarling at the loss of her scent, while the whispers of the court rose like a tide of poison.
"The King is captivated," they whispered.
"The slave princess has bewitched our Alpha."
To kill the rumors, Damien had to be a monster again.
Making Soraya suffer more.
"Stop," the guard barked as they reached the dungeon.
He didn't lead her to her cell. Instead, he shoved a rusted iron shovel into her shackled hands. The weight nearly toppled her.
"The Alpha King has issued new decrees for the Winterfall Prize," the guard sneered, leaning into her space. "No more rose suite. No more soft beds. And certainly no more free meals. If the Princess wants to eat, she works."
Soraya stared at the shovel, then at the dark, soot-stained tunnel leading to the mines.
"You want me to... dig?"
"Dig. Scrub. Carry. You'll start in the kitchens with the grease, and then you'll head to the Ridge to break stone with the rest of the carrion," the guard laughed, yanking her chain toward the steaming, soot-covered servants' entrance.
The degradation was a physical blow. A Princess of the North, who had once held court in halls of ice and starlight, was now being sent to scrub the remains of the very feast Damien had just hosted.
Damien thought he was proving his strength by breaking her. He thought that by putting her in the dirt, he was silencing his wolf.
He was wrong. He wasn't just punishing her; he was testing the very bond that was beginning to knit their souls together.
And every time her hands bled from the work, his own palms would itch with a pain he couldn't explain.
The night didn't bring rest; it only brought a different kind of exhaustion.
Inside the sprawling kitchens of the palace, the air was a thick, humid soup of steam and the metallic scent of scrubbed iron. Soraya stood over a massive basin, her arms aching to the bone. Every time she reached for another heavy platter, she felt the eyes of the palace staff boring into her back.
"Look at her," a scullery maid hissed, loud enough to be heard over the sloshing water. "Even in those rags, she acts like the floor is a throne room."
"It's a sickness," a cook replied, dumping a bucket of waste near Soraya's feet. "Her brother guts our Luna like an animal, and she still has the nerve to walk across the kitchen like she's wearing silk. Someone should break those legs; maybe then she'll learn how to crawl like the rest of us."
Soraya didn't flinch. She kept her chin level, her movements fluid and deliberate. She wasn't trying to be arrogant; it was simply that her body refused to forget its training. To slump was to surrender, and Soraya was not ready to die just yet.
By the time the final pot was dried, the moon was high.
"Food!" the Overseer yelled, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. "Line up, you lot. Eat fast, or sleep hungry. You've got four hours before the mines call."
The slaves and low-level servants scrambled. For most, this was their first and only meal of the day. They huddled together, a desperate, shivering mass of humanity, waiting for a ladle of thin, watery broth and a hunk of stale bread.
At the far end of the courtyard, the rhythmic crack of a lash broke the silence, followed by a gut-wrenching wail. A male slave was being disciplined for dropping a crate. Most of the others turned away, burying their faces in their bowls to avoid the Overseer's gaze, but Soraya kept her eyes forward.
She took her portion—a crust of bread that felt like a stone—and moved toward the edge of the shadows.
That's when she saw it.
A flicker of movement near the western perimeter. A shadow, smaller and faster than the guards, darting toward the towering stone walls where the light of the torches didn't reach.
Soraya's mind screamed at her to stay put. To eat her bread and find a corner of the stone floor to sleep. But her feet were already moving. She slipped away from the line, blending into the darkness of the outer courtyard.
She found the figure near a stack of discarded crates, clawing desperately at the rough masonry of the wall. It was a girl.
"What are you doing?" Soraya asked softly.
The girl let out a strangled gasp, spinning around so fast she tripped over her own feet.
As she scrambled backward in the dirt, the moonlight hit her face, revealing a young woman who looked to be exactly Soraya's age. Her hair was a matted nest of dark curls.
She looked like someone who had once had a life, a home, and a name before Emberfell chewed it all up.
"Don't be afraid. I'm just a slave like you."
"Are you going to tell?" the girl whispered, her brown eyes wide with a terror.
Soraya shook her head slowly. "No. But I will advise you: do not try to climb this wall tonight."
"I'm leaving," the girl hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of terror and defiance. "I heard the Overseers talking. They're moving a group of us to the Deep Ridge tomorrow. No one comes back from the Deep Ridge."
She looked up at the wall—twenty feet of jagged, unforgiving stone. Her fingernails were already bleeding from trying to find a grip. It was a suicide mission, and they both knew it.
"Even if you get over these walls," Soraya said, her voice dropping to a haunting, low tone, "you won't survive the night. There are guards stationed in the tree line. And beyond them…" Soraya paused, a sudden, violent image flashing behind her eyes—blood, fangs, and shadows moving faster than light.
"Beyond them, the rogues are waiting. Rogue vampires. They're circling the borders of Emberfell even now."
The girl squinted, her fear turning to confusion. "Rogue vampires? What are you talking about? How could you possibly know that?"
Soraya went still. How did she know? She could almost see the secrets of the forest in her mind's eye.
"Eat," Soraya commanded. "You won't have the strength to survive the Ridge, let alone escape, if your heart is failing you."
The girl stared at the bread as if it were a diamond. She looked at Soraya's face, searching for a trick, for a sign that she was going to call the guards.
"Why are you helping me?" the girl whispered, even as she reached out to snatch the bread.
What is your name?" Soraya asked instead.
The girl swallowed hard, wiping her mouth with a bruised hand. "My… my name is Lyra."
"I am Soraya."
Lyra froze. She gasped, her eyes traveling from Soraya's soot-stained face to her regal posture. "As in… the Princess of the North? The Winterfall Prize?"
Before Soraya could stop her, Lyra scrambled to her feet and dropped into a deep, shaky bow in the dirt. "Your Highness… I've heard so much about—"
"That my brother is the reason the Luna is dead?" Soraya interrupted, her voice tinged with a weary bitterness.
"Yes. I know what you've heard. And there is no need to call me that. I am no longer a Princess, Lyra. I am a slave in the dirt, just like you."
Lyra looked up, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "You are born royalty, Soraya. It's in your blood. They can take your home and your clothes, but they can't take that."
Lyra stood up, looking at the wall one last time before turning back to Soraya. "I have a feeling… a feeling that you'll get back everything you've lost. And it will be better than before. From a Princess… to an Empress."