Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Merchant District, Outside Kael Manor.
Home is a magnetic force. Even when it burns you, even when it rejects you, the instinct to return is carved into the bone.
Aanya didn't know how she walked the three miles from the palace to the Merchant District. Her mind had shut down, retreating into a gray fog of shock. Her body moved on autopilot, guided by the muscle memory of sixteen years.
Left at the fountain. Right at the baker's shop. Straight past the textile guild.
The streets were deserted. The storm had driven even the stray dogs into shelter. The only thing moving was a small, hunched figure wrapped in a filthy burlap sack, limping through the deluge.
Every step was a negotiation with pain.
The streets of the Merchant District were paved with cobblestones, which were slippery and uneven. But the mud between them was filled with the debris of the city—sharp flint, broken pottery, and shards of glass.
Aanya's feet, soft and uncalloused from a lifetime of silk slippers, were shredded.
She stepped on a jagged piece of slate. It sliced into her heel.
Aanya gasped, stumbling, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. If she stopped moving, the cold would claim her.
She left a trail of bloody footprints on the wet stones, but the relentless rain washed them away seconds later. The world was erasing her traces as fast as she made them.
Finally, she saw it.
The iron gates of House Kael.
She stopped. She leaned against a lamppost, her chest heaving, water dripping from the matted mess of her hair.
The manor was dark. It loomed against the black sky like a mausoleum. The windows, usually glowing with the light of expensive oil lamps, were black voids.
Her parents were not there. They were likely still at the palace, perhaps sleeping in a guest suite, or perhaps they were drunk on wine, celebrating the successful "trade" of their daughters.
But the house... the house was still there.
Aanya limped across the street. She reached out and gripped the cold, wet iron bars of the gate.
Through the rain, she could see the garden. She saw the oak tree where Veer had hidden. She saw the rose bushes she used to tend. She looked up at the second floor—at the window of her room.
Inside that room was her bed. It had a mattress stuffed with goose down. It had a thick wool blanket.
Inside that room, she had a hidden stash of dried figs.
Inside the servants' quarters, there was Old Marta, her nanny. Marta had been the only one who snuck her extra sweets when Mother wasn't looking. Marta would have warm milk. Marta would have a bandage.
I just want to go inside, Aanya thought, a sob rising in her throat. I just want to be dry.
She raised a trembling hand toward the bell pull rope that hung just inside the gate.
If she rang it, the night watchman would come. He would see her. He would open the gate. She could collapse in the foyer. She could sleep.
Her fingers brushed the rough hemp of the rope.
"If she returns, Merchant? What should happen?"
King Darius's voice echoed in her memory, cold and amused.
"Treat her as a trespasser."
Kael's voice. Her father's voice.
Aanya froze. Her hand hovered in the air.
She looked at the small guardhouse near the gate. A light flickered inside.
She knew who was in there. Marko. The guard with the heavy club. The guard who had beaten Veer until he spat blood. The guard who had laughed at a boy for trying to see his friend.
If she rang that bell, Marko would come out.
He wouldn't see "Lady Aanya." He would see a beggar in a sack with a melted face.
And even if he recognized her... he followed orders. Her father's orders.
Trespasser.
Aanya imagined the scene. Marko dragging her by her hair. Throwing her into the mud again. Or worse—locking her in the cellar and sending a message to the palace: "The trash has returned. Shall we kill it?"
And her parents?
If they came home and found her shivering on the doorstep, would they hug her?
No. They had just sold Riya to save their own necks. If Aanya returned, she was a liability. She was evidence of their treason. To prove their loyalty to the Emperor, they would have to turn her in. They would have to hand her over to the executioner themselves.
Home was not a shelter. It was a trap.
Aanya slowly lowered her hand.
She looked at the dark house one last time. She looked at the window where she had spent seven years hiding, painting, and dreaming of being a Queen.
That room belonged to a ghost. The girl who lived there—the girl who believed her parents loved her—was dead.
"I am an orphan," Aanya whispered to the rain.
The realization settled in her chest, heavy and cold as a stone. She had a mother. She had a father. They were alive, breathing, and rich. But she was an orphan.
She released her grip on the iron bars. Her hands left rust stains on her palms.
She stepped back.
One step. Two steps.
She turned her back on the manor. She turned her back on the goose-down bed, the warm milk, and the memories of a family that had never truly existed.
She looked down the street. The Merchant District ended a few blocks away. Beyond that lay the twisting, dangerous darkness of the rest of the city.
She didn't know where she was going. She only knew she couldn't stay here.
With bleeding feet and a shattered heart, Aanya began to walk again. She walked away from the only door she had a key to, and into a world where every door was locked.