Date: The Morning of the 3rd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The "Rat's Nest," Deep Slums.
The cruelest part of tragedy is the first ten seconds of the morning.
For those ten seconds, the mind is a blank slate, reset by sleep. The memories of the night before are held back behind a dam of subconsciousness.
Aanya floated in the dark. She felt warm.
The maid will come soon, her sleepy mind whispered. She will open the velvet curtains. She will bring the tea tray with the silver pot. The room will smell of lavender and pressed linen.
Aanya took a deep breath, expecting the scent of flowers.
She inhaled mold.
It was a thick, earthy stench—wet wool, rusting metal, and something sharp like vinegar.
Her eyes snapped open.
She wasn't looking at a canopy of embroidered silk. She was looking at a ceiling made of rotting wooden planks and flattened tin sheets. There were gaps in the roof where gray, dusty light filtered through, illuminating floating specks of dust that danced in the stagnant air.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water was falling from a leak in the corner, landing in a rusted bucket with a rhythmic, maddening ping.
Aanya froze. Her heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs.
She tried to sit up, but her body screamed. Her ribs ached where Silas had kicked her. Her knuckles throbbed. Her face—the right side—felt stiff, hot, and heavy, as if it were made of lead.
She looked down at herself.
She wasn't wearing a nightgown. She was wearing a filthy, oversized burlap sack that smelled of potatoes and mud. A rough wool blanket was pulled up to her chin.
The memories broke the dam.
The bathhouse. The oil. The melting face.
The parents. The betrayal. The rain.
The alley. The boots. The iron rod.
"No," Aanya whimpered. The sound was small, pathetic.
She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that if she opened them again, she would be back in the manor. Wake up, Aanya. Wake up. This is the nightmare.
She opened her eyes.
The tin roof was still there. The bucket was still dripping.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her throat. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She scrambled backward, pushing herself into the corner of the wooden pallet. The wall behind her was damp and slimy.
She was trapped. She was in a box. A coffin made of trash.
"I can't breathe," she gasped, clawing at the scratchy blanket. "I can't..."
She looked wildly around the tiny room. It was filled with junk—broken crates, coils of rope, a pile of scrap metal. It looked like the inside of a garbage bin.
Her eyes darted to the only exit—the wooden door.
She stopped.
A figure was there.
Veer was not sleeping on the bed. He had given the only soft surface in the room to her.
He was sitting on the dirt floor, his back pressed firmly against the wooden planks of the door. His long legs were stretched out. His head was tipped forward, chin resting on his chest, his black hair falling over his eyes.
He was asleep, but even in sleep, he was a barricade.
Across his lap lay the iron rod. His right hand was wrapped loosely around the leather grip, his fingers stained with dirt and dried blood.
He was literally blocking the world from getting to her.
Aanya stared at him. She saw the bruises on his knuckles. She saw the way his wet trousers clung to his legs. He looked exhausted, thin, and dangerous.
The panic in Aanya's chest didn't vanish, but it changed shape.
She wasn't alone in the coffin.
She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping the rough quilt tighter around her shivering body. She stared at the boy guarding the door.
She remembered the palace guards in their silver armor. They had dragged her out.
She remembered her father. He had turned his back.
But the thief with the iron rod was sitting in the mud, guarding a monster.
Aanya let out a shaky breath. She didn't wake him. She just watched the dust motes dance in the gray light, terrified of the world outside, but terrified to move in case she shattered the silence.
The Queen was dead. The survivor had woken up. And the morning was very, very gray.