Chapter 6: Leaving Without Farewell
Elowen Ashmere left her family's estate the same way she had lived in it quietly, without ceremony, and unnoticed by anyone who would miss her.
The dawn had not yet broken when she rose from the thin pallet in the servants' quarters. The air was cold enough to sting her skin, but she welcomed it. Cold meant awake. Awake meant real. Awake meant she could leave before someone decided to stop her.
She dressed in silence.
There was no wardrobe to choose from. No silk gowns or embroidered cloaks like her half-sister wore. Only one simple traveling dress lay folded on the narrow bench brown wool, mended twice at the hem, sleeves long enough to hide the fading bruises along her wrists.
It had been Lady Ashmere's final kindness, if it could be called that.
"You will not embarrass us on the road," her stepmother had said, voice clipped. "At least look respectable when you're handed over."
Handed over.
Elowen tightened the ties of her boots and swallowed.
She did not cry. She had learned long ago that tears only invited mockery or worse, punishment for "dramatics." Instead, she breathed slowly, the way she did when scrubbing blood from marble floors or holding down a servant while the healer worked.
In. Out.
The room held nothing of her. No keepsakes. No letters. No proof she had ever belonged here. She had learned not to collect things. They were always taken away.
She reached beneath the pallet and withdrew the only item she owned that had never been confiscated a small strip of blue ribbon, frayed at the edges.
Her mother's.
She had no memory of the woman herself. Only the ribbon, pressed into her palm by an old servant when Elowen was very young.
"Your mother wanted you to have this," the servant had whispered, eyes darting fearfully toward the hall. "She said… she said you should remember you were loved once."
The servant had been dismissed the following week.
Elowen tied the ribbon around her wrist now, hiding it beneath her sleeve. A foolish thing, perhaps. Sentimental. But she needed something of herself to take with her, even if she was going to be someone else's possession.
A wife sold for gold and protection.
She stepped into the corridor.
The estate was quiet at this hour, the grand halls empty of laughter and cruelty alike. Torches flickered along stone walls polished to a dull sheen. Elowen moved carefully, instinctively keeping to the shadows, every step measured.
She passed the kitchens first.
She paused there, just for a moment.
The scent of bread lingered in the air, faint and comforting. She had spent countless mornings here before dawn, kneading dough until her fingers cramped, listening to the cooks gossip about noble scandals while pretending she did not exist.
She wondered if they would notice she was gone.
Probably not.
She continued on.
The main hall loomed ahead, wide and echoing. Her footsteps sounded too loud on the marble floor, and she winced, heart hammering, half expecting someone to bark her name.
"Elowen."
The sound of her name always made her flinch. Always carried accusation.
But the hall remained empty.
At the foot of the grand staircase, she stopped again.
Above her, the Ashmere family slept in silk-lined rooms warmed by enchanted braziers. Lord Ashmere would rise later, eat a rich breakfast, and congratulate himself on his clever bargain. Lady Ashmere would oversee preparations for her daughter's upcoming engagement, funded by the gold Elowen's marriage had brought.
Maribel would laugh.
The thought tightened something in Elowen's chest.
She forced herself to move.
The doors to the courtyard stood open. Cold morning air swept in, carrying the scent of frost and damp earth. The sky was a pale gray, the sun still hidden behind the distant hills.
And there waiting beside a black carriage drawn by two massive horses stood the men who would take her away.
They wore no Ashmere colors.
Their armor was dark, almost matte, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. Each bore the sigil of Blackspire: a crowned void etched into steel. Their presence seemed to dim the air around them, as if the world itself leaned away.
Elowen's breath caught.
So the rumors were true.
These were not ordinary guards. These were soldiers of the Void King.
One of them turned as she approached. His gaze swept over her not with hunger or cruelty, but with something assessing. Professional.
"You are Lady Elowen Ashmere," he said.
It was not a question.
"Yes," she answered, voice steady despite the way her heart pounded.
He nodded once. "We are to escort you to Blackspire."
No congratulations. No condolences. No mockery.
Just fact.
Another man stepped forward and opened the carriage door. Inside was darkness and fur lined seats. The sight made her hesitate.
This was it.
Once she stepped inside, there would be no turning back.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The estate rose behind her, tall and proud, banners hanging still in the early morning calm. She had spent her entire life inside those walls, dreaming of escape.
And yet… a small, traitorous part of her waited for someone to come running.
A servant. A guard. Anyone.
"Elowen," a voice called suddenly.
She stiffened.
Her half-sister emerged from the side corridor, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, golden hair loose down her back. Maribel looked every bit the noble lady even at dawn.
For a heartbeat, Elowen dared to hope.
Perhaps… perhaps Maribel had come to say goodbye. To apologize. To acknowledge that what had been done to her was wrong.
Maribel stopped a few paces away, eyes flicking to the Blackspire guards before settling on Elowen with cool disdain.
"So you're really leaving," she said.
"Yes," Elowen replied quietly.
Maribel smiled. "Good."
The word struck harder than a slap.
"You should be grateful," Maribel continued, circling her slowly. "Most girls like you end up discarded in some alley or married to a drunk merchant twice their age. You're becoming a warlord's wife."
Elowen said nothing.
Maribel leaned closer, lowering her voice. "They say he kills his brides when he grows bored. If you're lucky, it will be quick."
Something inside Elowen shifted then.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Just… emptiness.
"Is that all?" Elowen asked.
Maribel blinked, clearly not expecting that response. Her lips thinned. "Don't forget where you came from," she snapped. "No matter how high you rise, you'll always be a maid pretending to be a lady."
Elowen met her gaze.
"I know exactly where I came from," she said softly.
Then she turned away.
Maribel scoffed behind her. "Don't expect us to mourn you."
Elowen did not look back.
She stepped into the carriage.
The door closed with a final, echoing thud.
As the carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over gravel, Elowen pressed her hands together in her lap and stared at the dark interior.
This was the first time in her life she had left the Ashmere estate without permission.
The first time no one could call her back.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
She did not miss the cruelty.
But she mourned the girl she had been forced to become to survive it.
The road stretched on, winding away from the only home she had ever known. The farther they traveled, the lighter she felt until exhaustion finally claimed her.
She slept without dreaming.
She woke to silence.
No shouting. No orders barked through walls. No sharp knock demanding she rise and work.
Just the steady rhythm of hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage.
Elowen blinked, disoriented, then slowly sat up. A blanket had been draped over her at some point thick, warm, unfamiliar. She frowned, pulling it closer.
Had one of the guards…?
No. That seemed impossible.
She peeked out through the small window. The landscape had changed. Gone were the manicured fields of Ashmere lands. In their place rose darker forests, towering pines heavy with frost, their shadows stretching long and deep.
Blackspire territory.
Her stomach fluttered.
Fear and anticipation twisted together inside her, impossible to separate.
What kind of man ruled a land like this?
A monster, the rumors said.
A butcher. A tyrant. A void that swallowed all warmth.
Elowen swallowed and pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heartbeat.
I will survive, she told herself.
She always had.
And if the Warlord of Blackspire truly was a monster…
Then she would learn how to live beside monsters, too.