The hunting clothes smelled of cedar and sun-bleached wool, a scent foreign to Hannah's nostrils, no trace of fireplace soot, no stale reek of the attic where she'd slept on straw for eleven years.
She pulled the tunic over her head, the fabric brushing against skin stretched tight over ribs that jutted like broken fence posts.
The cut was simple, unadorned with the Bennington crest or the silk trimmings Layla's gowns boasted, to any noble passing by, it would look like the rough garb of a tenant's daughter who'd scraped together coin for a half-decent outfit.
But the stitching was neat, the leather belt sturdy, the boots soled with thick rubber that wouldn't wear thin after a mile's walk—common folk would glance twice, would know this was clothes from a household with money, even if it was the scraps thrown to the lowest of the low.
Hannah ran a hand over the tunic's hem, her fingers pausing at a frayed edge.
She'd never held a bow, never learned to track a hare, never had a tutor sit her down to read or write.
Her life had been a cycle of polishing marble floors until her knees bled, scrubbing pots until her hands cracked, enduring the slaps and sneers of a family that saw her as nothing but a stain on their noble name.
Her body was a map of neglect, too thin, too small, a 14-year-old who looked no older than 10 to anyone who didn't know the weight of her years.
But behind her eyes, there were flickers of a life she could barely remember: calloused hands wrapping herbs around a wound, the crunch of leaves underfoot, a voice that whispered run when the flames came.
She didn't know where those memories came from, only that they felt like a lifeline—something to cling to, something to use, now that she'd made up her mind to leave this hellhole behind.
Anywhere is better than here.
The thought was a mantra, sharp and bright, as she slipped out the back door of the manor, the door reserved for scullery maids and stable boys, the door she'd used a hundred times to sneak scraps of bread to the stray cats that lingered by the bins.
The air was crisp with the tang of autumn, and for a moment, Hannah let herself breathe, deep, slow, the first unhurried breath she'd taken in years.
The stable was at the end of the overgrown garden path, and with every step, her heart beat a little faster.
Bess was there: a shaggy old mare with a white blaze down her nose, the only living thing in the Bennington manor that had ever greeted her with a nuzzle instead of a snarl.
Bess was hers, in the only way anything could be hers, scrawny, overlooked, unvalued by the family that kept her for hauling firewood and market crates.
The path curved around a hedge of thorny roses, and that's when she heard the giggle, high, shrill, the sound that had haunted her childhood nightmares.
"Hah, look who's crawling out from the cracks in the wall."
Layla stood there, leaning against a stone pillar, her pink silk gown fluttering in the breeze, a lace fan tucked between her fingers.
She was 13, one year younger than Hannah, but tower over her, with rosy cheeks, curves that spoke of full bellies and sweet cakes, and golden hair that her maid braided with ribbons every morning.
To anyone who didn't know, Layla looked like the perfect Bennington daughter—pretty, spoiled, untouchable.
Hannah looked like her shadow: thin, pale, her chestnut hair matted into a braid she'd tied herself with a piece of twine.
"What's with the getup?" Layla's fan snapped open, hiding her mouth—but her eyes glinted with malice, sharp as the thorns on the rose bushes.
"Did you steal it from the the stable servant 's laundry pile? It's even uglier than your usual rags."
Once, Hannah would have bowed her head.
Once, she would have clenched her fists at her sides and bitten her tongue until it bled, would have mumbled an apology for daring to exist in Layla's sight.
Once, she would have yearned, for a kind word, for a scrap of affection, for the love of a family that would never see her as anything but a bastard, a shame, a mistake to be hidden away.
But not today.
Today, she lifted her chin.
Her sapphire eyes were cold, empty of the fear that had clung to her for 11 years, empty of the hope that had died a little more every time her father looked through her, every time her eldest brother laughed at Layla's taunts, every time her second brother's fist connected with her jaw.
"Back off, Layla Bennington," she said, her voice low and steady—steadier than she'd ever heard it before.
"From this day on, you are no sister of mine."
Layla blinked.
For a heartbeat, she looked genuinely baffled—like Hannah had spoken a language she didn't understand.
Then she threw her head back and laughed, a sound that echoed through the garden.
"Sister?" she cackled.
"You were never a sister to me, you dirty little bastard. You're a stain on this family's name. A rat that needs to be chased out of the walls."
The fan twitched.
Hannah saw the evil grin tugging at Layla's lips, hidden behind the lace.
She saw the flicker of a signal—quick, subtle, the kind Layla had used a hundred times to set her maid on Hannah, to trip her in the hallways, to dump a bucket of water over her head when she was scrubbing the floors.
"Get her," Layla said, her voice dropping to a sneer.
"Tear that ugly tunic off her back. Make her cry like the little mouse she is."
The maid, a stocky woman with a scar across her cheek, stepped forward, her hand outstretched to grab Hannah's arm. She moved slow, lazy, used to Hannah being a target that didn't fight back, used to her cowering, used to her running.
She didn't expect the slap.
It was brutal, Hannah's thin, bony hand connecting with the maid's cheek with a crack that made Layla's laughter die in her throat.
The maid yelped, stumbling backward, and Hannah shoved her hard, using the last of her strength, using the rage that had been building in her chest for 11 years, using the ghost of a memory where hands had pushed harder, faster, to survive.
The maid lost her balance, flailing, and crashed straight into Layla.
Layla's shriek was loud enough to wake the dead.
She stumbled, her silk gown tearing on a rose thorn, and fell backward onto the grass, the maid landing on top of her in a flurry of pink fabric and squawking protests. Her fan skittered across the ground, landing in a puddle of mud.
"You dare!" Layla screeched, kicking at the maid, her cheeks turning red with fury.
"You filthy, ungrateful bitch! I'll tell Father— I'll tell him you attacked me! He'll lock you in the attic forever! He'll—"
Hannah didn't stay to listen.
She turned on her heel and ran, her boots crunching on the gravel path, her heart pounding in her chest, not with fear, but with a wild, burning thrill.
She ran past the rose bushes, past the overgrown vegetable garden, past the stone fountain that hadn't worked in years. She ran until she saw the stable doors, splintered and weathered, until she heard the soft whinny that made her throat tight with tears.
The stable boy was mending a harness in the corner.
He looked up when she burst through the door, his eyes flicking over her green hunting tunic, over her determined face, over the way she didn't even flinch when she spotted him.
He didn't say anything. He didn't stop her. He just went back to his harness, his head bent low.
It was normal, after all. The third daughter of the count, slipping out to the stable with Bess. Normal for her to take the mare to the market, to haul crates, to do the chores no one else wanted to do.
No one would bat an eye.
No one would miss her, until it was too late.
Hannah crossed the stable floor, her steps light, her hands shaking as she reached for Bess's reins.
The old mare nickered, pressing her nose to Hannah's palm, warm and soft and alive.
"Come on," Hannah whispered, her voice thick. "We're leaving."
She didn't have a saddle, only a frayed blanket, so she turned to the stable boy.
"Can you get me a saddle for Bess? I want to take her out." The boy nodded, walking to the corner and fetching an old but serviceable one.
"This was Lady Layla's for riding lessons," he explained calmly, no judgment in his tone.
"It's too small for her now, but it should fit you." He worked in the outer stables, rarely catching sight of the noble family, so he'd never guessed Hannah was the count's daughter, only assuming she was a servant's child, one more soul the household treated poorly.
"Good enough," Hannah said, though the saddle reeked of neglect.
She'd take anything over nothing; the road ahead was long, and a saddle was nonnegotiable. "Help me put it on, and I'll give you a few coins."
After pressing the coins into his palm, she swung onto Bess's back.
"Go," she whispered, kicking the mare's sides gently. "Go."
Bess whinnied, and they were off, trotting through the stable doors, down the lane, past the manor's iron gates, and into the city.
The Bennington manor shrank behind her, a dark, ugly blot on the horizon. Hannah didn't look back.
She left no letter, no note, not even a footprint to mark her trail. She had no travel permit, no name that held weight beyond the manor's walls, but none of that mattered now.
The manor stayed quiet until lunchtime.
It was the day the count was due home from his hunting trip with Kael, her second brother, the one whose fists had left more scars on her body than she could count.
The household staff bustled about: polishing silver, laying out platters of roast meat and honey cakes, sweeping the halls until they gleamed.
The count rode through the gates at midday, Kael at his side, both draped in furs, their horses loaded with the spoils of the hunt.
After washing the road dust from his hands, his first question was for Hannah.
For a week on the hunt, he'd turned over the thought of her, hidden away, spoken of like she was less than a servant by the countess and his other children.
He'd come home with a resolve to set things right: to move her to a proper room, hire a tutor, reprimand his family for their cruelty, give Hannah the life she deserved.
"Where is the girl?" he said, his voice gruff but not unkind, a sharp contrast to the indifference he'd shown for years.
"I want to speak with her before dinner."
He strode to the small room they'd moved her to last week, still cold, still drafty, but better than the box she has been living in, and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
To be continue...