The smile that touched Marianne's lips as Alaric's golden-cloaked figure vanished into the market throng was not one of maidenly shyness. It was the smile of a wolf watching a trap snap shut.
In her first life, that moment had been the beginning of her end. She remembered how her heart had hammered, how she had stammered her gratitude, convinced that a god had descended from the heavens to pluck her from the mire. She had run to the palace with stars in her eyes, only to have those stars ground into the dirt by the very man she worshiped. But this time, she had tasted the air and found it foul. She had looked at the prince and seen only the butcher he would become.
"The script is bleeding," she murmured to herself, her eyes cold. "And this time, I'm the one holding the pen."
When they returned to the small, lopsided shack, the air was still thick with the scent of the newly thatched roof. Elara was inside, humming a tune that Marianne hadn't heard in years—a song about a bird that flew across the sea. She stopped the moment the door creaked open, her eyes lighting up as they landed on Gerald.
Gerald stepped forward, and even in his tattered, dirt-stained rags, he moved with a magnetic elegance that filled the tiny room. He looked at Elara, his expression softening into one of humble desperation.
"Mistress Elara," he began, his voice dipping into a respectful, melodious tone. "I find myself in a bit of a difficult position. I managed to send word to a contact in the village, and it seems my parents' trade caravan has been delayed by the spring floods near the border. They won't reach the rendezvous for at least a fortnight."
Marianne leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed. Liar, she thought, though a small part of her marveled at how effortlessly a prince could play a beggar.
"Oh, you poor dear!" Elara gasped, wiping her hands on her apron. "The roads are so dangerous these days, especially for a boy as... well, as noticeable as you."
"I was wondering," Gerald continued, casting a quick, sideways glance at Marianne before focusing back on her mother with wide, earnest eyes. "If I might stay here for a few days? I can pay for my keep in labor. I've already started on the roof, and I'm quite handy with a blade for wood-chopping or protection. I have nowhere else to go where I won't be... harassed."
"Absolutely not," Marianne snapped, stepping into the center of the room. "Mother, we barely have enough floor space for ourselves. We are living on cabbage water and prayers. We cannot harbor a stranger, especially one who attracts as much attention as he does."
"Marianne, hush!" Elara scolded, waving a hand at her daughter. "Where is your heart? The boy is injured and alone. We aren't monsters." She turned back to Gerald, her face beaming. "We don't have a spare bed, Gerald, but we have that old winged chair in the corner of the common room. It's lumpy and the stuffing is coming out the side, but it's dry and it's warm near the hearth."
Marianne waited for the rejection. She knew Gerald. She knew the silken sheets of the Dwelfinth palace, the goose-down pillows, and the servants who scented his chambers with lavender and myrrh. There was no way a Crown Prince would sleep upright in a chair that smelled of damp wool and woodsmoke.
"I would be honored to sleep in that chair, Mistress Elara," Gerald said without a moment's hesitation. His smile was genuine, a flash of white teeth that seemed to brighten the dim room. "It's a palace compared to the riverbank."
Marianne stared at him, bewildered. He was serious. He was actually going to stay in this hovel, tucked into a corner like a stray cat.
Later that evening, after Elara had ladled out the last of the broth and Maya had fallen asleep with her head resting on a pile of rags, the house fell into a heavy, quiet stillness. The only sound was the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of a stray dog in the slums.
Marianne was sitting by the small window, staring out at the silhouette of the Imperial Citadel in the distance, when a shadow moved beside her. Gerald had risen from his lumpy chair. He didn't look like the charming boy from dinner; his face was etched with a grim, heavy shadows.
He leaned against the wall, making sure Elara's rhythmic snoring continued from the back room before he spoke. His voice was a mere ghost of a whisper, sharp and urgent.
"You shouldn't go, Marianne," he said.
Marianne didn't turn around. "Go where?"
"To the palace. To him." Gerald's hand clenched into a fist at his side. "I saw how he looked at you in the market. Prince Alaric doesn't look at people; he looks at property. I've heard stories of his court, even where I come from. They say he is a man of silver tongues and iron hearts. He is cruel, Marianne. He treats his servants like spent candles—he uses them until they are nothing but wax and wick, and then he throws them away."
Marianne finally turned her head, her dark eyes meeting his gray ones. She saw the raw concern there, a protective instinct that was entirely unearned in this timeline. He was trying to save her from a fate he didn't even know she had already lived.
"You speak as if you know him personally, Gerald" she challenged softly, her voice mocking his cover story.
Gerald winced, but didn't back down. "I know men like him. Power doesn't make a man good; it only makes him more of what he already is. And Alaric... he is a predator. If you walk through those palace gates as his maid, you won't come out the same person. Please. Promise me you won't go."
Marianne looked at him for a long beat. She thought of the blade Alaric had driven into her heart. She thought of the years she had spent slaughtering "enemies" like Gerald's people in Alaric's name. She felt a strange, cold comfort in the fact that this version of Gerald was worried about her being a maid, when in reality, she was already a ghost of a general.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the rough sleeve of his tunic, a gesture of reassurance she hadn't known she was capable of.
"Don't worry about Prince Alaric, Gerald," she said, her voice sounding far older than sixteen. "I know exactly what kind of man he is. I've seen his heart, and it's smaller than a grain of sand. He thinks he's the one playing the game, but he hasn't realized yet... the board has changed."
Gerald looked at her, puzzled by the iron in her words. "You sound so certain."
"I am," Marianne whispered, turning back to the window. "Sleep, Prince. You have a long road ahead of you, and you're going to need your strength."