The cold air bit at Saphira's skin as she stood before the iron gates of the Duke's estate. Her heart hammered not just from the chill, but from the weight of what she was about to do. Behind her, a small group of servants waited—silent, tense, eyes sharp with determination.
Weeks had passed since she'd first entered the Duke's household, and already the walls seemed to close in tighter every day. Whispers of rebellion fluttered like moths in the darkness, but no one dared speak them aloud. The Duke's men were everywhere—watching, listening, waiting for a single misstep.
Rowen, the young master, had become an enigma wrapped in shadow. His cold gaze betrayed nothing, yet in stolen moments, Saphira glimpsed a fracture beneath his hardened armor. He had secrets—dark, dangerous secrets that could destroy them all.
The alliance they formed was fragile as glass, forged in hushed conversations behind closed doors. Trust was a currency far too expensive in a house built on fear.
"Are you ready?" Saphira whispered, glancing at the faces lit faintly by the moonlight. Some nodded, others swallowed hard, but all carried the same fire—the desperate hope of freedom.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed from the shadows—a branch snapping under heavy boots. The group froze. Eyes darted towards the sound as the faintest breath of panic crept in.
"They're coming," hissed one servant.
Time slowed. Saphira's pulse thundered in her ears. She tightened her grip on the small knife hidden beneath her sleeve. This night would decide everything. One wrong move, and the Duke's wrath would fall like a storm.
"Stay close," she ordered, voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat.
Step by step, they moved forward, shadows merging with shadows. The stakes had never been higher. But Saphira no longer saw herself as the powerless girl dragged from the streets. She was the spark igniting a fire that could burn the Duke's world down.
And she was ready to fight.