(Metheea's POV)
The morning light hadn't even touched the rooftops yet, but Metheea was already awake. Not that she had slept.
All night, she'd lain in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over—I am Metheea.
Hearing her own voice say those words felt like stepping off a cliff. There was no taking it back, no pretending it had never been said. She was exposed now, and Azrayel knew the truth.
She sat curled on the window sill, knees hugged to her chest, letting the cold dawn breeze wash over her face. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and woodsmoke, and in the distance, she could just make out the soft hum of the academy waking.
Her chest tightened at the thought—he could come back at any moment. She didn't know if she wanted him to or not.
"What are you doing?" Lerima's voice was groggy but sharp, cutting through the quiet. Metheea glanced back to see her half-sitting up in bed, hair tangled, eyes narrowing at the sight of her perched by the open window.
She'd noticed all through the night how Lerima stirred every thirty minutes or so, checking on her.
It was a wonder she'd even managed to slip away twice with Azrayel without Lerima catching her.
Then again, since she was a child, she'd had a knack for illusion magic, and it had served her well.
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze stayed locked on the horizon, where the first hints of pale gold were bleeding into the night.
Time was slipping away. If she was going to escape, it had to be soon.
She had been preparing for days—arranging transport to Balagund Kingdom, making quiet inquiries about safe houses, stashing away supplies in a hidden pouch.
She'd even practiced the illusion she would use in the city, one that would keep Lerima convinced she was still in a shop, buying embroidery thread. It would only last a few minutes, but that was all she needed to disappear into the streets.
Everything was ready.
Her freedom is close.
Her only chance was in the city, where the streets could swallow her up if she moved quickly enough.
"I need to go into town today," she said at last, her tone casual. "To buy threads for embroidery class."
Lerima's mouth tilted into a smirk. "Good."
Something in the way she said it made the back of Metheea's neck prickle.
Without another word, Lerima stood, crossed the room, and dug into her bag.
When she turned back, she held a red envelope between two fingers. "Her Majesty, Queen Tilde, gave me this before we left."
Metheea took it cautiously. The seal cracked under her thumb. As she unfolded the letter, her heart began to race.
Count Verry was visiting Katarthan. Today.
She stared at the page until the letters blurred. So that was why they had dragged her back so suddenly.
Her first instinct was to tear it into shreds, to toss the pieces into the breeze, but she knew it wouldn't change anything. If anything, this meant she'd be guarded more closely than ever.
Her movements would be watched, her words weighed. The thought made her skin crawl.
Yet… this might also be her chance. If Verry was here, Lerima would be dismissed. That might be the only window she would get.
"All right," she said, forcing her voice steady.
Lerima helped her dress, choosing a modest gown in the rigid, high-collared style of Dythrid—layers that were stifling and heavy, designed to keep a lady's posture perfect and her stride short. Perfect for restricting movement.
Metheea endured the process in silence, slipping coins and small pieces of jewelry under her clothes when Lerima wasn't looking.
Little treasures that could buy her freedom if she made it far enough.
A plain carriage with no crest waited in the courtyard, the wood dark and unmarked. The driver kept his eyes forward.
Metheea climbed in, Lerima settling beside her with the air of someone who had no intention of letting her out of sight.
"Are you going to shadow me all day?" Metheea asked lightly, as though the question meant nothing.
Lerima's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
"I want to know Verry on my own," Metheea said, adding a faint, almost shy smile. "Afterall, he's to be my husband."
Lerima studied her face for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Count Verry asked me to come with you until we reach his townhouse."
Metheea blinked, thrown. "Townhouse? What do you mean?"
Lerima's lips twitched, amusement flickering in her eyes though her expression stayed mostly flat. "The queen thinks it's good for you to get to know each other better."
The words hit like a stone in her stomach. Her mother was selling her off like a prize mare.
Metheea turned to the carriage window, gripping the frame until her knuckles whitened.
The streets of Katarthan stretched ahead, cobblestones glinting under the early sun. Every turn of the wheels carried her closer to the trap—whether it would be Verry's hands or Azrayel's shadow that caught her, she didn't know.
All she knew was that she had to run. And soon. Because if she didn't get away now, she might never belong to herself again.
They stopped at a small café tucked along a busy street, the clatter of cups and low murmur of voices surrounding her as she stepped down from the carriage.
She had never seen Count Verry in person before—only his portrait—and the sight of him made her stomach turn.
He was older, far less handsome than the painted likeness, and the worst part was the way his eyes lit with open lust the moment they landed on her.
He stood, smiling too widely, and took her gloved hand, pressing a damp kiss to the fabric. It was a small miracle she had decided to wear gloves; at least his saliva wasn't on her skin.
She shuddered at the thought.
She didn't curtsy—she outranked him. She was a princess; he was only a count.
The flicker of displeasure in his eyes was obvious, but she ignored it and greeted him with a cool, "Count Verry."
A servant pulled out her chair and she sat, spine straight, while he lowered himself opposite her, his gaze crawling over her with a hunger that made her skin prickle.
"I see you have grown into a very fine woman," he said, his tone dripping with meaning.
She almost asked if that disappointed him, knowing his reputation.
This was a man who preferred his wives young—too young—and discarded them at fifteen.
Three wives already, each one replaced as if they were nothing more than toys. The thought of him made her want to recoil, to run, to be anywhere but sitting at that table.
He leaned back with a smug smile.
"I can see that you're almost ready," he said, his gaze sliding over her. "I want to see it with my own eyes."
She had to fight the urge to stab his leering eyes with the fork beside her plate. Instead, she forced a polite smile and replied, "It's an honor for you to come."
They spoke for a few minutes more, his words making her skin crawl, until he finally said the one thing she dreaded hearing.
"I have a townhouse around here I'd like to show you. Let's take a walk."
Her pulse jumped. This was it. Her moment.
If she wanted to leave with her life, it had to be now.
She could feel every instinct screaming at her to move, to slip away before his hand could close around hers and lead her somewhere she would never come back from.