Metheea's eyes fluttered open to find herself in a chamber far removed from the shadows and grime of the alley.
The contrast was dizzying silks draped from the ceiling, their rich hues of gold, deep crimson, and royal blue swirling in the faint breeze.
Her body was clean, scrubbed, and pampered as though she were a cherished guest instead of a prisoner. She lay in an enormous bed, the sheets cool and smooth against her skin. The weight of the luxury around her settled like a stone in her chest, suffocating her.
Oh heavens.
This isn't escape. This is another cage.
The thought slipped through her mind unbidden, but it was a truth she couldn't escape.
The faint sound of distant bells rang in the air, reverberating off the marble columns that lined the room. The palace had a way of overwhelming her sense back then - the light, the smells, the sounds—and it only added to her growing sense of being completely out of place.
Metheea sat on the edge of the bed, her body aching with exhaustion, but her mind still racing. The heavy silence of the room settled around her, and she finally let her gaze drift toward the polished silver mirror across the room.
Her reflection stared back at her—perfectly composed, perfectly placed.
Her hair was done neatly, strands falling to frame her face, soft waves that made her look almost delicate.
Her clothes, made of Katarthan silvers, glistened like moonlight, fine fabric that clung to her form with grace.
But the image in the mirror felt like a stranger.
No…
The word escaped her lips in a breathless whisper as her hands clenched at the bed's edge. She wasn't free. Not here.
Her gaze hardened as she continued to stare at the reflection—the woman dressed in finery, surrounded by wealth and luxury.
Her fingers brushed over her leg, still tender from the fight. The limp.
Flashbacks of the alley, of Lerima's mocking grin, the sharp pain in her leg, the sword pressed to her neck, and Azrayel's eyes, cold and calculating, surged forward. Her heart skipped.
She had raised that sword—hadn't she?
Her fingers brushed the surface of the bed. Yes. The sword had been real, and so had the blood.
The reality of the last few hours hit her with renewed force, the memories of escaping and the violent kill burning in her chest.
And then, the familiar scent of incense hit her again, reminding her that this wasn't the freedom she had fought for.
She need to go.
She pushed herself to stand, but the moment she took a step, pain shot up her leg, a searing jolt that almost made her collapse. She gritted her teeth, refusing to let the agony stop her. Her muscles screamed in protest, but her mind kept pushing forward. Escape was still possible.
The door was unlocked, but as she grasped the handle, the heavy silence seemed to hold her breath. Maybe... maybe this is my chance.
For a heartbeat, everything felt possible. The air beyond the door seemed fresh, almost inviting. Her chest loosened, her muscles relaxing for the first time since she had been trapped.
But as soon as the door opened wider, she froze.
Outside, a line of guards stood at attention, their eyes wide with surprise as they saw her standing there.
"Your Highness," one of them said.
Metheea's mind spun. She hadn't thought this far ahead. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and without thinking, she swiftly closed the door, the sound of it clicking shut louder than it should have been.
Her mind reeled, heart hammering against her chest. How could she escape unnoticed? She couldn't just walk past them, not with the way they were watching her.
The soft click of the door locking once more felt like a barrier, closing off her only escape. She leaned against it, her breath shallow.
Metheea's thoughts raced. There had to be another way.
Her eyes scanned the room, searching for any possible escape. The walls were covered in intricately carved lattice windows, the designs beautiful and delicate, but offering no chance of easy escape. Her fingers ran over the carvings, and the sense of confinement intensified.
She tried something else. Illusions.
With a concentrated effort, Metheea imagined herself walking out the door, projecting her image, hoping to create an illusion of freedom.
But the wards on the room fought back.
A sudden shiver ran through her body, the magic dissipating like smoke. Her illusion faltered, and the air shimmered with resistance. She could almost taste the ward's power—the cold, impenetrable force swallowing her false image whole.
She cursed under her breath.
They would see.
Then he saw it, a narrow opening that might just be big enough for her to squeeze through.
She rushed over to it, her pulse pounding in her ears, her leg screaming in protest as she pushed herself to move. She tugged at the window frame, trying to force it open, and when it didn't budge, she tried again, slipping part of her body through the crack.
But then the pain shot through her leg, a sharp jolt of agony that made her gasp. She stumbled, her foot catching on a cloth on the floor.
Then the door opened with a soft creak, and Metheea's heart leapt. She hadn't expected it so soon. Her gaze snapped to the figure that appeared in the doorway.
Azrayel.
His presence filled the space, calm and controlled. As though he knew exactly when she would break herself against the walls.
His eyes swept over her, unreadable at first, before landing on her limp. He frowned for a brief moment, then masked it quickly. But she saw it—the flicker of something that softened his gaze, just before it disappeared.
"You've been busy," Azrayel remarked dryly, his voice light, almost amused. "Trying to escape, I see."
Metheea said nothing, though the bitterness inside her stirred. She clenched her fists at her sides.
"Let me go."
"Run if you wish," he continued, stepping closer, his voice dipping into something more dangerous. "But this city will not let you go. Katarthan has longed for its princess. Do you think they'll let her slip away again?"
"I'm not the princess," she spat back, the words sharp, defiant.