Smoke burned Selene's throat like swallowed fire as the flames roared higher, licking hungrily along the silk banners of her ancestors. The acrid stench of burning tapestries mixed with something far worse—charred flesh and spilled blood. Screams mixed with the clash of steel, the once-proud hall of House Valen drowning in chaos that seemed torn from the very depths of hell.
She pulled Isolde's hand tight in hers, her sister's fingers slippery with sweat and terror, nearly dragging the younger girl across the blood-slick flagstones. The floor that had been polished to mirror brightness for the feast now reflected only dancing flames and the shadows of the dying.
"Stay close!" Selene coughed, her lungs burning from the thickening smoke that rolled across the vaulted ceiling like storm clouds.
Isolde stumbled behind her, choking on each ragged breath. Her silk slippers, dyed the soft blue of summer skies, now darkened with wine and worse things. "I—I can't breathe—"
"You can." Selene's grip tightened until her knuckles went white, fierce with the kind of determination that came from having no other choice. "You must. I won't lose you."
Bodies littered the overturned tables they passed—nobles cut down mid-feast, their rich velvets and brocades soaking up their lifeblood. Lord Harren lay sprawled beside his chair, his graying beard matted with crimson. A serving girl no older than Isolde lay crumpled near the hearth, her blue and silver livery torn beyond recognition. A toppled goblet rolled past Selene's feet, its silver surface stained with more than spiced wine.
Selene forced herself not to look too closely at the carnage, to focus only on the living weight of her sister's hand in hers and the desperate need to find a way out of this nightmare.
They pushed through the press of panicked guests, nobles who moments before had been laughing over honeyed wine now shrieking like animals as they clawed at each other in their desperation to escape. Soldiers in mail and surcoats barked orders in voices harsh as ravens, their crimson-and-black cloaks marking them as sworn to King Damian's service. But there was nothing of royal discipline in their actions—only the brutal efficiency of men who had come to destroy, not to serve.
Selene's chest heaved as she tried to spot her parents in the chaos. Her father's voice rang faintly somewhere beyond the smoke, shouting commands that seemed to come from a dozen different directions at once. But the sea of steel and flame swallowed all attempts at order.
"This way!" She steered Isolde toward the musicians' alcove, where carved wooden screens had once hidden the minstrels from view. She remembered the narrow servant's passage behind it—a corridor her nurse had shown her as a child, one that led to the kitchens and from there to the outer bailey. If they could reach it, perhaps they might find safety in the stables or beyond the walls entirely.
But they weren't the only ones with the same desperate hope. A mob of nobles surged toward the same passage, silk gowns torn, jeweled circlets askew, all pretense of courtly dignity abandoned in the face of death. Someone—a lord whose face was blackened with soot—shoved Selene hard enough that she nearly lost her footing on the slippery stones.
"Don't let go!" Isolde sobbed, clinging to her sister's hand with both of hers now, her green eyes wide and glassy with terror.
Selene set her jaw against the pain where her shoulder had struck the wall. "I won't. I swear to you, I won't."
They forced their way into the passage, fighting against the current of fleeing bodies. The stone walls closed in around them, older than the great hall and carved from rougher rock. Iron sconces held sputtering torches that threw wild shadows across the narrow space, making it impossible to tell friend from foe in the press of bodies.
The sound of slaughter dulled but did not fade as they moved deeper into the castle's hidden ways. Steel still rang against steel somewhere behind them, and voices still cried out in languages both familiar and strange. The very stones seemed to weep with the violence being done within their embrace.
Isolde stumbled again, her soft court slippers never meant for running across rough stone. Her breath came in sharp gasps that echoed off the walls. Selene hauled her upright with strength born of pure desperation.
"You have to keep moving, sweet sister."
"I'm scared." Isolde's voice was barely a whisper, the admission torn from her like a prayer.
"So am I." Selene's voice cracked despite her efforts to sound strong. "That's why we run. That's why we survive."
The passage finally spat them out into the lesser hall that connected the family quarters to the kitchens, a space lined with portraits of long-dead Valen lords whose painted eyes seemed to judge the chaos that had befallen their house. For a single heartbeat, Selene felt hope bloom in her chest like a flower in spring. If they could make it through the kitchens to the outer courtyard, perhaps reach the stables where her mare Starfall waited—
Her thoughts shattered like glass as shadows shifted ahead of them.
Figures emerged from the roiling smoke—not the mail-clad soldiers of the king's guard, but something far worse. Masked raiders clad in rough-sewn leathers and furs, their faces hidden behind dark cloth that left only their eyes visible. Those eyes glinted with a hunger that had nothing to do with gold or glory and everything to do with the simple joy of causing pain.
They carried curved blades in their fists, foreign steel that caught the torchlight and threw it back in cruel gleams. The weapons were already wet with blood—not the clean crimson of a fresh wound, but the dark, clotting red of violence done and enjoyed.
Selene froze, pulling Isolde back against the stone wall so hard that her sister gasped. Her mind raced. These weren't soldiers following orders or even common bandits seeking easy plunder. These were something far more dangerous—men who hunted for the simple pleasure of it.
One of the raiders threw back his head and laughed, the sound muffled by his mask but no less cruel for it. The noise seemed to echo from the very stones, as if the castle itself had learned to mock the innocent.
"Look what the flames have driven from their nest," he said in accented Common Tongue, his words thick with some northern dialect. "Two little doves, still warm in their feathers."
Isolde whimpered, pressing herself against Selene's side like a child seeking shelter from a storm. Selene pushed her younger sister behind her with one arm while her free hand searched desperately for any kind of weapon.
"Stay behind me," she commanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
The raiders began to advance with the casual confidence of cats who had cornered mice. Their movements were too practiced, too sure, like men who had played this particular game many times before. Selene's stomach twisted with the realization that they were enjoying this—the fear, the helplessness, the sweet anticipation of what was to come.
Her searching fingers closed around a broken spear haft that lay abandoned in the corridor—probably dropped by one of her father's guards in the initial chaos. The ash wood was smooth in her grip, polished by years of use, but the iron point had snapped off, leaving only splintered wood. Still, it was something.
"Keep away from us," she said, lifting the makeshift weapon with hands that trembled only slightly.
The raiders only chuckled, the sound rippling between them like a shared secret. The leader gestured with his curved blade, and the others began to spread out, moving to flank them with the practiced ease of wolves surrounding prey.
"Little dove thinks she has talons," one of them said in that same thick accent.
The leader lunged first, moving faster than Selene had expected. She swung the broken haft with all her strength, feeling it crack against his leather-wrapped forearm. He grunted—more in surprise than pain—but didn't slow. Another raider darted around her left side, reaching for Isolde with hands that were stained to the wrists with other people's blood.
"No!" Selene cried, twisting back toward her sister.
But she was only one girl with a broken stick against trained killers. Rough hands seized Isolde before Selene could turn fully, yanking the younger girl away from the wall with casual brutality.
"Selene!" Isolde's scream tore through the narrow corridor, raw with terror and disbelief.
Selene lunged after her, striking wildly with the haft. She managed to catch one raider across the shoulder, heard him curse in his foreign tongue, but it was like trying to stop a landslide with bare hands. Another man slammed her against the wall, driving the breath from her lungs and sending stars dancing across her vision.
She fought anyway, clawing and kicking with desperate fury. Her nails raked across exposed skin, drawing blood. Her knee found soft flesh and made one of them double over, retching. But there were too many of them, and they were too strong.
"Let her go!" she screamed until her voice cracked and her throat felt like she'd swallowed broken glass. "Take me instead! Please!"
The leader barked something in that foreign tongue, harsh syllables that sounded like a death sentence. Two raiders pinned Selene to the blood-slick stones, their weight crushing down on her as she bucked and twisted beneath them. She could only watch in helpless horror as Isolde was dragged further into the smoke-filled corridor.
"Selene!" Isolde's shriek echoed off the stones, growing fainter with distance but no less desperate. Her pale hand stretched back toward her sister, fingers grasping at empty air as the raiders hauled her into the darkness. "Selene, please!"
Selene screamed until her throat was raw and her voice was gone, her body straining against the iron grips that held her down. But she was powerless—just another broken thing in a castle full of them.
The last thing she saw was her sister's face—pale as moonlight, streaked with tears that caught the torchlight like scattered diamonds—before the smoke and shadows swallowed her whole.