Azel couldn't move.
His legs wouldn't work. His lungs had forgotten how to inhale. Every muscle in his body had seized up, but not his eyes. His eyes locked on the widening stain of red that bled across the white marble floor. Steam curled lazily from his brother's blood in thick, slow plumes, rising into the cold air like a winter's breath.
Kieran's eyes were closed. His hand was outstretched, fingers curled like he was still reaching for the training sword that had clattered away when he fell. The twelve-year-old boy who had braided Azel's hair that morning. Who had taught him to skip stones across the pond. Who had promised to teach him the advanced sword forms when he got older.
He was gone.
The assassin who had killed Kieran moved toward Azel, sword lifting once again. Dark metal still dripped red. Azel watched the drops fall, one at a time, each taking an eternity to descend. He should run. He knew he should run. But he could not move.
Then hands clamped down on his shoulders.
"Azel!" Lyanna's voice sliced through the fog in his head, high and desperate. She shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Azel, look at me!"
He blinked. Focused. His sister's face filled his vision—copper-dark hair tangled around her pale face, brown eyes wide and terrified. Blood trickled down from a cut on her forehead, running down the side of her face. When had that happened? He didn't remember seeing her get hurt.
"We have to go," Lyanna said, voice cracking. "Now. Right now."
The assassin was three steps away. Two.
Lyanna pulled Azel backward with force he did not know his nine-year-old sister was capable of. His feet finally moved, stumbling, almost tripping over themselves. She yanked him through a doorway to the left of the grand hall—not the main corridor, but a narrow servants' passageway that snaked through the walls of the estate.
Behind them, steel rang against steel. Their mother's voice rose in a wordless scream. Glass continued to shatter. The echoes of the massacre resonated through the bones of the mansion.
Lyanna ran, dragging Azel with her. Her hand was clasped so tightly around his wrist it hurt, but the pain was distant, secondary. The narrow corridor was dark, save for the occasional oil lamp, shadows dancing across the stone walls. Azel's small legs struggled to keep pace with his sister's longer stride.
"Where—" he started, but his voice came out as little more than a whisper.
"Father's study," Lyanna said. She wasn't looking at him, eyes darting forward, scanning the area. "There's a place. A safe place. You'll be safe there."
A scream sounded from somewhere in the mansion. A woman's scream, cut off. One of the servants, maybe. Or—
No. Azel's mind shied away from that thought.
They burst through a servants' door and into a wider hallway. Lyanna paused for half a heartbeat, listening. The sounds of fighting were coming from the direction of the grand hall, but this corridor was empty. She pulled Azel forward again, moving quickly, her breathing harsh and ragged.
Azel kept glancing at the blood running down his sister's face. The cut on her forehead was deep, edges jagged. It should be bandaged. Someone should staunch the bleeding. But Lyanna didn't seem to notice or care. Her hands were steady even though they must have been trembling on the inside. She'd been trained for this—all Rashdov children were trained for emergencies.
But training was one thing. This was real.
They rounded a corner and nearly collided with another masked figure. The assassin seemed as surprised as they were, stepping back a foot. Lyanna didn't hesitate. She shoved Azel out of the way and the dagger she'd been clutching—when had she acquired that?—flicked upward in a graceful arc that would have made their combat instructor proud.
The blade sliced across the assassin's forearm. Not deep enough to maim, but enough to make the figure curse and fall back. Lyanna grabbed Azel again and ran.
"Almost there," she panted. "Almost there, almost there."
Their father's study loomed ahead, the ornate double doors closed. Please be unlocked, Azel thought desperately. Please, please, please—
Lyanna smashed into the doors at a run. They burst open, unlocked, and the two children fell through into the room. Lyanna slammed them shut and threw the bolt, though they both knew that was just a temporary measure. A locked door would not stop determined killers for long.
The study looked untouched, even serene. Books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Their father's desk sat in its usual place, papers in neat stacks, his ceremonial dagger on display on its stand. A fire burned low in the hearth, as if Valdis had just stepped out and would be back at any moment.
Lyanna rushed to the bookshelves on the eastern side of the room. Her hands moved across the spines, counting, searching. "Fourth shelf, seventh book from the left," she muttered. "Fourth shelf, seventh—there!"
She pressed something. A mechanism clicked deep within the wall.
A section of the bookshelf swung inward with a whisper of well-oiled hinges to reveal a dark compartment only about three feet tall and maybe two feet deep. It was lined with supplies—a waterskin, packages that appeared to be dried foods, a folded blanket. A child's hiding place. A last resort.
"Get in," Lyanna said.
Azel stared at the cramped space. "What about you?"
"I'm too big. It's only meant for little ones." Lyanna's hands trembled now as she grabbed Azel's shoulders and pushed him toward the opening. "You have to get in. You have to hide."
"No." The word came out stronger than Azel intended. "We can both—"
"We can't." Lyanna's voice cracked. Tears were sliding down her face now, mixing with the blood from her forehead. "Please, Azel. Please don't argue. We don't have time."
A crash sounded from somewhere in the mansion. Closer than before. The sounds of fighting were spreading, reaching toward this wing of the estate.
Lyanna shoved Azel into the compartment. It was cramped, cold, the stone walls squeezing in on all sides. He tried to push back out, but his sister was stronger, driven by desperation and fear. She forced him deeper into the space until his back hit the far wall.
"Don't come out," Lyanna said, brown eyes boring into his. "No matter what you hear. No matter what. Do you understand?"
"Lyanna—"
"Promise me!" Her voice rose to almost a shout. "Promise you'll stay hidden!"
"I promise," Azel whispered. The words felt like a betrayal.
"Father will come for you," Lyanna said, and Azel wanted to believe her so badly it hurt. "When it's safe, he'll come. He knows about this place. He'll find you."
Azel's small hand shot out and grabbed his sister's sleeve. "Come with me. Please. We can make it fit. We can—"
"I can't." Lyanna gently pried his fingers loose. Her hands were cold, or maybe Azel's were. Everything felt cold now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She leaned in and kissed his forehead. Her lips were like ice.
"I love you," she whispered. "Be brave."
Then she pulled back, and before Azel could protest again, she swung the compartment door closed.
Darkness closed around him.
Not complete darkness—there was a thin crack of light where the door didn't quite seal completely. Through it, Azel could see a slice of his father's study. The gap was only a few inches wider than his finger, but it was enough to see movement. Enough to see what was going to happen next.
He pressed his eye to the crack.
Lyanna stood with her back to the bookshelf, her small body obscuring the seam where the compartment door met the wall. She'd positioned herself to block anyone from noticing the hidden entrance. Her chest heaved with panicked breaths, but her hands were steady again as she moved toward their father's desk.
She picked up the ceremonial dagger from its display stand.
The blade was beautiful—Azel had always thought so. Curved slightly, with the Rashdov family crest etched into the steel: a serpent coiled around a crown, symbol of their ancient lineage. It was meant for rituals, for ceremony, not combat. The edge had never been sharpened for actual use.
But it was better than nothing.
Lyanna turned back toward the door, the dagger held in a proper guard position. Their combat instructor's voice echoed in Azel's mind: "Balance, Lady Lyanna. Weight on the balls of your feet. Ready to move in any direction."
She looked so small standing there. So young. Nine years old, bleeding from a head wound, holding a ceremonial blade against trained killers who had already murdered their brother.
But she stood anyway. Protecting him. Hiding him.
The study doors burst inward.
The bolt Lyanna had thrown might as well have been made of paper. Wood splintered, hinges screamed, and three figures in black masks poured into the room. They moved with the same precise coordination Azel had seen in the grand hall, spreading out to cover all angles.
All three halted when they saw Lyanna.
Through the crack, Azel watched his sister lift her chin. Defiant. Terrified. Brave.
And for the first time since Kieran had fallen, Azel's paralysis broke. Not into action—he couldn't act, couldn't help, could only watch—but into something worse.
Understanding.
He understood what Lyanna was doing. Why she stood exactly where she stood, between the assassins and the bookshelf. Why she'd positioned her body to hide the compartment's entrance.
She wasn't trying to fight.
She was trying to give him time.
She was trying to die well.
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End of Chapter 2