The door groaned open again, and Amora slipped back inside, her face a closed ledger of resentment.
Her mind was hooked, barbed and relentless, on what Calvus had said to her. The words echoed in the silent chamber of her thoughts.
Do you think you can ever compete with Aurelia?
What did she not have that Aurelia did?
Was it the white hair Or the violet eyes?
The way she carried sorrow like a crown instead of a stain?
The earlier defiance was gone, burned away by the humiliation of his grip and the ice of his dismissal. What remained was a cold, functional efficiency.
There was no more performance, no seduction, no hope. There was only the task: remove Aurelia. Erase the competition. Clean the cage.
Love had warmed her. Now, it was time to let it burn.
"You both are two jobless fools," Aurelia's voice was low, frayed at the edges, but it carried across the room. She did not move from the bed. "Just let me out, Amora please let me go from the room!"
Amora did not grant her the courtesy of a glance.
She moved to the corner where the two wooden bowls sat, collected them, then crossed to the small table. She picked up the porcelain plate holding the untouched apple pie. Her movements were precise, devoid of any unnecessary sound.
She was erasing evidence, not performing a chore.
For a long moment, Aurelia's violet eyes tracked her, suspicion a hard knot in her chest.
Then, Amora spoke to the door, her voice flat. "I will leave it open. Go. And never come back."
She struggled for a second with the old handle, juggling the four bowls and the pie plate. The latch gave with a heavy clunk. A sliver of the dim, stone corridor beyond appeared.
The sight was so shocking it felt like a physical blow.
Aurelia's breath caught.
Was escape actually this easy?
Her mind raced over the possibilities—a guard posted right outside, a crossbow aimed, Calvus waiting in the shadows with that chilling smile. Hope was a dangerous, fluttering thing in her cage of a chest.
"How am I to know this isn't another trap? A plan with you and Calvus." Aurelia's voice was sharper now. She rose from the soft layers of the bed, her chin lifting with a remnant of her old pride. The movement sent a dull ache through her belly, a reminder of the life that depended on her caution.
Amora finally turned, her gaze landing on Aurelia with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Whatever your name is. Aurelia. Or should I just say 'fool'?" She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I'm only helping you now because I need you out of his life. Calvus is mine. My only chance to have what's left of him is for you to disappear."
She glanced nervously at the open door, then back, her words coming in a rushed, urgent stream.
"Listen. When you hear me playing a flute—a specific tune, three high notes, then a low warble—that is your signal. It means the path is clear for a count of one hundred breaths. That is your only chance. You will find a bay mare tied to the old elm behind the laundry yard. Then you ride. You ride and you never look back, and you never return."
She didn't wait for a response. With a final, inscrutable look—part hatred, part desperate alliance—she turned and disappeared into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her.
But this time, it did not lock.
Aurelia heard the faint, fading tap of Amora's shoes on stone. She stared at the heavy wooden door, now an opaque barrier between captivity and an unimaginable, terrifying possibility.
She stood frozen in the center of the beautiful, hateful room. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum counting down seconds she didn't yet have.
Is this a dream?
Or is this another trap?
The questions whispered in her mind, but beneath them, a new, raw instinct stirred.
The instinct of a prey animal that has just seen the gate of its pen swing open. It wasn't trust. It was a calculus of danger. The certain, slow death here, versus the uncertain, immediate danger out there.
She took one slow, silent step toward the door. Then another. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
It turned without resistance.
The door is actually open.
A shock, bright and terrifying, flashed through the weary gloom of her heart. For a second, it felt like lightning—a searing, clear cut of hope through the heavy cloth of her despair. The corridor beyond was dim and empty, smelling of damp stone and old rushes. Freedom was a tangible thing, a cold draft curling around the doorframe, beckoning.
Then she heard it.
The flute.
The sound sliced through the silence, precise and deliberate: three high, piercing notes, followed by a low, winding warble. Exactly as Amora had described. The signal. Her chance.
But it had come too fast.
Amora had just left. The woman couldn't possibly have gotten to wherever she played from, taken up an instrument, and sounded the all-clear so quickly. Unless it was pre-arranged. Unless the timing was never about safety, but about synchronization—with something else. Perhaps someone else.
The bright shock in her heart curdled into a cold, heavy dread.
Too fast?
The two words echoed in her mind, draining the color from her hope. This wasn't a reprieve; it was a rhythm. A beat in a trap being sprung.
Was Amora so eager to be rid of her that she'd raced to give the signal? Or was this the sound that would lure her out into a corridor suddenly filled with guards?
Her hand, still on the handle, grew slick with sweat. The open door was no longer an exit. It was a mouth. The flute's last, low note hung in the air like a question.
Do you trust it?
Don't you dare to move an inch, they'll kill you.
She stood on the threshold, her body tensed for a flight that her mind screamed against. The empty corridor yawned before her, a stage waiting for a player. And she was painfully aware that she might be walking into a role she hadn't read for.
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To be continued...