The door bursts open and for a split second my heart leaps into my throat, so violently I'm convinced I'm going to vomit.
It's not Ivar. It's Hugo.
Behind him stand two men I don't recognize, but they share the same straight-backed posture, the same empty stare, the same efficiency that makes me feel small and trapped all over again. The hallway light slices into the cell like a blade, cutting the darkness clean in two.
"Get up," Hugo says, his tone neutral, yet somehow frightening with his pronounced accent.
"No," I snap immediately, my voice cracking before I can stop it. "I'm not going anywhere. I didn't do anything! I didn't kill Gaston—I've said that a thousand times!"
I feel the tears welling up before I can fight them back. I hate my weakness, but I don't have the energy to hide it anymore. Instinctively, I shrink back, pressing myself against the wall as if I could disappear into it.
"Hey, hey… wait," Hugo says, and for the first time his voice isn't hard. "No one's taking you anywhere."
I look at him suspiciously, my breathing uneven.
"Then why—"
"Just step out of the cell. That's all. You're staying in the same building. You're getting a normal room. A bed. A shower. A door that closes without bars. That's it."
I don't believe him. Not right away.
"Why?" I ask, wiping my tears with the back of my hand.
Hugo shrugs.
"Orders changed."
His tone is oddly soothing, almost bored, as if moving me were just an administrative detail. There's no rush. No aggression. The two men behind him don't advance.
"No one will touch you," he continues. "No one's going to hurt you, I promise. We're going upstairs. That's all."
Upstairs.
The word feels unreal. Does that mean I might actually see sunlight again in this lifetime?
Maybe I'm stupid, but I choose to believe him. My body feels heavy as I stand. My knees tremble, but I take one step, then another. Hugo steps aside. He doesn't grab me, doesn't push me. He just walks beside me.
If they wanted to drug me or move me by force, they would have done it already.
So I walk out.
The corridors are long and cold, with thick walls that seem to swallow every sound, and the harsh white artificial light pours down on us without mercy, making me feel even smaller as I move between them, unsure whether I'm being escorted or merely guarded, whether this is a formality—or just another form of control.
We climb the stairs, our footsteps falling in equal, weighted rhythm—once, then again—and with every floor we leave behind I feel the air begin to change, the smell of damp cement and metal fading, replaced by something warmer, cleaner, almost alive.
The walls are no longer bare. Thick carpets swallow the sound of our steps. Paintings in heavy frames line the corridors. Lamps cast a soft, almost domestic light. And it hits me suddenly that everything below is only the foundation—a hard shell beneath which the real house has been hiding.
We go up another level and I nearly stop, because the difference is so stark it catches me off guard. It's beautiful in a soothing way: polished wood gleaming discreetly, mirrors in ornate frames, tall windows veiled by heavy, elegant drapes.
At the end of the hall, I see two women dressed simply, in discreet uniforms. They pause when they notice me. Their eyes sweep instinctively over my dirty clothes, the traces of dried blood, my tangled hair—saying nothing, yet saying everything.
One of them brings her hand to her mouth for a second, startled, then quickly composes herself and hurries away, frightened.
Hugo walks ahead as if nothing is out of place, and I try to keep my head up, to not let the shame swallow me, though I feel it burning under my skin.
He stops in front of a pair of double doors and opens them wide. The room revealed before us is large and bright, airy, with an enormous bed covered in clean white sheets, a bathroom from which the scent of warm water and soap drifts out, and a wide window overlooking a landscape I don't yet have time to understand.
For a few seconds I stand frozen, because my mind simply refuses to process the shift—as if it's too much, too sudden, too different from what I left below.
"Go in," Hugo says, his tone so natural that for a moment I almost forget where I am.
I take a hesitant step, feeling the soft floor absorb my weight, the contrast between the cold concrete downstairs and the warm wood here making me even dizzier.
In the middle of the room stands a woman who doesn't seem surprised that I exist, as if she already knew I would appear—dirty and exhausted—at her threshold.
Her hair is gathered into an elegant bun, a few strands of white at her temples that don't age her but lend her a calming presence. And her gaze is neither cold nor curious nor accusatory—just concerned, as if she sees more in me than dried blood and wrinkled clothes.
"Hello," she says gently, her voice warm and steady. "I'm Clarisse."
The way she says her name hits me strangely, because it sounds normal, domestic—as if she were welcoming me into an ordinary home, not into a place where people can disappear without a trace.
Hugo steps in behind me and closes the door without hurry.
"Clarisse, this is Alla. She'll be staying in the guest room until the Duke returns."
His words linger in the air, and that part—until the Duke returns—makes my heart jolt stupidly, against my will.
I know I shouldn't feel anything. I know I'm not allowed to hope. From where I stand, the Duke has already condemned me. He left when I needed him and looked at me like I was a traitor, without bothering to search for another explanation.
And yet the simple thought that he will return sparks something small and shameful inside me. I try to smother it at once, reminding myself that he is not my savior and that I'm not allowed to cling to illusions.
Clarisse takes a careful step toward me, as if approaching a wounded animal that might bite on instinct.
"I've prepared a warm bath and clean clothes," she says simply. "You need to rest."
Her tone isn't pitying. It's practical. Normal. And that normality strikes harder than any threat.
While Hugo explains something brief to Clarisse, I drift slowly toward the window, drawn by the light spilling beyond the glass.
The window is large and solid, its handle cold beneath my fingers. When I look outside, I see no roads, no houses, no people—only forest stretching as far as the eye can reach and a vast white expanse of snow that seems to swallow every trace of life.
For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to run—to race down the stairs, find a side door, vanish before anyone can stop me. The thought sends a sharp, almost electric tremor through me.
What if I could make it downstairs? What if I could get past the gates? What if I ran and never stopped?
My eyes dart around the room, instinctively searching for other doors, other exits, a balcony—any sign that I might force an escape. But before I can shape the beginnings of a coherent plan, I hear Hugo's soft laugh behind me.
"Don't even think about it," he says, not unkindly, almost amused. "We're isolated. Beyond the castle gates there's nothing but the Siberian tundra, and believe me—you don't want to meet it without proper clothes and food."
I turn to face him, meeting his eyes, stubborn.
"I could try," I say, though I know it sounds more like pride than an actual plan.
He crosses his arms and studies me for a moment, as if weighing how serious I am.
"You'd die in a few hours. Maybe sooner," he says simply. "Better to stay here, in the warm, be smart, and regain your strength."
His tone is light, almost playful, but beneath it I sense no exaggeration—just a truth delivered almost kindly.
I turn back to the window and stare at the endless white stretch, no village on the horizon, no distant flicker of light, and I begin to understand that escape, in my case, wouldn't mean freedom. It would just be a quicker form of suicide.
My shoulders sag, and I let go of the idea, which was more reflex than solution anyway.
"See?" he says. "It's better here than out there."
I don't answer, because as much as it angers me to admit it, he's right—and the fact that this place can be "better" than any alternative frightens me more than iron bars ever could.
When I'm finally alone in the room, the silence that settles over me feels different from the silence of the cell. It isn't heavy or crushing; it doesn't press against my chest. It's soft, warm, almost protective.
I move slowly toward the bed and touch the clean white sheet, feeling the fine texture beneath my fingers, the faint warmth it seems to hold. I'll sleep here until I regain my strength, because Hugo is right—and if I want to survive, I need a clear mind and an intact body.
But before sleep, there's something I need more than anything else: a bath.
I peel off the foul-smelling shirt, stiff with dried blood, and toss it into the bin without looking at it again, as if shedding an old skin that no longer belongs to me. Then I step into the bathroom.
When I sink into the tub and the hot water envelops my frozen body, I feel my muscles loosen, the cold in my bones begin to melt, and for the first time in a long while, my breathing grows deeper, steadier.
I close my eyes and let the water rise over my shoulders, my neck, until I slip beneath it completely for a few seconds. In that dense, muffled quiet under the surface, I repeat to myself that I want to live—that I didn't endure everything I've endured just to be broken now.
If I want to survive, I have to be smart. I have to listen more than I speak. I have to observe, memorize every detail, every shift in tone, every door that opens, every glance that slips away.
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