Xiana's hand was still tingling from the shove—her palm red, her fingers spread wide as if she could push again, as if she could undo what she'd just done. She stood frozen in the hallway, the study door hanging open behind her, the lamplight spilling across the floor in a golden wedge that reached for her feet. The guard she'd pushed had stumbled back, caught off guard by the force of a nine-year-old's desperation, but he was already recovering, already reaching, his fingers curling into a fist.

The sound came from inside the study. Wet. Precise. A blade finding flesh. Ovoale's cry—sharp, high, torn from somewhere deep—cut through the air like a shard of glass, and then the sound changed. Became wetter. Thicker. A gurgle that stopped Xiana's breath in her throat.

Her sister was still alive. That sound meant she was still alive. But it was the kind of alive that came with blood on the floor, with a blade that had already tasted her, with hands that would not stop until they were done.

Xiana's body moved before her mind caught up. Her bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor—icy, rough, the grit of dust and tracked-in dirt grinding against her soles—and she ran. The corridor blurred past her, the torches on the walls streaming into ribbons of orange light, the shadows of pillars stretching long and grasping across her path. She could hear the guard behind her shouting, his boots heavy on the stone, but she did not look back.

The stairs rose before her. Wide, carved from the same pale stone as the rest of the palace, their edges worn smooth by generations of feet. She took them two at a time, her hands catching the banister, her breath ragged and burning in her chest. Her lungs were too small. Her legs were too short. Every step felt like she was running through honey, through water, through something thick that wanted to hold her back, and behind her the boots grew louder, heavier, closer.

She reached the landing and kept going. Up another flight, her thighs burning, her vision starting to blur at the edges from tears she refused to shed. She could taste salt on her lips. Could feel the wetness tracking down her cheeks. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her skin, and kept running.

The bedchamber floor. She knew this corridor by heart—knew which floorboards creaked, which doors stuck in their frames, where the tapestries hung and where one had a frayed corner from the time Ovoale had snagged it with her bracelet. She knew which room was Imaria's by the small dent in the door where she'd once thrown a shoe in anger, aiming at Ovoale and missing. She knew this place the way she knew her mother's hands, the way she knew the sound of her father's footsteps in the hall.

The latch was cold under her fingers. She pushed.

The door swung open, and she slipped inside.

Imaria's room smelled like her sister—leather and lavender, the oil she used on her training gear mixed with the dried flowers she kept in a small clay pot on her windowsill. The bed was made, the covers pulled tight and straight, the way Imaria always left them. A book lay open on the nightstand, facedown, spine cracked. A training tunic hung over the back of a chair, one sleeve still damp with sweat.

Xiana pressed her back against the door, her hand finding the lock and sliding it home with a click that sounded too loud in the sudden silence. Her chest heaved. Her legs shook. She pressed her palm flat over her heart, feeling it hammer against her ribs, a wild and desperate rhythm that did not slow.

The footsteps in the corridor did not stop.

They grew closer. Heavier. A measured, deliberate tread that did not hurry—did not need to hurry—because the man wearing those boots knew exactly where she had gone. He had seen her take the stairs. Had heard her feet slap against the stone. Had followed the sound of her breathing like a hound on a scent, and now he was here, in the hallway outside Imaria's door, and the floorboards creaked under his weight as he stopped.

Xiana's hand flew to her mouth. She bit down on her knuckles, hard enough to feel the bone beneath the skin, and held her breath. The lock on the door was old. The brass was tarnished, the mechanism worn from years of use. She had seen it stick before—had watched Imaria jiggle the key to get it to catch—and she knew, with a cold certainty that settled in her stomach like a stone, that one good shove would snap it.

The guard hit the door.

The wood shuddered in its frame. A crack ran through the upper panel, thin as a hair, branching like a vein. The lock rattled, the metal groaning, and Xiana stumbled back from the door, her eyes fixed on the latch as it trembled, as it held.

"Girl." The guard's voice was low, rough, the voice of a man who had spent years giving orders and watching them obeyed. "Open the door."

Xiana shook her head. A stupid gesture—he could not see her—but she did it anyway, her whole body rejecting the command even as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. She backed away from the door, her feet carrying her across the rug, past the foot of the bed, until her shoulders hit the wall beneath the window.

The window.

She turned, her fingers finding the latch, cold iron biting into her skin. She pushed it up, the frame scraping against the stone, and a rush of night air hit her face—cool and damp, carrying the smell of grass and earth and something burning in the distance. She leaned out, her hands gripping the sill, and looked down.

The ground was far. Too far. A drop that would break her legs, her back, her neck. The flagstones of the courtyard gleamed faintly in the moonlight, pale and unyielding, and she could see the shadows of guards moving near the gate, torches flickering, the glint of steel.

Behind her, the guard hit the door again. The lock groaned. The wood splintered.

Xiana looked at the window frame, her eyes searching desperately for something—anything—that would save her. And then she saw it. A rope. Thick, coarse, tied to a hook driven into the stone beside the window frame, the kind of rope left behind by servants who had been repairing the shutters, or perhaps by Imaria herself, for reasons Xiana did not know and did not care to question. It hung down the side of the palace, disappearing into the darkness below.

The door slammed open.

The lock shattered, the brass mechanism skittering across the floor, and the guard stood in the doorway, his silhouette filling the frame, his blade still wet with something dark that caught the lamplight.

Xiana did not think. She moved.

She climbed onto the windowsill, her bare feet finding purchase on the cold stone, her hands reaching for the rope. The fibers were rough, abrasive, biting into her palms as she gripped them, and for a moment she hung there, suspended between the room behind her and the drop below, her body trembling, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

"Girl!" The guard's voice was sharper now, edged with something that might have been fear—fear of losing her, fear of what his master would do if he returned without all two princesses. "Stop!"

Xiana looked back over her shoulder. The guard was moving toward her, his boots heavy on the floorboards, his hand outstretched to grab her. She saw his face—ruddy and scarred, with small eyes set too close together, a mouth twisted into a snarl. She saw the blood on his blade, still wet, still red, still warm.

She thought of Ovoale. Of the wet sound her sister's cry had become. Of the phone left on the floor, still connected, carrying her screams to their father's ears as he rode through the dark, trying to reach them, trying to close a distance that was only growing wider.

She thought of her mother. Of Phuwin's hands in her hair, braiding it with slow, careful strokes, humming a song that had no words. Of the way her mother smiled when she thought no one was watching—small and sad and full of a weight no one should have to carry alone.

"Mama," she whispered, her voice cracking, the word breaking apart in her throat. "Mama, I love you."

She did not wait for an answer. She did not look back again. She turned her face to the night, gripped the rope with both hands, and began to climb down.

The rope burned against her palms as she descended, the coarse fibers scraping skin she could already feel growing raw. She did not slow. She could not slow. Above her, the guard's shadow filled the window, his bulk blocking the lamplight, and she heard him curse—a low, guttural sound that followed her down into the dark.

Her feet found the wall, pushing off, letting her slide a little faster, a little farther. The rope swayed beneath her weight, swinging her in a slow arc across the stone face of the palace, and she could feel the strain in her arms, the trembling in her shoulders, the ache that was already settling into her muscles like a warning. She was nine. She was small. She had climbed trees before—had scaled the old oak in the garden with Imaria spotting her from below—but this was different. This was stone and shadow and a drop that would not forgive a mistake.

Above, the guard leaned out. She saw his hand reach for the rope, saw his fingers close around the air where her head had been a moment before, and then he was gone, pulled back inside by the frame of the window, too broad to follow her down.

She kept climbing.

The rope was old. She could feel it in the way it gave beneath her grip, in the way the fibers had worn thin in places, rubbing against the stone edge of the window frame for years until they were frayed and soft. She did not think about that. Could not think about that. She thought only of her hands—left, right, left, right—and the distance she was covering, inch by inch, foot by foot, the ground growing closer with every breath she forced into her burning lungs.

Her legs wrapped around the rope, holding her steady as she paused, her arms screaming, her fingers cramping. She looked down. The courtyard was still far—too far—but closer than it had been. She could see the flagstones now, could make out the cracks between them, the pale gleam of moonlight on wet stone. She could see the shadows moving near the gate, torches flickering, the shapes of men in armor, their voices carrying up to her in fragments she could not piece together.

She started moving again. Down. One hand after the other. Her palms were slick with sweat, the rope slipping under her grip, and she had to stop, had to wipe her hands on her dress, the fabric rough against her raw skin. She tasted salt. Tears, or sweat, or blood from where she had bitten her lip. She did not know. She did not care.

The rope jerked.

She froze, her heart lurching into her throat. Above her, the rope had shifted, the fibers groaning as the hook in the stone worked loose, the ancient iron scraping against the mortar. She could hear it—a grinding, a creaking, the slow and terrible sound of something giving way.

She did not have time to think. Did not have time to brace. The hook came free with a sound like a snapped bone, and the rope went slack in her hands, and she was falling.

The air rushed past her, cold and fast, whipping her hair across her face. She hit the ground before she could scream—a jarring, brutal impact that drove the breath from her lungs and sent a shock of white-hot pain through her leg. The rope had tangled around her ankle, twisted and pulled tight, and she felt herself roll, felt the grass and dirt scrape against her arms, her cheek, her back, until she came to a stop on her stomach, her face pressed into the cold earth, her body one long throb of pain.

She lay there for a moment, her eyes open, her mouth open, trying to remember how to breathe. The air came back in a gasp—sharp, ragged, painful—and she coughed, her chest heaving, her hands digging into the dirt as she pushed herself up onto her elbows.

Her leg was wrong. She could feel it in the way the weight sat, in the angle of her ankle, in the hot, pulsing ache that radiated up her calf. She looked down and saw the rope still wrapped around her foot, the fibers biting into her skin, and she reached for it with trembling fingers, pulling at the knots, working them loose with desperate, clumsy movements.

The rope fell away. She pushed herself to her feet, her ankle screaming, her vision swimming, and she stood there in the grass at the base of the palace wall, swaying, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

The courtyard was quiet. The guards near the gate had not seen her—their backs were turned, their attention fixed on something beyond the walls, something that had drawn them into a tight knot, their voices low and urgent. The torches flickered, casting long shadows across the flagstones, and the moon hung overhead, pale and indifferent, watching her with its cold, distant eye.

Xiana took a step. Her ankle buckled, and she stumbled, catching herself on the wall, her palms scraping against the rough stone. She took another step. Then another. She moved along the wall, keeping to the shadows, her hand trailing against the cold stone, her eyes fixed on the gate ahead of her, on the darkness beyond it, on the freedom that waited on the other side.

She did not know where she was going. Did not have a plan. She only knew that she could not stay here, could not let them find her, could not let them take her the way they had taken Ovoale, the way they had taken her mother. She had to get out. Had to find help. Had to find her father, or Star, or someone—anyone—who could stop this.

She rounded the corner of the wall, and she stopped.

The body lay in the grass, half-hidden in the shadow of a low hedge, the moonlight catching on a pool of dark that spread beneath it, staining the earth black. Xiana's breath caught in her throat. She knew the dress—knew the worn fabric, the faded embroidery, the way it hung loose on a frame that had always been too thin. She knew the hair, dark and tangled, spread across the ground like a spill of ink.

"Aunty," she whispered, the word escaping her before she could stop it.

Star lay on her back, her eyes open to the sky, her mouth slack and wet with blood. A wound in her stomach—wide, ugly, still seeping—had soaked through her dress, through the grass beneath her, and her hands were pressed against it, as if she had tried to hold herself together, tried to keep the life from leaking out of her. The blood had pooled between her fingers, had run down her wrists, had dried in dark streaks along her arms.

Xiana's legs gave out. She fell to her knees in the grass, the impact jarring her injured ankle, sending a spike of pain up her leg, but she did not feel it. She crawled forward, her hands finding Star's shoulder, her face, her chest—searching for a sign, for a breath, for anything that would tell her this was not what it looked like.

"Aunty," she said again, her voice breaking. "Aunty, wake up."

Star did not move.

Xiana pressed her hand to Star's chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for the rise and fall of breath. There was nothing. The skin was cool beneath her palm, cooling, the warmth already fading into the night air.

"No," Xiana said, the word small and thin. "No, no, no."

She hit Star's chest with her fist. Once. Twice. A desperate, futile gesture, the kind of thing she had seen the healers do when someone stopped breathing, when there was still time, still hope. But there was no time. There was no hope. Star was gone, and Xiana knew it, knew it in the way her aunt's eyes stared at nothing, in the way her mouth hung open, in the way the blood had stopped flowing from the wound, settling into a dark, still pool.

Xiana's hand found Star's. She held it, the fingers cold and stiff, and she knelt there in the grass, her shoulders shaking, her tears falling onto Star's chest, onto the blood-soaked fabric of her dress, onto the earth that was drinking it in.

She did not know how long she stayed there. Minutes, or seconds, or an hour—time had lost its shape, had become something thick and slow and meaningless. The sounds of the palace drifted around her—shouting, footsteps, the clash of metal somewhere in the distance—but they seemed to come from very far away, from another world, a world she had left behind when she had climbed out that window.

Her mother's face rose in her mind. Phuwin's hands in her hair. Her father's voice, low and steady, reading stories by the fire. Imaria's laugh, bright and sharp, as she chased her through the gardens. Ovoale's chatter, endless and warm, filling the silence of their shared room.

She let go of Star's hand.

She stood up, her ankle screaming, her body aching, her vision blurry with tears she did not bother to wipe away. She turned toward the gate, toward the darkness beyond it, toward the road that led away from the palace, into the night, into a world she did not know and did not understand.

She took a step. Then another. Her ankle gave with every step, sending jolts of pain up her leg, but she did not stop. She limped forward, her arms wrapped around herself, her breath hitching in her chest, until she reached the edge of the courtyard, until the flagstones gave way to dirt and gravel, until the gate loomed before her, open and unguarded, the guards having moved deeper into the grounds, chasing sounds she could not hear.

She passed through the gate. The road stretched before her, pale in the moonlight, lined with trees that bent and swayed in the wind. She walked. She did not know where she was going. She only knew she could not stop.

The trees blurred. The road tilted. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed beside a tree at the edge of the road, her back against the rough bark, her head falling forward, her vision darkening at the edges.

She thought of her mother's hands. Of the song with no words. Of the way Phuwin had kissed her forehead every night, had whispered her name like a prayer, had held her close and promised her that everything would be all right.

She thought of her father, riding through the dark, trying to reach them, trying to close a distance that was only growing wider.

"Daddy," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Daddy, I'm here."

The darkness closed in. The world went black.