Read Chapter 28: A Prince's Rescue

The bell began in the deepest hour of night, when the castle slept and the watch had turned their eyes to the dark beyond the walls. Not the low solemn toll of mourning, nor the measured ring of ceremony—this was the *coro*, the great wedding bell of Aurenne, and it screamed like a thing possessed.

Elara was awake before the third stroke. She had been awake for most of the night anyway, her mind turning over the frost-blossom wrapped in silk beside her pillow, the weight of her father's journal hidden in her saddlebag, and the warmth of Alaric's confession still fresh on her skin. The bell shattered all of it.

She threw on a leather tunic and boots, not bothering with the layers of court dress. Her hand found the short sword she had trained with since girlhood—the one her mother had insisted upon, against all Valdris custom, when Elara was eight years old. *A princess who cannot defend herself is a hostage waiting to happen,* her mother had said.

The corridors were chaos. Serving girls ran past with candles guttering out, guards shouted overlapping orders, and somewhere below, the clash of steel rang against stone. Elara grabbed a young guard by the arm. "What's happening?"

"The Duke's men, Your Highness—they've turned the south gate. Lady Voss leads them."

*Lady Voss.* Elara had met her once, a lean woman with a scar through her eyebrow who had served the Duke with a loyalty bordering on worship. Of course she would take up his cause.

"The King," Elara said. "Where is he?"

"Taken, Your Highness. They dragged him toward the east tower."

The east tower. The highest point in the castle, a slender spire used for star-watching, with only one staircase and no other exit. Whoever held the top controlled the approach.

Elara's mind moved faster than her feet. "Who holds the loyal guard?"

"Captain Renard holds the courtyard. He sent me to find you—to get you to safety."

"Safe is not where I'm going." Elara drew her sword. "Gather every man you trust and follow me."

---

The east tower stair was narrow enough that only two could climb abreast, which meant the Duke's men could hold it against a hundred. Elara paused at the base of the first landing, studying the spiral. Above her, torchlight flickered, and she heard the murmur of voices.

She turned to the guard behind her—a young man with a fresh face and terrified eyes. "Your name?"

"Marcel, Your Highness."

"Marcel. I need you to cause a distraction. Make noise at the courtyard entrance, draw their eyes down. When you hear them shift, pull back and hide. Do not engage."

"Your Highness, you'll be alone—"

"I'm counting on it."

Marcel swallowed, then nodded and ran back down the stairs. Elara pressed herself against the wall, the cold stone biting through her tunic. She counted heartbeats. Twenty, thirty, forty—

A shout rang up from the courtyard. "To me! Loyal guards, to me! The Princess is cornered!"

Boots thundered above her. The Duke's men on the landing snapped to attention, and two of them started down the stairs, weapons drawn. Elara flattened herself into the shadow of an alcove, and they passed within inches of her, their focus entirely downward.

She moved then, silent as a cat, taking the stairs two at a time. At the next landing, a single guard turned—too slow. Her pommel connected with his temple and he crumpled without a sound. She caught his torch before it could clatter, plunged it into the waiting sconce, and continued.

The top of the tower opened into a circular room with windows on every side. The night sky poured in, stars scattered like spilled salt across the heavens. And there, bound hand and foot to a chair at the room's center, was Alaric.

His face was bruised, one eye swollen half-shut, but when he saw her, he smiled—a crooked, defiant smile that made her chest ache. "You came alone?"

"I came with a plan."

Behind him stood Lady Voss, a blade pressed to Alaric's throat. She was as Elara remembered—lean, scarred, cool-eyed. "Princess Elara," she said, almost pleasantly. "The Duke predicted you would try something reckless. He did not predict you would be so foolish as to come alone."

"The Duke is dead," Elara said. "Lying in a Valdris prison cell. His cause died with him."

"His cause lives in me." Lady Voss pressed the blade harder, and a bead of blood welled along Alaric's neck. "The old order will return. The peace-marriage dies with its king."

Elara's grip tightened on her sword. She could see the room in its entirety—the window behind Lady Voss, the rope coiled in the corner, the narrow door she had come through. She had one chance, and she needed an opening.

"The Duke's cause died the moment he tried to curse a wedding," Elara said, keeping her voice steady. "Tell me, Lady Voss—do you truly believe a man who poisoned his own brother deserves your loyalty?"

Something flickered in the woman's eyes. Confusion. A crack in the certainty.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Duke's brother. The true king of Valdris." Elara took a half-step forward. "He was murdered for the throne. Did the Duke tell you that? Or did he leave that part out?"

Lady Voss's blade wavered—barely, but enough. "You lie."

"Ask the cult in the mountains. Ask the talismans sewn into my trousseau." Elara let her voice drop. "You serve a dead man's shadow, Lady Voss. Lay down your blade, and I will see you treated with honor. A trial, not a hanging."

The woman's eyes flickered, and in that instant, Alaric moved.

He threw his weight sideways, the chair tipping, the blade scraping across his cheek instead of his throat. Lady Voss stumbled, reaching for balance, and Elara was already in motion.

Her sword came up, parrying Lady Voss's wild swing. The clang of steel echoed through the tower. They exchanged three quick blows—Elara giving ground, reading the woman's form, finding the weakness. Lady Voss fought with power, but power was slow.

Elara was fast.

She feinted low, then swept her blade high, catching Lady Voss's wrist. The woman's sword clattered to the floor. Elara kicked it away and put her blade to Lady Voss's throat.

"Move," Elara said, "and I will not hesitate."

She cut Alaric's bindings with a swift stroke, and he stood, swaying, catching her shoulder for balance. Below, the sounds of battle were fading. Shouts of victory—Valdris voices, loyal voices.

"It's over, Lady Voss," Elara said. "Your coup is finished."

The woman spat. "You think this ends with me? There are others. The Duke's web is deeper than you know. Spiders in every court, waiting."

Elara met her eyes. "Then I will burn the web."

She shoved Lady Voss toward the door, where loyal guards had appeared, led by Marcel. They took the woman into custody, dragging her down the stairs.

And then it was just Elara and Alaric in the tower, the night wind cutting through the windows.

"Your face," she said, touching the cut on his cheek.

"It's nothing." He caught her hand, pressed it to his lips. "You came for me."

"I always will." She looked away, toward the rope in the corner. "We need to go. The court will want explanations, and we are not staying."

"Where?"

"The mountains. The cure. We leave tonight, before Lady Voss's spiders learn we're gone."

Alaric followed her gaze to the rope, then out the window to the darkness beyond the castle walls. "You destroyed the bridge?"

"I cut it on my way up. The only way down is the rope." She smiled, a flash of the old reckless spark. "Trust me?"

He laughed, low and warm. "Always."

They took the rope together, sliding into the night.

---