From Everstone's highest tower, she began her escape.

Remira pressed her palm to the wall. Footfalls traveled through stone into her skin—the same rhythm she'd known for years, as predictable as her own heartbeat.

Below, the new watch began their routes, and above, the iron chandelier groaned on its chains.

Tonight's wind was fierce enough to make even Everstone's ancient bones complain.

Good.

Wind meant noise and noise meant cover.

Down the spiral stairs, her soft-soled boots whispered promises with each step; "You're leaving, You're finally leaving." The satchel at her waist—Oz's gift from her thirteenth Naming Day—clinked softly with its precious cargo. Six months of stolen copper coins, a silver piece lifted from a drunk lordling's purse, and two garnets pried from a broken brooch. It would have to be enough until she could make coin herself.

She paused at the landing, listening. Silence, except for the wind.

The stone owl above had witnessed her twice today: descending at dawn like a queen—tiara catching light, dark silk pooling at each step, and returning at dusk—lip weeping blood and left eye swollen shut.

Now, those carved eyes witnessed someone else entirely—a desperate, no, a determined girl slipping through the servants' quarters.

She'd oiled its hinges weeks ago with butter stolen from the kitchens, sneaking down during the pre-dawn bread making when servants were too busy to notice. The door swung open silently, releasing the air of a different world—one that smelled of work instead of perfume and fear.

Inside, ghost-scents hung thick: garlic and rosemary, yesterday's roast, and beneath it all, a faint sweetness. Raspberry pie.

Her tongue traced the jagged tear in her lip. A gift from Father's rings. It must have been Siddharth's idea of medicine. She remembered him entering the study only after Father had swept out, leaving her on the cold floor.

Sugar to mask the copper.

She shook her head and gripped the satchel tighter. The vials of dye in her satchel clinked softly against the coins. Black dye, brown, even a precious bottle of yellow. Anything but crimson.

Three minutes. The corridor would be empty for another three minutes. The great hall would be chaos right now—nobles departing after the ball, servants loading coaches, guards distracted by drunk lordlings. She just had to reach the courtyard unseen and slip into a luggage compartment while the footmen loaded trunks. More than half the nobles were leaving for the coast tonight. Six hours by carriage, according to the maps. Only six hours hidden among their belongings, then she'd slip out at the port. She had eight. Eight hours until Siddharth woke her for morning instructions. Eight hours until Father would know of her disappearance.

From there, west to the ocean. Book passage south with the coins she'd saved. Tell them she was a merchant's daughter. Or better—a seamstress seeking work. She could sew well enough to eat. Well enough to live. Well enough to start anew.

The servant stairs just ahead would take her straight down to the courtyard. From there she could—

A low metallic rhythm reached her ears—the muted clink of armor, echoing from behind. She froze mid-stride.

The guards changed shifts at the bell. Always at the bell. She'd counted, she'd watched, she'd—

The corridor stretched ahead and behind. No doors. No alcoves. Just stone and shadow and...

Windows.

Wind howled against its frame, snow whirling beyond the glass. Four hundred feet down. But the guards were twenty feet away. Ten.

She ran for it.

The latch was frozen shut, ice sealing it to the frame. The footsteps quickened behind her. She braced her shoulder against the frame and shoved.

They were almost on her.

She bit down on her lip and shoved harder, muscles trembling as the frame groaned in protest until it finally gave in with a brittle crack.

Wind drove ice into her face, nearly knocking her backward. The dry, frigid air stung her eyes, making them water instantly. She fought through it, hauling herself over the sill, her dress catching and tearing on jagged wood. Her boots found the narrow ledge and she pressed herself flat against the outer wall. Snow clung to her immediately, melting against her skin then freezing again.

"What in Olbaid's den set him off tonight?" a voice cut through the wind's roar, just inside. She recognized the entitled whine—Lord Rathborn's third son, six months out of training.

"The Ashensong Minuet." Another familiar voice reached her ears, calm as ever. Gervain's sigh carried the weight of twenty years' service before he continued on, "She fell. And you know how he is about the old dances."

Through the frost-hazed glass, she saw them stop directly in front of the window. If they turned their heads—

"Fell!?" Rathborn muttered. "He threw her down. And then, later that night he—"

"Mind your tongue, Hedric."

"I'm just saying what we all saw. She's what, sixteen? My daughter's age. No one deserves—"

"Seventeen!" Gervain snapped. "And your daughter isn't heir to the North. Such talk will get you sent to the border!"

"When she thinks no one's looking," Hedric said quietly, "have you seen the way she holds her ribs? Could you imagine being in that tight corset and—"

Wind tried to peel her from the stone. Her fingers were already numb against the frozen ledge.

The latch gave way with a sudden snap, and the window swung open violently, revealing the guards inside.

She hugged the wall, keeping just out of sight. Their voices continued, but the words were too faint to catch. Then the window slammed shut. Click. Locked from inside.

The cold bit through her bodice, seizing her ribs. Her bare arms went numb, legs losing feeling beneath the torn hem—that dangerous numbness before frostbite.

She dared a glance downward. The courtyard torches glimmered tiny and distant—four hundred feet of empty air. The pines loomed like spears, ready to kill her if the fall didn't first.

She pressed her cheek to the cold stone, rough against her skin, grit biting into her jaw. The ledge was barely a handspan wide. Maybe less. She inched forward, one boot sliding along the ice-slick stone, then the other, testing each step before daring to shift her weight. Her hands scraped against the wall, fingers trembling, clutching any uneven surface she could find.

One window. She paused, chest tight, pushing the window inward—locked. Listening to the wind howl past her ears, she eased herself sideways another ten feet, second window—locked. Her fingers went numb, boots gliding against frost, but she pressed on. Third window—light blazing from within, a warm glow she couldn't reach, taunting her. She cursed under her breath, shoving herself sideways over jagged stone. Her boot slipped against the slick ledge, heart leaping as she clawed at the stone, pressing herself flat to avoid a fall.

Wind screamed past, icy and biting, and for a heartbeat she imagined the fall—four hundred feet of empty air, the sharp, frozen pines waiting below. She drew deep, shuddering breaths, forcing herself to calm the panic swelling in her chest, every nerve screaming that she could die in an instant.

She crouched low, steadying herself, forcing her trembling limbs to obey, shoving sideways with renewed care. Each inch felt like a mile. The wind lashed her skirts, tugging at her gown like it wanted to pitch her off the edge. The old portrait gallery window loomed ahead. Darkness swallowed the panes, promising nothing but uncertainty. The frame was swollen with age and damp. She pressed her hands against it, knuckles whitening. Nothing.

She bit down on her lip and shoved harder. The latch gave with a shriek that seemed to echo forever, and she scrambled, half-falling, half-diving through. Elbows and knees struck the frame as she landed hard on dust-choked boards, the sting of impact making her gasp.

For a long moment, she couldn't move. She lay there, shaking—from cold, from fear, from the impossible audacity of what she'd just done. Her gown clung to her, scraped and wet, her arms sore from clutching stone. The wind rattled the window she had escaped through, a reminder of the void outside. Crawling along a narrow ledge in a ballgown. In winter. Four hundred feet up.

The bell tolled twice. She flinched, eyes darting to the shadowed corners of the gallery.

Quarter past eleven. Forty-five minutes until the castle was sealed.

She forced herself up, her side screaming where she'd struck the floor.

The old portrait gallery stretched into darkness ahead, paintings covering every wall from floor to vaulted ceiling. Father had forbidden it since she was seven. Since the blood.

Her wand cast weak blue light across the first painting: a woman hanging from an oak, silver hair tangled in branches. Serene in death. The plaque read: The Divine Mother.

The second: a great tree fell at dawn, tiny winged figures grieving at its roots. The Necessary Clearing. She knew this story—from an old fairy tale, when the wood threatened to grow across even the sea.

The third painting stopped her cold.

Golden hills rolled beneath a sky caught between day and night. The Ashensong Fields. She knew them from dream and story, though never from sight. Here was the heart of the old kingdom, before the walls, before daughters became weapons and fathers became monsters. Something deep in her chest twisted—longing so sharp it felt like recognition.

Fields of ashensong grain rippled, and through them a lone dancer moved—barefoot, arms raised, sending waves through the wheat. The dance she'd failed tonight. The one that earned her Father's rings across her mouth.

Behind her, wind howled through the broken window. The frame slammed against stone hard enough to shake the wall. The painting beside her—massive, gilt-framed—tipped forward.

She raised her wand instinctively, blue light catching it mid-fall. As she lowered it gently to the floor, she saw she held her father's portrait. His hand gripped the shoulder of a woman sitting before him. Crimson hair spilling over white silk. Belly swollen with child.

Mother. Pregnant with her.

The sight of that hand—possessive even in paint—was a lit match to dry tinder.

The blue light of her wand bled crimson.

The portrait ignited. No roar, just silent consumption. His face curled to ash first, then his hand, freeing the painted woman beneath. But as flames ate through canvas, another image emerged from behind the frame.

The same woman. Alone this time. Standing.

The Crimson Queen gazed out with eyes that held no madness, only infinite sadness. One hand rested protectively on her pregnant belly. Her hair flowed like liquid fire—the exact shade that now pulsed through Remira's veins.

Remira's knees wavered before she sank to them. The wand struck stone, a hollow clatter that echoed in the sudden quiet. Magic had scoured her hollow, left her tasting copper and breathing ash.

The dye she'd applied so carefully this morning began to burn away. Black crumbled to ash, flaking from her scalp like burnt paper. Beneath, crimson emerged—not the violent red of fresh blood, but something richer. Wine held to firelight. The last ember of a dying star.

The transformation felt like drowning in reverse. Each strand that revealed itself pulled something from deep within her chest—not pain, but release. Years of suffocation peeling away with the dye. Her scalp tingled with electric warmth, spreading down her spine like fever, like freedom, like the first breath after being held underwater.

"Why?" The word escaped as barely a whisper. "Why must I suffer for your sins?"

The painted queen's expression softened in the firelight—or perhaps that was merely canvas surrendering to flame, oils bubbling and running like tears down a melting face.

Then the bell tolled.

Too early for any proper hour, too quick for ceremony.

Once.

Her spine pressed harder against stone.

Twice.

Three times. The bronze voice rang with an urgency that locked her joints, sent cold spreading from her spine to her fingertips.

In the ringing silence that followed, she heard them—footsteps in the corridor beyond. Not the measured tread of guards on patrol. She knew these gaits like she knew her own scars. Quick, nervous steps, each heel strike precise despite the speed and an unhurried stride, the particular weight that came from centuries of walking these same stones.

Fear lent her strength where magic had stolen it. She crawled to the door, pressed her eye to the keyhole. The corridor swam into focus, torchlight painting her sister's profile.

"—her bed hasn't been slept in." Alice's voice, tight with panic. "Siddharth, she's finally done it!"

"Lower your voice." His tone flat as winter ice. "The King entertains. What do you mean, 'done it'?"

"Escaped! Fled! When she fell during the dance—that was fear. I haven't seen her look at Father like that since Mother died."

"Yes. I noticed." A pause. "I will mobilize the Mage-Knights. Quietly and order them to keep watch over every gate and bridge. I will post watchers in the hamlets as well."

"Won't that alert Father?"

"We are taking precautions. Nothing more."

Alice turned to face him. Remira could see her profile through the keyhole—jaw tight, hands clenched.

Through the keyhole, Remira watched her sister's profile—jaw tight, hands clenched. They'd been seven, playing in this very gallery, draped in dusty curtains pretending to be the painted ladies. Then the assassin's blade found Alice's mother. Alice was in her mother's arms when blood sprayed across three paintings. Alice still carried the scar across her temple—an inch lower and she'd have died too.

Father had sealed the gallery that day. But he hadn't stopped the violence.

"She's my sister!" Alice's voice cracked. "How long have you known?"

"Known what?"

"The perfect posture. The silence. It was never just discipline, was it?"

"No. You saw the east wing last summer—stone melted like butter. Three turned to ash. From a spark."

A pause.

"The crimson doesn't care. When she stops being afraid and starts being angry—"

"So Father keeps her afraid."

"By breaking her."

"By smothering the fire before it becomes a blaze. Others would use her to burn cities, raze kingdoms. This castle is the only thing protecting her from becoming a weapon."

The bell rang again. Once. Twice.

"The bells." Alice's composure cracked completely. "Why are they—"

Three times.

Four.

"The bells, they're off schedule. Why?"

The blood drained from Alice's face like water from a broken cup. Even through the keyhole, Remira could see her sister's mask shatter and rebuild itself in the space between heartbeats.

Five.

"Five means—" Alice's voice caught on the word.

"That we've a threat in the castle."

But the bells did not stop. The sixth followed. Enemy at the gate? Man the battlements?

"Siddharth, what is going—"

And then the seventh.

"Bar the—? What about Remira?"

"Indeed, what about her? She is more deadly than any mage in this realm." His voice was ice. "So I say again, return to your quarters. Bar the door. You will not approach her."

"No. I'm going to find Remira. Maybe I can talk to—"

"If you must be useful, alert the Mage-Knights. Have them watch the roads, the hamlets. If she breaches the castle walls, they are to send crimson sparks into the sky. Do not engage. Do not approach. Signal only."

"Crimson sparks. Like her magic."

"Precisely. The King will know what it means. Now go."

Footsteps—Alice's quick retreat, Siddharth's measured stride toward the bell tower.

Remira pressed her back against the door. Six months of careful preparation, gone. No carriages would leave now. No servants would be loading trunks. The gates would seal. Bridges would raise. Guards at every post.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to think. The servants' passages—no, Siddharth had ordered them searched. The crypts—Alice knew her hiding spots. The roof—crawling with guards by now.

Every door she'd oiled. Every route she'd memorized. Every coin she'd stolen. Worthless.

Her breathing came faster, shallower. Seventeen years in this cage and she'd actually believed—

A sob caught in her throat—half despair, half desperate hope. She was going to die here. If not tonight, then tomorrow when Father found her. If not tomorrow, then next week, next month, next year. In these walls. By his hands.

Unless...

Wind howled through the window's fractured panes. It tore at her cloak, clawing and pulling, not with greed but with invitation. It seemed to whisper, I will take you away from all this.

The gallery felt smaller with each breath. Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling. Always stone. Even the air tasted of stone—dust and centuries and suffocation.

She backed away from the door. Her body trembled as she stepped forward, drawn by the logic of it. She pressed her hands to the icy, splintered sill. The cold bit into her palms, a final, sharp sensation. She could see far below, the snow-covered forest that blurred into a soft, white expanse. Not paradise, not peace, but oblivion—a final, silent promise.

No more waking to his footsteps in the hall. No more lessons until her feet bled. No more raspberry pie to mask the copper.

She could choose. For the first time in her life, no command, no expectation, no hand guided her next breath. The choice was hers alone.

She leaned out into the storm. The wind caught her hair, whipping strands of crimson across her face. Frozen air seared her lungs. Below, the snow stretched wide and waiting—a blank page, untouched, endless. Freedom, whispered something inside her.

But as she stared down, it wasn't a page she saw. It was herself—a broken shape crumpled against white, a smear of red across the snow. A masterpiece, her father might have called it, his final claim over her body, her silence, her story.

No.

The word tore through her—not a thought, but a violent shudder, a pulse of refusal that rippled up from somewhere deep, somewhere still alive. Her fingers spasmed on the sill. What would her death change? She would be a whisper in the court's still air. Alice would take the crown—dutiful, unbroken. Her father would deliver his perfect eulogy, his voice smooth as silk, and the world would nod in agreement for the fragile daughter the North had tragically lost.

They would not mourn her.

They would erase her.

Her hands slipped from the window's edge and she stumbled back, spine striking the cold wall, breath leaving her in a single, raw gasp. The shock of stone against bone hurt—but it was real. It meant she was still here. Still choosing.