The day Leo returned, it almost felt like a crack of light had split through the suffocating monotony of the castle. For days, the air had been filled only with them, their voices, their silences, their footsteps echoing down endless stone corridors. But this was different. This wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was soft. Ordinary.

  I heard him before I saw him: a faint humming, low and steady, carrying down the hall like smoke. Not a song, not really, but the sort of absent sound someone makes when their hands are busy and their thoughts are elsewhere. The noise slipped under the locked doors of the castle and into my chest, warming something I thought had gone numb. For one fragile second, I remembered what it felt like not to be suffocated. For one fragile second, I felt relief.

  I followed the sound and found him in the corridor outside the kitchens. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, his forearms marked with faint smudges of dust and flour, and he was wiping his hands on a rag that looked more dust than fabric. His humming faltered when he noticed me, though the silence that replaced it wasn’t unfriendly, just deliberate, as though he were folding something away.

  Recognition flickered in his face, polite but reserved. It was the same guarded look I remembered, like he had learned the danger of being too familiar within these walls.

  “You’re back,” I breathed, as if saying it aloud would anchor him here.

  He gave a small nod, practical. “Just for the day,” he said, tone even, measured. “They needed a few things seen to. I won’t be staying long.”

  The words landed like a stone in my chest. I forced myself to nod, as if the ache in my lungs was nothing, as if it didn’t matter that the only tether to normalcy I’d glimpsed was already slipping away.

  I followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he worked. His hands moved automatically, pulling jars from shelves, sorting through cupboards, setting bread on the counter with a dull thud. The quiet was filled with the scrape of wood, the soft clink of glass, and, every so often, the hum returning under his breath. It made the room feel less like a prison and more like… something else. Something dangerous.

  He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “You’ve been keeping well enough?”

  “Well enough,” I echoed, though the words tasted like ash. My throat tightened as I watched him fold the rag in his hands, fingers careful, deliberate. He wasn’t careless with anything. Not his work, not his words, not his silences.

  I told myself not to do it. Not to open my mouth. Not to reach for something that wasn’t mine to take. But the plan had been stitching itself together in my head for days, threads knotted with desperation, and it spilled free before I could stop it.

  “I can’t stay here,” I whispered, my voice small enough to be swallowed by the hum of the refrigerator and the sigh of the vents. “I’ve been watching, tracking. There are ways out. Corridors that aren’t guarded. Doors that don’t quite shut.” The words tumbled, reckless, my throat burning with the force of them. “Leo, I need your help. Just once. Just to make it past the grounds.”

  The rag stilled in his hands. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and when his eyes lifted to mine, the careful neutrality there made my stomach flip. Not kindness. Not cruelty. Just unreadable, as if every line of his face had been smoothed flat to keep me from knowing what he thought.

  “Leo,” I pressed, desperate now. “Please. I can’t -” My voice cracked, breaking against the stone around us.

  A long silence stretched, taut as wire. Then, at last, he nodded slowly. “I’ll think on it.”

  It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t anything at all. But to me, it was enough. Enough to let me imagine a door swinging open, a path beyond the walls, a sky unbarred. Enough to spark that fragile, reckless thing I had almost buried for good.

  Hope.

  And yet, something in his eyes lingered, a flicker I couldn’t name. It wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t agreement. It was something heavier. Something that made his nod feel less like a gift and more like a weight pressing down on my chest.

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  But I ignored it. Because hope was louder.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·· · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  That hope lasted less than an hour.

  Riven found me in the corridor, sharp and unflinching, his hand snapping out to catch my arm before I could pass. His grip was iron, but his voice cut colder than I’d expected.

  “Planning to run?”

  The floor gave out beneath me. “What?” My voice cracked, high and shrill, but his eyes were merciless.

  “Leo told me,” Riven said simply, as if it weren’t a betrayal but a ledger mark against my name.

  The air fled my lungs. I shook my head, forcing my voice steady. “No… no, that’s not, he didn’t -” My words hit the walls like stones, hard and clumsy. I swallowed, trying to clamp down on the panic rising in my chest, tried to make it sound like nonsense, like it couldn’t possibly be true.

  Riven’s eyes didn’t waver, didn’t soften. “Liora,” he said quietly, a single name that cut sharper than any accusation.

  I opened my mouth again, tried to push back, tried to insist that Leo hadn’t told him, that I hadn’t planned anything, but the words tangled in my throat, and suddenly my chest burned, hot and relentless. My hands fisted at my sides, trembling, as the first tears welled and spilled over without permission.

  “I… I didn’t -” I choked on the words, my voice small and broken. “He just… he came back, and I thought maybe, maybe he could… I just…” My resolve collapsed, leaving only ragged breaths and the stinging wet of tears running down my cheeks.

  Riven’s sharpness softened almost imperceptibly at first. He didn’t move away, didn’t loosen his hold entirely, but his eyes shifted, the cold edges fading as he saw the tremor of terror and shame.

  “Shh,” he murmured, and it was barely a word, but it was warm, coaxing. His other hand lifted slowly, brushing back a stray strand of hair from my face, steadying me like he could steady the storm in my chest. “Hey… look at me.”

  I tried, sniffling, hiccupping, but I couldn’t hold his gaze. My words had run out, leaving only the tremble of my shoulders and the hot salt of tears.

  The air fled my lungs. I shook my head, forcing my voice steady. “No… no, that’s not, he didn’t -” My words hit the walls like stones, hard and clumsy. I swallowed, trying to clamp down on the panic rising in my chest, tried to make it sound like nonsense, like it couldn’t possibly be true.

  Riven’s eyes didn’t waver, didn’t soften. “Liora,” he said quietly, a single name that cut sharper than any accusation.

  I opened my mouth again, tried to push back, tried to insist that Leo hadn’t told him, that I hadn’t planned anything, but the words tangled in my throat, and suddenly my chest burned, hot and relentless. My hands fisted at my sides, trembling, as the first tears welled and spilled over without permission.

  Without a word, he stepped closer and lifted me gently but firmly into his arms. I froze for a heartbeat, the world tilting beneath me, before he carried me down the hall to a small room I hadn’t noticed before. A fire glowed in the hearth, casting golden light across the walls and throwing dancing shadows that softened the hard edges of the castle. He lowered me onto the couch and shifted until I was sitting on his lap, his arms immediately wrapping around me, holding me securely.

  “You’re crying,” he said gently, and it wasn't an accusation. It was an observation, tender as a breath. He let go of my arm enough to wrap both hands around me, and suddenly the iron grip that had seemed unyielding felt protective, safe. “I get it… I understand,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “You’re scared. You’re frustrated. You feel trapped. That’s… natural, Liora. That’s not a weakness.”

  I sobbed harder, my chest shaking, the weight of betrayal and fear spilling through me. My hands clawed at the fabric of his tunic, seeking purchase on something steady. His presence was grounding, each slow inhale and careful word a tether pulling me back from the edge of despair.

  “You thought you had a friend, and… you got hurt,” he said softly, letting his thumb trace circles over my back. “That… that’s awful. That’s betrayal. I’m sorry. No one should feel that. And I’m… I’m not going anywhere right now. You don’t have to face this alone.”

  His words were a balm, gentle and careful, as if he were trying to sew together the ripped edges of my heart with nothing but warmth and patience. The trembling in my body eased as he held me to him, his hands steadying me when I swayed, and his chest a solid place where I could bury my face, let it all out.

  Bagel pressed against my leg, mewing softly, her tiny body a reminder that I wasn’t completely alone, that someone small and steadfast still cared.

  “Hey,” Riven whispered again, softer still, voice brushing against the rough edges of my fear. “It’s okay. It’s… okay to feel. You don’t have to fix it right now. Not tonight. You’re… you’re allowed to cry, and I’ll stay here.”

  The walls of the castle, which had always felt impossibly suffocating, seemed to relax slightly around us. Not enough to be free, not enough to be safe, but enough that I could breathe, enough that I could let the hopelessness and betrayal flow without fear that it would swallow me entirely.

  And even as my sobs quieted into uneven hiccups, even as the tears stained his tunic and the floor beneath us, I knew the truth as sharply as ever: the walls were still closing in, the danger had not vanished, and trust was a fragile thing. But for a fleeting, precious moment, I wasn’t entirely alone.

  Riven held me close, and for the first time since the betrayal, it felt like someone was actually on my side.