Morning light seeped through the tall, arched windows, painting the room in soft gold and casting long, dramatic shadows across the canopy bed. I sat on the edge of the mattress, Bagel curled tightly against my side, and ran through my options again, as if sheer repetition could conjure a better plan. The castle was quiet, too quiet, and every creak of the floorboards or whisper of the drafty halls made my pulse jump. Today, I decided, I wasn’t going to wait for someone to make a mistake; I would make my own opportunity. But first… the disguise. While I didn’t have all my props like I did at the cabin, each room I had explored seemed to have some sort of item with potential.

  I edged into the long, polished hallway and froze in front of a tall mirror, the kind that seemed to stretch up to the vaulted ceiling and make the whole world look slightly warped. My reflection stared back at me, and for a long moment I just… stared right back.

  I was wearing my “disguise,” which, in another universe, might have been considered a daring work of performance art. Two sequined gloves, carefully turned inside out to hide the ridiculous shimmer, clung to my hands like they had a mind of their own. A taxidermy squirrel, stiff, matted, and somehow even more judgmental than my reflection, was strapped haphazardly across my face, the tail dangling down over my shoulder like a furry, twitchy sash. And the pièce de résistance: a plunger, wedged diagonally over my shoulder like I was about to fix every clogged pipe in the kingdom.

  I tilted my head, trying to imagine how a “normal” plumber might appear. Apparently, normal plumbers didn’t walk around with rodent beards, but rules were for other people. I took a deep breath and practiced my facial expression.

  “Plumber,” I muttered to myself. “Confident. Slightly gruff. Totally oblivious to how absurd you look.”

  I narrowed my eyes, pursed my lips, and tried a casual, hands-on-hips pose. Nope. That looked more like a squirrel-wrangling villain with way too much sass than a tradesperson.

  I adjusted the squirrel, tied it a little tighter so it wouldn’t flop over one eye mid-chase. Then I squared my shoulders and raised one brow, a classic expression from a thousand TV procedural crime shows where someone looks both competent and slightly annoyed. Disaster. I looked like I was judging myself for leaving the squirrel there in the first place.

  “Alright,” I muttered, pulling the plunger into a more natural resting position over my shoulder, “maybe this isn’t just about the squirrel.” I flexed my arms experimentally, trying to look strong and capable. The gloves bunched awkwardly at the wrists, giving me a vaguely clownish vibe.

  I tried another angle. One hand on the plunger, other tucked into a pretend pocket. Jaw firm. Eyes steely. I imagined myself announcing, “Yes, I can unclog your royal toilet.” The reflection betrayed me, though. The tail of the squirrel twitched in a way that made it look like it had a mind of its own, and I realized I was grinning despite my best efforts.

  I frowned. That was not allowed. I needed plumber serious. As if I just got called in to unplug the President's toilet.

  I leaned in closer to the mirror, practicing tiny expressions: one eye squint, a slight nod, lips pressed together. The squirrel refused to cooperate, tilting so that it nearly took an eye out. The plunger felt awkwardly heavy, like a sword I had no idea how to wield. I muttered under my breath, “Blend in, act normal, don’t get caught,” over and over, as if repeating it enough would convince the universe I actually knew what I was doing.

  I twisted to the side, doing a full 360-degree turn in front of the mirror, trying to get the angle right. From the back, I looked like a confused woodland creature preparing for battle. From the front, I looked like someone who had just stumbled into a plumbing-themed Halloween party a little too early.

  Perhaps the pants were too high? I lowered my pants further down, exposing an inch of my butt crack. Twisting again in the mirror, it definitely helped. Gotta stick to those stereotypes.

  Bagel, perched in her carrier behind me, made a low, unimpressed squeak, which I took as both judgment and emotional support. The tiny furball seemed to be saying, Yes, you’re ridiculous, but you’re mine.

  I straightened my back again, took a deep breath, and forced the expression I hoped would sell it: confident, slightly distracted, like any passerby seeing me in a uniform wouldn’t think twice about the taxidermy squirrel strapped to my head. I practiced it once, twice, three times, each repetition making me more absurd, but also strangely determined.

  Finally, I leaned back and gave the mirror one last, long look. I looked ridiculous. I looked unstoppable. And somehow, I convinced myself that if I walked with purpose, carried the plunger just so, and didn’t make a sound like I was about to sneeze, maybe, just maybe, no one would notice the squirrel beard or the sequined gloves or the fact that I was attempting a grand escape from a castle full of people who could probably see through my disguise in a heartbeat.

  I squared my shoulders. Bagel hissed softly in approval, or warning, it was hard to tell, and I stepped away from the mirror. It was time to see if this ridiculous ensemble could actually get me anywhere.

  Steeling myself, I slipped through the door and into the hallway, trying not to make a sound. Morning in the castle was alive with a quiet chaos: servants bustling with trays of food, the low murmur of voices echoing down corridors, and the occasional clang of metal from the kitchens. I hugged the walls, ducked around corners, and prayed my ridiculous getup would render me invisible.

  For several long, tense minutes, it worked. I passed a group of gardeners pushing wheelbarrows heavy with potted plants, they didn’t glance at me once. A pair of cooks hurried past, bickering over the arrangement of plates; they barely spared a glance at the plunger over my shoulder. Even the pageboys delivering messages barely registered my presence, as if my squirrel-beard and inside-out gloves had made me utterly forgettable. Each unnoticed step made my chest tighten with equal parts hope and disbelief.

  I rounded a corner into a brighter hallway, catching glimpses of sun through tall windows. Portraits of grim-faced ancestors glared down at me, their eyes seeming to follow, though I kept my head low and quickened my pace. A staircase wound upward, and I debated climbing, but the sound of laughter drifting from a distant wing made me hesitate. I crouched behind a tall potted fern, holding my breath while two staff members passed, chatting and shoving a cart of linens between them.

  Relieved, I straightened and started moving again, mapping the layout in my head. Maybe, just maybe, there was a path that could get me outside without being seen.

  Then the calm shattered.

  “Hey, wait! What are you doing?”

  A tall man in a leather apron had spotted me, eyes narrowing at the plunger over my shoulder and the squirrel tied around my head. His stride was casual at first, but the confusion in his voice made my stomach drop. He didn’t know me. He just saw… whatever this was.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I muttered under my breath, forcing my voice low and gravelly. “Just… fixing toilets.”

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  The man in the leather apron froze mid-step, brow furrowing in confusion. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question me further. I spun on my heel and kept moving, letting the clatter of the castle morning cover my footsteps.

  My stomach dropped when I saw Bronze going the opposite direction, but he didn’t even glance at me. Idiot. Somehow, my ridiculous disguise was working. For now.

  I could see the main doors up ahead, sunlight spilling in like a promise of freedom… and then I heard it.

  “Stop right there.”

  The voice was calm, too calm, and it froze me in place. Grabber moved to put himself in my path from another hall, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on me. The recognition in his eyes hit like a punch to the gut, and my heart slammed against my ribs.

  I froze for a heartbeat, staring at the man blocking the hall. Calm, collected, and impossibly still, he was like a wall I wasn’t sure I could slip past. My ridiculous squirrel-beard wiggled with my panicked breaths, and the plunger over my shoulder felt suddenly absurdly heavy.

  “Uh… morning,” I said, keeping my voice low, trying the same gravelly tone I’d used on the apron guy. “Maintenance… routine inspection?”

  He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, as if weighing me, calculating. My stomach twisted. I had no idea how much he had seen, how long he’d been watching me, or what he even wanted.

  I took a tentative step sideways, pretending to adjust the plunger. He followed, not with a rush or shout, just a slow, deliberate step that somehow felt more dangerous than a sprint.

  The main doors were close now, sunlight spilling across the polished floorboards. Freedom, or at least a taste of it, beckoned. My pulse thumped in my ears as I glanced for an opening, any gap I could exploit.

  “Hey,” he said, voice still calm but firm. That single word made my throat dry. “Stop moving.”

  I swallowed, keeping the fake, gruff tone. “Just… finished checking the, uh, pipes. Routine, you know. But I gotta head out on another job now.”

  He didn’t move to block me, didn’t say anything more, but his eyes locked onto me like magnets. My mind raced, if I sprinted now, would I make it? Or was he waiting for me to make a mistake?

  I swung the plunger around once or twice, as I am sure any plumber could, making sure he could admire how confident I was holding that thing.

  Then, I pivoted as subtly as I could, and dashed past him toward the doors. The sunlight felt blinding, almost alien, but I kept my head down and ran. Behind me, I could hear the soft, measured steps, following, but not panicked, not frantic. Calculated.

  Every muscle screamed to flee faster, but I forced myself to stay light on my feet, weaving around servants and crates, trying to look like just another eccentric worker. I could feel his presence, calm and dangerous, pressing on me like a shadow.

  I rounded the final corner, hands tightening around the plunger, when suddenly,

  A pair of strong arms shot around me from behind, yanking me off my feet before I could even scream. I kicked and squirmed, but the grip was iron. Panic surged as I realized I was being carried over someone’s shoulder, just like before.

  “Hey! Put me down!” I shouted, squirming furiously. My squirrel-beard flopped over my eyes as I thrashed, but he didn’t even flinch. Calm, unshakable, he adjusted his hold and started moving.

  I wriggled enough to mouth off. “You’re going to regret this -”

  A sharp smack landed on my rear, and I yelped, half in surprise, half in indignation. Another followed immediately. The sting burned, and I realized I had pushed my luck one joke too far.

  “Quiet,” he said, voice low and steady, almost protective in the way he held me. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I clenched my jaw, glaring at him through the strands of the taxidermy squirrel. I didn’t know his name, didn’t need to, but I knew enough: he was dangerous, precise, and utterly in control.

  As he carried me back through the echoing halls, past the oblivious servants and doors I had longed to explore, I tried to think of some way to wriggle free. But his grip was unyielding. Finally, he set me down in what looked to be a private office and I swayed slightly, trying to recover my balance while all the blood in my body rushed out from my head. When my vision returned, I was greeted with the unfortunate site of both Silver-Eyes and Bronze.

  Silver-Eyes was standing with his arms crossed across from me and he raised an eyebrow. “You can’t just keep running off every time you get an idea,” he said. His tone was equal parts irritation and amusement.

  “She’s… unpredictable,” Grabber admitted, speaking directly to him. “And reckless.”

  I scowled, brushing off my squirrel-beard and glaring daggers. “I am not reckless! I’m… uh, inventive!”

  Grabber, still calm, still holding that air of quiet danger, took a step back. “Exactly why we need this,” he said finally. “Round of intros. Everyone needs to know each other. Maybe if you know us, you’ll be less likely to run”

  I frowned. “Why? So you can keep me trapped in a circle of introductions before I find another chance to escape?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, voice low and measured, “but yes. Mostly so we understand who we’re dealing with. You’re clever, unpredictable… and dangerous in ways you don’t even realize yet. Knowing each other keeps us all safer, and yes, it keeps you from running off before you know what you’re getting into.”

  I clenched my jaw, glaring, refusing to call him anything but his nickname. The underlying warning in his voice made my heart race. He wasn’t threatening me outright, but he didn’t need to. Every word carried weight.

  “…Fine,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Do your stupid intros. But I’m not sharing anything you don’t bribe me for.”

  He nodded, calm as ever. “Fair. We’ll see about that.”

  And just like that, the fight in me sparked brighter than ever, even as I prepared myself to meet the others formally for the first time.

  Bronze stepped forward first, tall and imposing, but with a surprisingly grin. “I’m Thorne,” he said, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed. “If I catch you running off again, I may just have to take a bite out of you to remember you by.”

  I immediately dubbed him “Grumpypants” in my head. Charming. Noted.

  Next was Silver-Eyes, the one who always seemed to be calculating something. “I’m Riven,” he said quietly, voice even, sharp as a blade. “And yes, I notice everything. Don’t get used to doing anything unnoticed around me.”

  I tagged him in my mind as “The Eyeball.” Every twitch of his gaze screamed that he had already cataloged my sins, my lies, and my wardrobe malfunctions. Duly terrifying.

  The last man, the one who had carried me over his shoulder, the one I knew I would always refuse to call by anything other than the nickname I gave him, stepped forward, calm but dangerous. His presence made the air feel heavier, and my instincts screamed both fear and… something else I didn’t want to name.

  He studied me for a long beat. “You already know me, in a way,” he said, voice low. “But for the sake of formalities… I’m Soren.”

  I huffed and crossed my arms, glaring at him. “You’re still Grabber to me. Don’t even try.”

  The three men exchanged a look, a silent agreement, then turned their attention back to me. “Names are important,” Grumpypants said, shaking his head. “Especially if you ever hope to survive here.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to refuse, to guard my identity like it was gold. But then Grabber, dangerous, calm, impossible, stepped closer, his presence pressing into my chest without touching me. “We’ll make it worth your while,” he said, voice smooth. “Names go both ways. Share yours, and we will owe you a favour, but it can’t be for anything that will lead to you escaping.”

  I narrowed my eyes, weighing my options. The bribe was small but tantalizing, something I couldn’t resist. “…Fine,” I said finally, letting the words slip out, bitter and proud, but true. “My name is Liora.”

  They all nodded, satisfied, each showing a flicker of relief, or maybe amusement, that I had surrendered a tiny piece of myself.

  “And you owe me a chocolate lava cake, the softest blanket in a 100 mile radius, and a tiara for Bagel.” I stated.

  Soren sighed, but nodded his head reluctantly.

  I kept glaring at Grabber, refusing to soften toward him in the slightest. In my head, he remained “Grabber,” The Eyeball was still glaring at my soul, and Grumpypants had his arms crossed like a judgmental statue. But inside, a tiny, reluctant spark of trust flickered. Maybe, just maybe, this strange, dangerous group could become… not friends, exactly, but something close enough to keep me alive.

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