Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
HOOK
A creak. A thud. My pulse spikes instantly, ears sharp as I catch a sound from somewhere outside the tower.
Bloody hell. I step closer to the window, boots silent on the stone floor, and peer through the warped glass.
The courtyard below is alive with movement—more guards than before.
Something’s going on. The air hums with tension, and I can’t make out exactly what’s happening, but it’s enough to set my instincts on edge.
I pull back from the window, frowning. Whatever it is, it’s not good.
And, as if on cue, the mirror—oh yes, that delightful, cryptic piece of furniture—flares into life behind me. The dull surface ripples again, but I can practically feel its impatience.
“Hurry,” it says, voice dripping with urgency. “There’s no time.”
I grit my teeth, casting a glance over my shoulder. “Do tell.”
“The guards are coming.” The mirror flickers and fades, showing me the guards marching through the halls. Then the surface swirls once more, turning murky. That raspy voice fills the room, low and grating. “You must return. If they find you here, all will be lost.”
“I’m going,” I mutter, heading back to the window. No need to ask what the mirror means—I’m sure I know exactly what the Queen’s guards do to people like me, wandering around her palace uninvited.
I swing a leg over the windowsill, pausing for a moment to gauge the drop. It’s not the climb that bothers me—it’s the timing. I hear a distant clang, followed by the unmistakable stomp of boots. Bollocks, they’re getting closer.
With one last glance at the mirror—still flickering and whispering its warnings—I swing myself out and grab the ledge below. The stone is slick under my hands, but I keep moving. No time to think. No time to hesitate. I’m out of here.
I climb down the wall, fingers gripping the twisted carvings, jagged edges covering the palace like a grotesque spider's web.
Beneath me, the guards gather, their voices rising in a low murmur.
I catch snippets—something about a ball, prisoners being moved, and that damn Queen with her flair for the dramatic.
I freeze for a second, pressing myself flat against the wall as two guards pass directly below me. One looks up—just for a second—and I hold my breath. But then they move on, none the wiser. Fools.
I reach the window to my room and haul myself inside, dropping down lightly on the floor. The room is still as I left it—dark silks, flickering candles, the air thick with dust and decay. It’s almost too easy to slip back in like I was never gone.
And then, as if the gods themselves are playing with me, there’s a loud bang, followed by the heavy clatter of approaching footsteps.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter just as my door slams open.
A guard barrels in, his helmet gleaming in the low light. He’s holding a suit draped over his arm. He shoves it at me. So much for etiquette.
“Put these on.”
I take the clothes. They’re the finest royal attire, I see. No expense spared on the Queen’s part—black, velvet waistcoat, tight black trousers, boots with a shine that makes me want to gag, and a long, perfectly cut leather coat, the stitching intricate and tailored to fit like it was made for me.
My gaze locks with the guard’s for a split second, his expression hard, like he’s done this a thousand times. He reaches into his belt, pulling out a small black mask that covers only the eyes. He flicks it towards me, and I catch it, raising an eyebrow.
“Get up,” he snaps, voice as sharp as his posture. “The Queen wants you downstairs. Wear this.”
I smirk, can’t help myself. “What, no red carpet?”
The guard’s eyes narrow. “Just put the damn suit on.”
I glance at the clothes, noting the rich fabric, the intricate designs.
The Queen certainly knows how to make an impression, I’ll give her that.
The waistcoat alone looks like it was stitched with shadows and secrets, and the long coat?
Well, it might just fit me perfectly. I pick up the mask, running my fingers over the smooth material.
“Bit formal for a trip downstairs, don’t you think?” I say, slipping the waistcoat over my shoulders, letting the weight of the coat settle against my back. The leather feels like a second skin—tailored, as if it was made for me. My kind of party, then.
“You have two minutes,” the guard grunts, clearly losing patience, arms crossed, watching me like I’m some common criminal dressing for an execution.
I tug on the boots, grinning. “Don’t worry, love. I wouldn’t dare keep her waiting.”
He grunts in response, stepping back as I straighten my collar, securing the mask in place.
It fits perfectly, of course—covering just enough to give an air of mystery, but leaving everything else on display.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the small, dusty mirror on the wall. If nothing else, I look the part.
Damn, I make this look good.
“Lead the way,” I say, flashing the guard a mocking bow.
Without a word, he grabs my arm, dragging me toward the door. The Queen’s games are just beginning, and I’ll be damned if I’m not ready to play.