To Wear A Crown

CHAPTER ONE

THE GRAVEL STREETS WERE QUIET, the lanterns in Yaekós’ western slums extinguished hours ago and the full moon well past its zenith. Markham looked around. Once. Twice. He pulled his black cloak tighter around him and continued east. The next alley would lead him to the Crest, would take him home. He was almost there. Almost safe. He just needed to remain unnoticed for a while longer and he’d make it.

He could already see the story forming in his mind: A dashing, young hero completing his valiant mission with sure steps and pride in his eyes...

He heard the footsteps split seconds too late, turned into the alley to find two men already waiting—the maroon of their capes unmistakable. Guild members. He froze, muscles tense as he closed his hand around the dagger hidden in his belt. They would be well-trained, ruthless. They had to be if they were wearing the red.

They advanced slowly, with the swagger of those who had nothing to fear. Markham’s grip tightened around the dagger’s hilt, but he straightened nonchalantly.

Gentlemen, he offered, flashing them his most charming smile. Enjoying the Rooks’ bustling nightlife?

One of them grinned at him, a crooked grimace that forced Markham to clench his jaw. Let’s not play coy, son.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, the lower half of his face marred by an old burn wound. The other, a scrawny troublemaker with blackened stumps for teeth, had stringy orange hair that sagged against his scalp—a creature that would crawl from the sewers and poison you with one bite. His voice was a piercing rasp, barely more than a whisper.

I can see you fondling that knife. Why not make this easy and give over that pretty purse at your side without trouble?

Oh, this? He patted the crimson velvet purse with his free hand, the one embroidered with his initials—the golden MA that would give him away. Sure. I just don’t know what you’re going to do with it, since it’s empty. I, on the other hand, attach strong sentimental value to this particular purse. See, it was a gift from my mother—

Don’t play us for fools. The fine material of your cloak gives you away, Burnedface growled.

Markham chuckled. "Oh no, I’m not denying that I am scandalously rich. I just don’t have any money on me at this moment. See, I spent it all on your mother earlier... Lovely woman, very experienced. And she has this beautiful, pink— ˮ

Ginger lunged, his hunting knife out for blood.

With a roar, Markham dove into action and became the embodiment of every combat lesson he’d had. Duck. Slash. Block. Kick. Parry. Side-step.

Ginger pounced. Markham smirked. With an expert feign and a well-timed stab to the thigh, the Red Cloak crashed to the ground, letting out a satisfying grunt.

He didn’t have time to retrieve his dagger from the Red Cloak’s leg. A fist slammed into his chin, had his jaw go slack. Burnedface. Markham staggered. His skull met the wall and he gasped.

Not going down that easily, asshole.

Fighting a spell of dizziness, he surged forward. Knee to groin. Followed up with a boot to the gut. Fists met the enemy’s jawline, one blow after another. Kick. Shove. Punch to the nose. Shoulder. Kneecap. He was winning. Winning. Forward. One more blow. Just one more.

Pain ripped through his side.

He roared and looked down to find his own dagger embedded in the flesh between his ribs. If his reflexes hadn’t pulled him to the side the moment the blade had struck, it would’ve torn through more than muscle. Still, every breath spread an inferno through his chest, and he shuddered.

Shit.

Both thieves were on him in an instant. He clenched his teeth together, whimpered as he pulled the dagger out of his side, and held it in front of him with shaking hands. He faced them with a wounded growl. He would fight them. Goddess be damned, he would fight them, and he would win.

Ginger dove forward and Markham snarled. The dagger, still dripping with his own blood, found its mark. The Red Cloak yowled, gaped at the blade now impaling his palm.

Markham attacked, even though he wheezed with every movement. All he knew was survival—a frenzy that bubbled in his veins. Defend. Strike. Growl. He took hits without slowing. Pushed ahead against his own failing body.

This doesn’t end here. I will not end here.

With speed he didn’t know he possessed, he slid to the side, slammed an elbow into the enemy’s throat, and gouged his fingers into eye sockets. Burnedface was down.

Markham turned, watched Ginger’s eyes widen. The assailant’s hand hung limply at his side. He had little chance when Markham struck, crashed his fists into the prick’s face. Neck. Chest. Cheek. Again. Again. Again.

The Red Cloak collapsed into a bloodied pulp.

Markham snarled and pressed a hand to the wound at his side. He gulped air into his lungs, whimpering.

Come on.

He limped further down the alley. He was almost there. Would make it. He just needed to slip through those two shacks at the end and he would be free of the Rooks. He hobbled forward, clutched at his wound. He was almost there. Almost there. Right there.

Then, he heard boots on the gravel behind him. A third Red Cloak had swooped from a nearby roof. Markham spun, blinded by the glint of steel as a sword pommel slammed into his brow. He blinked and stumbled backward. The world went in and out of focus. Blurred. Turned black.

MARKHAM’S EYES FLEW open and he gasped. Pain crawled across his body. His cheek. His chin. His head. And Goddess, his chest was screaming.

He was alone in the alley, the shacks around him even more grotesque in the graying light. His attackers must have finally discerned that he was telling the truth and let him be. His purse was still missing though, and his hood had fallen from his face. Even bloodied and bruised as he was, he didn’t doubt that they’d gotten a good look at him. Recognized him.

Damn it.

Hey, what’s a good story without some hardship for the hero?

A sharp sting from the wound at his side reminded him that there were bigger things to worry about. He was bleeding out quickly and felt the light-headedness of it already. It was almost dawn and, come sunlight, his presence in the west of the capital would be difficult to explain. So, he took as deep of a breath as he could manage and pushed himself off the ground. He had to pause mid-way, but with a cry and a surge of willpower, he rose into a standing position. He swayed, let out a tortured roar. He didn’t care who heard him. These people were too accustomed to life down here to leave their homes for the sounds of dying men.

You’re not dying.

With a few shuffling steps, he was at the end of the alley. He slid in between the last two dwellings and squeezed through, followed the steep climb up to Coinsgain Plateau. It took ten minutes instead of the usual two.

Being found on the Plateau would be better, but not ideal. He needed to get to the hill that loomed over the city from the east.

His hands were stained and overflowing, couldn’t contain the blood seeping from his wound. He gasped as he removed his shirt, then bunched up the fabric and pressed it into his side to prevent leaving a crimson trail. He silenced his moans as best he could, limping through Yaekós’ middle-class neighborhood.

Golden streaks started to caress the sky and Markham cursed. Panic flooded through him, his breath shook and the blood spurted from his side. He started jogging. He had to go faster. Faster.

Just breathe. Almost there. Almost there. Almost—

A wave of nausea swept over him and he toppled forward, heaving slime and blood onto the paved road. His eyes shuttered, his abdominal muscles quaked. Every spasm sent a fresh wave of crystallized agony through him until all he wanted to do was lie down and give up.

When his body finally stilled, he rose slowly, swaying like a sailor on the docks. But he kept pushing forward. Looking up, he found the Temple of the Goddess rising over him, a white and green signal that he was nearly at the Crest, nearly home.

And so, struggling onward one step at a time, he made it to the base of the hill. Collapsed. Grass and rough patches of soil met his face and he surrendered, closing his eyes. Then, something touched his forehead so gently that the antithesis woke him up.

A young man was kneeling over him, his hair jutting out at various angles, as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. His golden eyes were wide, the skin underneath thin and veined with lack of sleep.

Markham smiled, feeling more exhausted than he’d ever imagined possible, and croaked, Amile.

His friend helped him up with a level of strength disproportionate to his lean frame. Shhh. It’s okay. You made it.

When Markham was on his feet, they shuffled further up the hill, one man carrying the weight of two. Markham chuckled, coughed up blood. I did it.

Amile nodded, his lips pursed. Yes, Markham, you did.

THE TRAINING DUMMY snapped back on its handmade stand as Staella sent blow after blow, kick after ferocious kick, its way. She sucked in a breath, leaped out of her crouch to vault her body off the ground. Rotating mid-air, she hit the dummy with a spinning kick that sent its hay stuffing flying through the air.

The sun was beating down on the open field she’d chosen as her training ground, her family’s farm ever too big for the amount of cupa beans they had. She stepped away from her target, chest heaving with effort and skin slick with sweat.

You can stop staring at me now. My performance has reached its climactic end for your purposes, she called to the young man she’d noticed sauntering onto the field a few seconds ago. She spun to grab her water bottle, cocked an eyebrow at him.

He leaned against the gate, arms crossed over his chest, and golden-brown eyes trained on her with eerie intensity. He had well-groomed hair, the same dark color as his heavy eyebrows, and sandy skin. His wide lips spread into a smile that didn’t reach the corners of his eyes. She stepped up to him, realized that he was taller than she’d gauged.

Amile Qarvette, she observed. You are far from the capital.

He untangled his arms, opened the gate to come closer. You know who I am.

She shrugged, unwinding the protective covers from her knuckles. Your brother is the High Ruler. That puts you high on the list of recognizable people.

He shook his head. I doubt many in Avetown would’ve identified me as easily.

Staella met his gaze, didn’t wither under the subtle challenge she found there. What are you doing here, Mister Qarvette?

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. If you know who I am, you must be familiar with the name Markham Aesher.

She scowled at him. Lad Aesher. He’s one of the Representatives in this year’s Election... I’m still failing to see what this has to do with me.

I’m here to offer you the esteemed position of being his protector, the young man announced.

Why would Lad Aesher need a protector?

To protect him.

Staella rolled her eyes and turned away from him to pick up the bow and quiver of arrows waiting in the grass. She lined herself up two dozen feet from her hay target, nocked an arrow, and aimed, pulling the drawstring as far as it could go.

I take it then that Lad Aesher’s little riding accident wasn’t horse-induced at all. She fired. The arrow zinged through the air, found its mark in the dummy’s eye.

Amile, who now stood next to her, spoke again, You’re quite well informed, Miss Thenos. And you assume correctly. Markham was attacked in the Western Rooks.

She paused, eyebrows inching up her forehead. The Western Rooks? What was Lad Aesher doing in the Rooks? She loaded another arrow. This one landed barely a hair’s breadth to its predecessor’s right.

Qarvette cleared his throat. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that.

She turned to face him, planted a hand on her hip. If I’m supposed to be Lad Aesher’s protector I’d like to know exactly what I’ll be protecting him from.

He sighed and glared at her in frustration. He was...visiting a friend.

She retrieved her arrows and ambled back to his side. Lad Aesher has many friends in the Rooks, does he?

His jaw clenched. It was a, uh, lady friend.

Staella snorted, flashing him a look of contempt. Ah, so I’m to protect him against prostitutes then?

He sighed. Look, the attack in the Rooks was just a wake-up call. It’s not of that much significance. Markham has various political threats. He is a favorite to win the Election, after all.

She narrowed her eyes at him. It’s interesting that you would put your faith in him and not your little sister. I wonder whether it’s sexist or personal.

He seemed taken aback at that and blinked a few times. What? No... Look, do you want the job or not?

She crossed her arms in front of her. Why me?

He shrugged, his shoulders too broad for his lean frame. You’re the best fighter not currently in the employ of my brother.

That’s because your brother’s Lorde of Security doesn’t employ women.

He doesn’t employ criminals either, Qarvette retorted.

Staella froze, gulped. What?

His eyes seemed to come alive at that, the brown sparking golden. It was gone in an instant, though, behind the years of buried emotion clear in his every gaze. Two years ago, a teenage girl won Yaekós’ illegal cage fighting tournament. She called herself the Crimson Jackal and she was unstoppable. Too bad that when the city guards showed up after the finals, she was nowhere to be found.

She clenched her teeth together. You’re going to blackmail me.

He shook his head. No, Miss Thenos. I’m going to offer you a job at good payment.

What?

Yes. If you accept, you’ll receive a monthly salary of fifty gold pieces.

Staella’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Fifty gold... I could buy a house on the Plateau in three months with that."

He sighed dramatically. I could make it less if that would suit you better. She glared at him, lodging her tongue against the inside of her cheek. He huffed. Markham’s safety is very important, and his father does own the gold mines.

Staella chewed at her bottom lip, shook her head. I’m not for sale.

A muscle feathered in his jaw. I can make your criminal record disappear...

She froze. The two years after fleeing the capital had been soul-crushing. She was not made for being idle, for hiding away in a small town with nothing but straw dummies to fight.

She looked up at him, hesitated. Then, with a final shake of her head, she held out a hand. Well, Mister Qarvette, it seems you have yourself a deal.

He shook her hand, offering the first semblance of a real smile.

CHAPTER TWO

AWEEK LATER, A GORGEOUS stallion-drawn coach carried Staella Thenos up the slope of Goldvinger Crest. She’d never been up the eastern hill before, had only been in Yaekós for a few months, and had stuck to the darker areas of the capital. Until now, the Crest had remained a jewel to admire from afar.

She peeled back the drapes at her side, staring in awe at the palaces that surrounded her, one after the other. Sure, the Thenos family did alright, but this place... These people were aristocrats cultivated in their social superiority since before the existence of the People’s Monarchy. These were the homes of gods who deigned to engage in human politics.

Staella thought she’d never get used to it, to the absolute wonder yet striking insignificance she felt every time she saw it. The scalding sunlight reflected on the bronze streets, bathing the Crest in perpetual, brilliant light—a phenomenon which had led to the redubbing of the area from Hayvinger to Goldvinger.

The coach continued its ascent, past the Qarvette castle with its crown-patterned flags, past the Temple of the Goddess with its three triangular towers, and past the colossal estate at the peak of the rise that belonged to those legendary Hayvingers.

After a short decline to the east, the coach halted at a mammoth, gold-wrought gate. Staella’s breath caught in her throat, and she stuck her head out of the window to marvel at the entryway as they started moving again. The ground was laid with pristine, white marble. The entire path was lined by scarlet-flowered haletayl trees in full bloom and the house was more marvelous still, its front porch the same polished marble, its walls so white they shone. A further two haletayls framed the entrance all the way up to the third story, matching the cherry-colored roof and shutters. The smell of those blossoms drifted towards her, the sweetness nearly eliciting a moan.

There were two men on the front steps. The first was Amile, looking polished in an ivory shirt that billowed at the sleeves. The other she knew only from his gold-clad image on Aldahad’s coins. He was shorter than Qarvette, but still stood more than a foot taller than she, had shoulders that would be excellent for swimming. Sun-kissed skin highlighted a defined bone structure with a sharp nose and a chin that delved in ever so slightly at the center, forming an artwork completed by full lips and bright, pear-colored eyes.

As he stepped down into the light, the rays of the afternoon caught the honey streaks in his tawny hair and Staella blinked. He was lazy, summer days come to life, and despite the bruise on his cheek and the cut on his jaw, he was stunning. Lad Markham Aesher.

The coins didn’t do him justice...

Suddenly, her driver was there, pulling open the coach door to reveal her to the estate.

THE GIRL WAS EVERYTHING you’d expect a warrior maiden in an adventure tale to be. She had dark red hair pulled back tightly, wore close-fitting black pants that shamelessly failed to hide the power contained in her short frame, and her lips were set in a perpetual, sensual pout. Oh, he could see her on battlefields already.

Markham cocked an eyebrow and whispered to Amile, Why didn’t you tell me she’s beautiful?

Amile frowned at that. She’s not... It’s not of significance.

How long have we been friends? he quipped. With that, he grinned and sauntered down the steps to her, hiding the wince of pain at every movement. The wound in his side was still an annoyance at best.

Upon reaching her, he took her fingertips in his and planted a kiss on the ivory knuckles. She didn’t blush. Staella Thenos, it is my sincerest pleasure to meet you.

She kept her hand in his and curtsied. Lad Aesher. Thank you for welcoming me to your home.

When she straightened, their gazes met and Markham found himself looking into eyes nearly black in their darkness, alight with intelligence and defiance. Those eyes plucked at some string deep in his chest and it was only after a few seconds that he managed to turn away and clear his throat.

He faced the hoary driver. Thank you, Felis. Please have Miss Thenos’s things taken up to the northern suite on the second floor. He took the heavy pouch of coins from his pocket and dropped it in the man’s hand. For your boys. I know how Markis has been eyeing those bows. This should get him the best one on the market and some baking supplies for Parrick.

Felis grinned, bowed low. You are too good to us, my lad.

Markham faced the girl again and motioned for her to enter. Once inside, he led her through the foyer to the lower living room, enjoyed the way her face lit up at the white lace curtains and glass furniture. Amile walked past her to take his usual seat in the corner chair. Staella took the pillowed couch and Markham opted for the loveseat opposite.

He smiled, holding the tray of finger snacks out to her. She took a tiny croissant and nodded in thanks. First of all, Staella, I would like to thank you for uprooting your life to join us here in the capital to become my protector.

She grinned wryly. Don’t thank me too much. I’m mostly here for the fifty gold coins.

Markham scowled at Amile. I thought we agreed on seventy.

The latter shrugged, poured himself a glass of apple cider. I started low, expected her to bargain. She didn’t.

Markham just raised his eyebrows. Thank you for protecting my interests, Amile, but we really don’t need to haggle. Turning back to Staella, he announced, You’ll be getting seventy.

Staella nearly choked on her food. My lad, no. That’s an outrageous amount. I couldn’t—

He chuckled. You know, Staella Thenos, you’re the first person I’ve ever met who would decline more money. If only you could run in the Election. But alas... Now, the more you protest, the more inclined I’ll be to give you more.

She opened her mouth to retort, but then simply smiled and said, Thank you, my lad. The challenge hadn’t disappeared from her eyes. He had a feeling it never would. So, I haven’t really received much information about what my job entails...?

Amile answered promptly. You are to keep the estate safe from any and all threats, as well as accompany Markham any time he leaves the estate, in the most discreet manner possible.

You see, having a bodyguard may raise unwanted questions. So, for now, you’ll just be one of my old friends visiting.

Yeah, okay, like you and I being childhood friends is a plausible story.

Miss Thenos, you wound me.

Amile cleared his throat loudly. Your background will be adjusted to fit the narrative. I have also spoken to the Lorde of Security. He has agreed that you train with his guards and perhaps even work for him when you are not required here.

Staella blinked at him. What?

Amile nodded. It was the condition to having your name cleared of all charges. And you will be the first woman in the Lorde of Security’s service... I thought you might appreciate that.

She beamed, nodding. Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you very much.

And, even though you will be one of the guards, I couldn’t stand having my protector living in those filthy barracks, which is why I prepared one of the best suites in the house for you, Markham added.

She nodded at him, the corners of that pouting mouth lifting slightly. So, I’m at the barracks during the day, keep an eye on you when you go out and come back at night. Sounds simple enough. I’ll need to talk to the existing guards, to set up a perimeter check, and also your schedule at least three days in advance so as to plan my movements accordingly.

Yes, ma’am. You’ll have it in your room by tonight.

She looked around the open-plan area, scowled. Where are all the other people?

Other people?

She shrugged. It would be absurd to have a mansion like this with only one person living in it.

He chuckled. Staella, if you’re calling out the absurdity of life on the Crest on your first day, we are going to get along very well. Sadly, you are very close to the truth. There are servants about, of course, but my mother has been with the Goddess for some years now and my father lives on the estate at the gold mines. It’s only Amile and I here.

She cocked her head at Amile, a curious little fox. You don’t live in the palace?

His gaze was as flat as his voice as he said ‘No’ and took a long gulp of his cider.

Staella pursed her lips and nodded. Well, thank you for the hospitable welcome, Mister Qarvette, Lad Aesher. If there is no more business to discuss, I’d like to retire. I have a long journey to wash off.

Markham nodded. Of course. Take the stairs to the second floor and turn left. It’s the last door in the corridor. I hope it suits your taste.

She nodded, chuckling softly. My lad, if it has a bed and hot water it’ll do marvelously.

When she’d started towards the staircase, he added, Staella...

She spun to face him. Yes?

It’s just Markham.

She grinned crookedly and cooed, Markham.

Once she’d disappeared upstairs, he threw Amile a pointed glare. You were very forthcoming there.

His friend stared at him flatly. Well, the role of the flirt was already taken. So, I figured I’d take nice-but-mysterious-guy-in-corner.

Markham threw his head back as he laughed, stood to look out the window. There was a moment of silence before he sighed and asked, You took care of the other night?

Yes.

You’re sure?

Yes, Markham, I’m sure. Your endeavors will remain a secret.

Good.

LEDA SWALLOWED DOWN her meal with nearly half a decanter of water. Steamed vegetables and dry chicken. Again. She watched as her father took his last bite of glistening, beautiful pork neck, the juices dripping over his fingers and down his dark brown chin. Her brother was digging into a particularly crispy piece. She felt the drool gather in her mouth and gulped it down.

You know, she sighed. "...if I have to suffer through bland chicken and broccoli, the least you can do is suffer with me. Is all of this really necessary? I mean, one, little piece of meat wouldn’t be a crime, would it?"

He stared her down, dark eyes unflinching. The Election starts tomorrow. You need to be strong, healthy...

Pretty, she finished.

He clenched his jaw, the subtle movement making her wince in anticipation. Who am I?

Leda suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Goddess, they’d had this conversation so many times. Honiel Hayvinger, she replied flatly.

He smiled at that, an arrogant grimace that stretched his skin tight, made it look like leather. And who are you?

Once again checking her irritation, she said, Leda Hayvinger.

He rose from his seat, hands planted firmly on the mahogany table. Exactly. What does that name mean, Leda? He turned, pacing around the back of her chair. In the instant he looked away, she eyed the final piece of pork neck longingly. It was so close she could smell it... But before she could act, his face popped up next to her, growling, What does that mean?

She met his eyes, kept that hard gaze. It means that my family created the People’s Monarchy of Aldahad.

Yes. He rose, gesturing passionately. Your ancestor wiped out the Salingzer line, freed us from tyranny, and created the very system we have today. Lowena Hayvinger wrote the Core. Our family made the Election possible. His chest was heaving, his voice now only a whisper. The next few months are very important.

She could smell the barbeque marinade on his breath.

Mighiel, who had finally finished stuffing himself, looked up with that sharp glare of his and announced, Our line created this world, but three terms have passed without a Hayvinger ruling over it. That number cannot become four. It would be unacceptable.

Honiel nodded, eyes glinting. See, your brother understands the direness of the situation.

Maybe all the meat is making him smart. She reached over to that center plate, that wondrous piece of pork neck just sitting there... 

Her father’s hands slammed down on the table. "Leda! She yanked her hand back, her face paling. He pulled her wrist from her lap, squeezed it—hard. Do. Not. Disappoint. Me. Tomorrow." He threw her hand down and marched out of the dining hall, shutting the door with a bang!

Leda exhaled shakily. Her older brother looked at her with a smirk on his tan face, his caramel hair falling over one cheek. The Goddess is cruel to have made the incompetent sibling Representative. With that, he left as well.

Leda curled back her upper lip, made an obscene gesture at the door, grabbed the piece of pork neck, and promptly stuffed it into her mouth.

STAELLA COULDN’T SLEEP. It was past midnight and she’d been rolling around. It would take some time to get used to the new bed. Yes, the room was stunning, with blackwood furniture and silk linens, but it wasn’t home.

She missed the flower-patterned quilt she’d shared with her sister, the creaky floors. Here, everything was quiet. There were no paternal snores or performing crickets to be heard and the night was black as pitch, a new moon invisible in the sky.

She rolled over, sighed, and lit the candle on her nightstand. The light cast the room into a warm glow, elongated shadows flickering across the walls and warping into childhood monsters. Staella suppressed a shiver, padded to the cupa table in the suite’s living area to pour herself a glass of water. She brought the drink to her mouth—

A shriek tore through the world, a piercing, tortured scream. The glass fell to the floor, shattered into hundreds of pieces. Her feet were bleeding, her hands too. She stood frozen, eyes wide and breath gasping.

Silence...

Then another roar, a cry that echoed through the house, penetrated her bones, and made her shake.

That sound.

Her heart was beating a furious rhythm against her ribcage.

Markham...

Perhaps her skills as protector would be put to the test earlier than anticipated. Another scream. It was crazed, bloodthirsty, and it came from above. She dashed to the end table, grabbed the candlestick and the knife she kept under the pillow. Leaping over the shards of glass, she flew out the bedroom door and into the corridor.

The cry sounded again. She followed it.

The candlelight cast those monsters on the walls as she sprinted, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She found the staircase and took the steps two at a time. Once on the third floor, she turned the light in every direction, finding nothing but wooden floors, furniture, and shadows. She closed her eyes, tried to calm her breathing in order to listen. The pounding in her ears was the only sound...

You’re not in a horror novel, Staella. You’re not—

The next scream was twisted. It gurgled and turned into a series of growls. She jumped, heading in the direction of those inhuman sounds. Her hand was aching from its tight grip on the knife hilt and she was lightheaded.

For Goddess’ sake, calm yourself.

She continued slowly. Something rattled next to her. She gasped. Spun to find a door. It was like all the others in the house, perhaps a little sturdier, except for the iron bolt and heavy lock on the outside.

On the outside.

That chilling shriek sounded again. It came from behind the door.

Staella yelped, found her limbs quaking. She took deep breaths, tried to slow down her raging heart. Every nerve in her body told her to run, but she didn’t because her brain so desperately wanted to know what was yelling—growling—behind that door. She could probably pick the lock.

That lock was put there by someone. They know...

Taking a step closer, she called, Who’s in there? The rattling stopped. Utter silence consumed the hallway.

Bam! Something heavy slammed into the door from the other side. Again. Snarled. Scratched. Screamed. Bam!

And then nothing.

Just like that, the onslaught stopped.

Staella shook her head and bolted back down the stairs. At the landing to the second floor, she dashed right, away from her room to the one farthest down the hallway. She stopped at the door, panting. Her candle’s flame sputtered in the looming dark.

She slammed her fist into the wood, hammered at it and yelled, Markham. Are you okay? She heard shuffling inside, but couldn’t wait any longer, so she grabbed the handle. Locked. She banged on the door again. "Markham!"

Someone mumbled on the other side, a key turned, and the door swung open. He was safe.

Lad Aesher’s hair looked like a bird’s nest, his face puffy with sleep. He frowned down at her. Staella, what’s going on?

Her chest was still heaving as she pointed upward. "Screaming. Someone—something—is screaming."

He seemed to wake up at that, eyes widening. "Uh, yes, we—ˮ Another howl tore through the manor.

Staella’s knuckles whitened around the candlestick. Now that I know you’re safe, I should open the door. She turned away, starting for the staircase. "I should...ˮ

A hand caught her wrist. She stopped and twisted to find Markham with her in the corridor. No.

She scowled at him. No?

He let her go, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Staella... This house is old. It has many secrets. Secrets I cannot share at this time. The breath left her lungs in one swoosh, leaving her covered in ice. She just stared at him. He attempted a small smile. Know that we are all safe. You’re safe.

I’ve never been a protector before, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be doing something, she squeaked.

He moved closer and took her free hand with gentle movements. His eyes were pleading, soft. I know you have no reason to, but please trust me.

She really wanted to, felt everything in her tug to acquiesce. Tell me you’re not evil. That you’re not keeping someone in that room against their will. That nothing sinister is going on.

He shook his head, squeezed her hand. No. No. I promise, Staella.

She gulped, looking down at their intertwined fingers. Then, as your protector, I will respect your secrets.

He sighed with relief, shoulders slumping. You are Goddess-sent... You’re shaking. I’m sorry. Hearing the screams must have been horrifying. I should’ve warned you. Can I have some tea brought up?

She huffed a laugh at the absurdity of it all. I think you overestimate the power of tea.

He chuckled as well, the tension of the moment broken. I think you underestimate it.

She shook her head, realized she was still holding his hand. She pulled back her arm and cleared her throat. I’m alright. I’ll just head back to bed.

I can walk you to your room.

I’m supposed to be the bodyguard here, remember?

The corner of his lips tugged upward. Of course... I hope you can sleep well. She nodded, turned to head to her own room. Staella. She looked around, found him in his doorway. The expression on his face somehow settled her nerves. Thank you.

THE SCREAMS HAD NOT ended until dawn and had started up again the next night just after midnight and the night after that, haunting the dark hours without end. A part of Staella demanded that she open that door, that she discover what the Aesher manor was hiding. But there were other parts that kept her in bed with closed eyes, desperately hoping for sleep. She was afraid. Staella could face men without flinching, could fight without hesitation. But this... This was something else. And she was a protector now. She worked for Markham. He was a Lad, and he was allowed to have his secrets, and it was only professional of her to keep them. Just ignore it. Just breathe.

So, Staella stayed away from that door

CHAPTER THREE

CITY SQUARE, STRETCHING OUT from the foot of the Crest into the Plateau, was packed with people, the air abuzz with conversation. At the back, those from the Rooks were crowded together in the noon sun, squinting to see. The Plateau residents were gathered in the shade cast by Signal Tower, the nobles seated at the front. The inhabitants of the Crest wore the peculiar, darkened spectacles of which Staella had also received a pair.

"It protects your eyes from the glare of the