Chapter 1

Ophelia

The iron shackle around my ankle finally snaps, and I bite back a cry of triumph as blood wells from the raw flesh beneath. Three months of working the metal against the stone wall of my cell, scraping away tiny fragments during Master Korvain's drunken stupors, and tonight it pays off. The winter solstice celebrations have the entire household deep in their cups, gorging on roasted taura and rirzed wine while I shiver in my windowless chamber.

My bare feet make no sound on the cold stone as I creep through the servants' quarters. The bread I've hoarded for days weighs heavy in my torn shift, along with the precious candles stolen from the altar room. Every shadow could hide a guard, every creak of timber could spell my doom, but Master Korvain's latest beating left me with a choice—escape or die trying.

The bruises along my ribs throb with each careful breath. His fists had rained down like hail three days ago when I spilled wine on his ceremonial robes, and something inside me finally cracked. Not my bones—those have been broken before. Something deeper. The part of me that still believed survival was enough.

I reach the kitchen door and work the simple latch with fingers that shake from more than cold. Beyond the threshold, Orthani's winter night waits like a hungry beast. Snow falls thick and fast, already knee-deep in the courtyard, and the wind carries the bite of true cold—the kind that kills the desperate and unprepared.

But desperation is all I have left. I step into the storm, and the door swings shut behind me with a soft click that sounds like a death knell. There's no going back now. Master Korvain will discover my absence by dawn, and his fury will shake the very stones of his estate. By then, I must be gone—vanished like smoke, like the ghost I've always been in his house.

The snow immediately soaks through my thin garments, and my feet scream as they hit the frozen cobblestones. But I'm moving, I'm free, and for the first time in years, each step takes me farther from chains rather than deeper into them.

The streets of Orthani blur past in a haze of pain and cold. My breath comes in ragged puffs that crystallize instantly in the frigid air, and the stolen bread feels like lead against my chest. Dark elf nobles celebrate behind windows glowing with warmth, their laughter drifting out to mock my desperation. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine follows me like a cruel reminder of everything I'll never have.

My feet leave crimson tracks in the pristine snow, each step a small betrayal of my presence. Guards patrol the main thoroughfares, but they're looking for threats to their masters, not escaped property stumbling through back alleys. Still, I keep to the shadows, pressing myself against stone walls when their torchlight sweeps too close.

The graveyard appears before me like salvation carved from moonlight and marble. Ancient gates stand open, their iron bars twisted into thorny patterns that remind me of the punishment scars on other slaves' backs. But beyond those gates lies sanctuary of a different kind—the realm of the dead, where the living fear to tread after dark.

I collapse at the threshold, my strength finally failing. The snow beneath me feels soft as any feather bed I've ever imagined, and for a moment I consider simply lying here until the cold takes me. It would be peaceful, they say. Like falling asleep and never waking to pain again.

But something deep in my chest rebels against surrender. I've survived too much to die within sight of freedom. My hands dig into the snow, and I drag myself forward, past headstones carved with dark elf names and dates that span centuries. Their dead sleep in splendor while their living feast on suffering.

The silence here feels different—not empty, but full of whispered secrets and old sorrows. Towering mausoleums rise like small palaces, their walls carved with weeping angels and thorny vines. The dead cannot betray me to my master. The dead cannot drag me back to chains. Among them, I might find the peace that has eluded me in life.

A massive tomb looms ahead, grander than the rest, its marble walls gleaming like bone in the moonlight. The heavy door stands slightly ajar, and warm air drifts from within—impossible, but unmistakable.

The mausoleum's interior takes my breath away. Carved angels line the walls, their stone faces bearing expressions of infinite sorrow and compassion. In the center stands a marble altar topped with the most beautiful sculpture I've ever seen—a winged figure with her arms spread wide in eternal protection. Someone has left offerings at her feet: withered flowers, coins blackened with age, and the remnants of candles burned down to stumps.

I light my stolen candles with hands that shake from more than cold, and the warm glow transforms the tomb into something almost holy. The angel's face seems to shift in the flickering light, her stone eyes filled with ancient kindness. She watches over someone else's bones, but tonight she'll have to make room for one more lost soul.

"Please," I whisper, settling at her marble feet like a penitent. "I know this isn't my place, but I need sanctuary. Just for tonight. Just until I can think of where to go next."

The bread tears into careful portions—I must make it last as long as possible. Each bite tastes like freedom, even though my stomach cramps with hunger that years of meager rations have made constant. Outside, the wind shrieks through the graveyard like the voices of the damned, but here in this sacred space, warmth slowly returns to my limbs.

Stone saints and cherubs keep their eternal vigil from every alcove, their carved robes flowing like frozen water. This tomb belongs to someone important—the craftsmanship speaks of wealth and reverence—but the dead don't need warmth or shelter. They won't begrudge me this small comfort.

My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally overtakes fear. The angel's marble gaze never wavers, and I press my forehead against her base in a gesture of half-prayer, half-gratitude. The stone feels smooth and oddly warm beneath my skin.

"I will survive one more night," I whisper to her, to the darkness, to whatever gods might still listen to the prayers of slaves. "I swear it on your peace—I will live to see another dawn."

The candles burn lower as sleep claims me, their light dancing across stone faces that seem to nod approval. In my dreams, marble angels spread their wings and lift me away from chains and cruelty, carrying me toward a horizon bright with impossible hope.