My mind spiraled.


    I was fraying at the edges like an unfinished hem.


    Had he told my father?


    Did it matter?


    Had he told anyone else?


    I wanted to glance at him—to read his expression, but I forced myself not to. That was with the weight of the room pressing down on me, an admission of guilt.


    I couldn''t not look around, not with two strangers at the table. That was equally odd and suspicious.


    Instead, I looked at the other man, a stranger whom I remembered, my unease deepening.


    The butler was sitting at the table. His son, who held no formal position, was beside him—at the table.


    I hadn''t had time to consider the implications, my mind distracted and overwhelmed by the smell, but now I clung to the thought, using it to divert my attention.


    Typhon sat with his back straight, hands crossed in his lap, and an amused, shadowy smirk on his lips. He sat comfortably, in a place of honor, as though he belonged there—as though this were his table.


    The Duke let him.


    The Duchess didn''t dare look at him.


    Selena had her head down, a behavior so at odds with her nature that my mind failed to process it.


    Tracey was curious, making it clear these two men were strangers to her. Our behaviors were similar, with her acting bolder than me.


    I didn''t let myself relax, but I was relieved to know I''d chosen the right role and was doing a decent job with it.


    My eyes shifted, skimming across everyone, with frequent dips to my lap, before settling on Zagan. He sat comfortably, his behavior matching his father, but sharper, unable to hide his edge as he watched, quiet but attentive.


    I glanced at the table before cautiously looking at the Duke, searching for some explanation, some hint as to why the help sat at the table instead of by the wall with the others. I didn''t want an answer or need one, but at this age, I looked to him for everything, even though I knew I''d receive contempt.


    I didn''t know what unsettled me more—Lord Amber and his silence; the butler and his smug confidence; or his son who studied me like he knew something I didn''t.


    The room was warm, but I felt cold.


    The Duke raised his glass. "A toast," he said, his voice smooth and controlled, "to loyalty."


    I swallowed.


    That couldn''t be good.


    Something was wrong.


    ***


    I ran—a feeling of wrongness hounded my heels.


    I don''t know how I did it.


    We were at the dock, and I just slipped away.


    Fifteen years had passed since I married, and this was the first time my thoughts of escape manifested into anything.


    He''d been kind, the crown prince, carrying me on this trip. I shouldn''t have abandoned him.


    My guilt at running confused me, but it was there, heavy as my feet moved along the sandy path.


    How didn''t they notice?


    Why didn''t I feel joy?


    The tide crashed against the shore as I ran, drowning out the sound of my heartbeat. The night air clung to me, suffocating me, damp with salt and sweat, muggy from the heat of a still summer.


    My breaths were sharp and ragged, and my body was weak from exhaustion. It was years since I moved like this, ran like this.


    I should have felt relief, for however short a time, I was free. I should feel something other than this tangled ball of yarn knotted in my chest, tight and unrelenting.


    I''d done it.


    I''d left.


    I''d seen an opportunity, one of the many, and this time I dared to take it.


    And yet, the further my feet carried me, the heavier I felt.


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    My mind screamed that this was a mistake.


    I stopped, the wind tugging at my hair, pulling it loose from where I''d tied it back. I glanced back into the gaping darkness, only a sliver of silver moon lighting the path. My mind urged me forward, but something suspiciously similar to my heart screamed to turn back.


    He was kind occasionally.


    He brought me here. We''d walked along the beach, and when I was too tired to walk, he''d carried me, his arms steady beneath me, his voice soft as he talked about his kingdom.


    This wasn''t the first trip he''d taken me on. Truly, he never left me behind unless it was unavoidable.


    He was generous, always giving gifts.


    But that kindness had edges, I reminded myself. I remembered the warmth, the moments he was gentle, and then remembered the times he wasn''t growing whatever feeling this was that was trying to creep into the edges of the only parts of myself I protected.


    This wasn''t my heart—it was something black and poisonous that his words infected me with.


    brought them up, the memories I usually couldn''t bear to remember.


    The way his grip tightened.


    The way he spoke through his teeth.


    The way I''d learned to kneel.


    The joy in his eyes when I flinched.


    My legs ached, but I forced them forward.


    The bruises were gone, healed shortly after he''d made them unless the maids were instructed otherwise. He usually liked a white canvas to dye, but sometimes he enjoyed seeing how the colors bloomed and set.


    I didn''t know how far I''d walked or how much farther I''d go before they caught me.


    I was on the brink of turning back, hungry and thirsty, then I saw it. A cabin was ahead, perched at the edge of the world where land met sea, almost swallowed by the darkness if not for the light in the window and the shimmery curl of smoke from a crooked chimney.


    I walked towards it, each step uncertain. There was a stranger in that house. They could be better or worse than the one I was escaping from.


    I didn''t have an invitation, and trouble was surely close behind. I had no plan or grand design, just instincts I didn''t think I had anymore.


    Get away. Get away. Get away.


    Even now, they screamed at me. But I was here, and my feet had carried me as far as they could go.


    My hand trembled as I raised it to knock.


    I didn''t deserve help, did I?


    He''d punish, and I''d deserve it and them with me.


    The door creaked open before I could run into the darkness.


    A woman stood there. She was old in a way I didn''t know mages could get—withered with silver threaded through her brows and hair, but her eyes were sharp. She looked me up and down before she said, "you look cold," stepping out of the way.


    I stepped into that house that wasn''t the least bit inviting my soul sighing.


    Inside smelled of salt, wood smoke, and herbs, like dried thyme and rosemary. The low flicker of candlelight made the shadows stretch long across the uneven wooden walls—differently sized and colored beams of wood stacked together like they shouldn''t stay standing. A small hearth sat against the farthest wall, a modest fire crackling inside, throwing just enough warmth to dispel the chill.


    The old woman moved slowly, hobbling across the room, setting a kettle over the flames—the metal clinked, breaking the silence as she worked.


    I blinked. Her presence was steady, unshaken, as if she''d expected company tonight. That thought flickered--


    "Mint or green?" she asked.


    "Mint," I said, my voice coming out hoarse and different from my usual soft tone.


    I moved to the table, already sitting before it crossed my mind to ask. I couldn''t help glancing around, searching for a source of my unease. The front wall had a window and door; the back had the hearth with a single worn couch—the seat sunken with time, and a low table with a basket filled with yarn; the left had shelves lined with jars, their contents unknown, appearing cloudy in the low light; the right was blank save for a dream catcher hanging over a bed. Over the single beam that ran the length of the cabin hung a tattered, finishing net just as much hemp as cobwebs, as if hung there and forgotten.


    Everything about the cabin felt lived-in, practical, and untouched by extravagance.


    And yet...


    Something felt off. It wasn''t obvious—something I couldn''t place, and I was half convinced my tired mind was playing tricks on me.


    Was she waiting for someone else?


    The old woman hobbled over, poured hot water into a chipped, handless mug, and placed it in front of me. "The sea brought you here," she said, her voice steady, neither kind nor mean. "It does that sometimes, only for those who need it."


    I hesitated before wrapping my fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into my skin. "The sea doesn''t bring people anywhere," I said.


    The woman fixed her tea and gave a small, knowing smile. "Is that so?" The night was quiet except for the frequent crash of waves, but the woman turned, cocking her ear, as if listening to something.


    "The sea takes," I said, my voice quieter, unsure what I was saying or why. "More than it gives."


    The old woman hummed. "Then perhaps you''re here to see what''s left behind."


    I shuddered, pulling the edges of my robe together. Something unseen was watching. I''d felt that all the way here, but only realized it now.


    I glanced at the woman opposite me, but she was calm and unbothered, and the feeling passed as if confirming it was my imagination.


    Still, I didn''t look at the door, as if it would crash open and he''d be standing there.


    I was tired. That was all.


    The warmth of the tea settled into my stomach, but the knots tightened.


    The woman watched—not intently, not like a predator—I knew that look, but like the wise women from the tribe who told stories around the fire with the patience of someone who knew people and knew when not to ask questions.


    The wax melted with the flickering flame, and neither of us spoke. Exhaustion pressed at the edges of my mind, and the warmth of the tea soothed, but I couldn''t relax.


    Perhaps you''re here to see what''s left behind.


    "What do you mean?" I asked, cursing my curiosity.


    Her gaze was distant. "The sea doesn''t just steal. It carries things along. It returns things, too. Brings in the lost and leaves them on the shore for whoever''s left behind."


    I imagined a wreckage washed up on the sand.


    It seemed impossible. The ship I traveled on here was large and imposing, riding stormy waves like a knight on his steed, in control and unyielding. But at the edge, the image of broken wood, shattered glass, and things that had no business in water crept in.


    I imagined waves carrying things back, indifferent to whether someone wanted them, apathetic to who they were taken from.


    Who was the sea and who was the trash in this metaphor?


    Who was the collector shifting through the rubbish?


    "I''m not something washed up," I said from that place deep inside where I stored the last bits of myself.


    She gave me a look. it made me feel like a child, charging around the Duchy, insisting on things I knew weren''t true.


    I''d come here without thinking, carried by the tide and desperation. I''d stepped through this woman''s door because there was nowhere else to go, no one else to take her in, uncaring of what would come.


    That thought flickered again, but I couldn''t hold on to it—the truth of her words tearing at me.


    It was a year before he found me, and for the year after that I wished every day that I hadn''t run—no peace, no freedom was worth it.


    As I sat in my gilded cage and thought of that old woman, I wondered if I''d escaped at all.