The silk sheets of Ester’s bed felt cool against her skin. She had spent the last hour curled in a tight ball, stoking the fire within her, forcing herself to recall each vivid detail of her stepmother's strike. She had feigned a migraine and convinced her father that she would not be needed at the hanging. She hated hangings, the macabre dance and the cruel cheering from the crowds to see one of their one strung up like some plaything. Despite this attempt to convince herself that she avoided the hanging because of the horrors, she knew that she was really avoiding Heidi and her suffocating expectations.

Heidi had been furious at her refusal to attend, and more at her refusal to obey. The memory of the woman standing over her bed, her crown glinting like a halo of thorns in the morning light, made Ester’s stomach churn. Heidi had spoken of duty and of the necessity of an heiress presenting an iron will to the people. Show a unified front, show that they were of stronger breeding.

Ester hadn't listened. She had tuned out the lecture, focusing instead on the clicking of shoes in the halls as servants worked, and the bustle of hushed conversations as the rumours of the hanging circulated. Unbidden, the conversation from earlier that morning surfaced, fighting through the resentment.

“You are the daughter of a Governor, but you are meant for something more,” Heidi had said. “With my guidance you could strike the fancy of the right gentlemen, and then who knows. I could see you sitting on a throne all of your own one day. But you won't strike anyone’s fancy, you won't attain anything of your own worth, without learning to not be a petulant child. You have so far managed to waste your youth sulking, and on useless rebellions against me. So many years on this earth, and you have only learned to insult me and waste my time. No more. I have been far too lenient with you, and that will change today.”

Ester had watched her stepmother through narrowed eyes, the heat of a verbal barb already rising in her throat. It was their dance, their ritual of mutual loathing.

“Well so far, mother, you have only taught me what a poor Governess looks like. But mother, I learn best when I can see words put into action, a positive example. Do you think you could provide one for me?”

She had paused, a false expression of consideration crossing her face as their eyes locking. She could not fully contain the smirk that stretched the edges of eyes.

“Maybe you could get me one of the whores from the Garden District? Perhaps the one that does your makeup?” Ester had tilted her head, watching the vein in Heidi’s temple begin to throb. “Or maybe you could send me to Klejnot and I could learn from your sister. What was her name? Ah, yes. Adelaide. I hear that she has the brains and the looks of the family, and you have... whatever this is.”

She had gestured vaguely at Heidi’s thin frame, a lazy, dismissive wave of her hand. It was a crude strike, lacking the subtlety, but it had struck a nerve buried deep beneath the royal pedigree. Heidi turned then, and before Ester could even blink, the world had exploded in a flash of white light and a resounding smack.

The pain had been secondary to the shock. Ester’s eyes had blurred, tearing up involuntarily as the skin of her cheek blossomed into pain. Physical discipline was rare in the Governor’s mansion; it was something reserved for the low born serfs and clumsy maids who only understood pain. Her cheeks grew red, and only part of it was from the blow. Was that shame?

“What have I ever done but love you and care for you, you ungrateful little monster?” Heidi had hissed, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She had raised her hand again, the emeralds on her fingers catching the light, but she had stopped herself.

“I have tried to make you into something better than your father or I, and you have done nothing but ridicule me and scheme behind my back. And even then, I have offered lessons to you, tried to ingrain everything I know into you, and still you have done nothing but fight me.”

Heidi had drawn herself up then, the mask of the Governess snapping back into place, cold and regal. Their eyes met for an instant, and Ester looked away in that same moment. She could not meet that cold gaze, and worse, she knew there was truth to her words. The shame nearly overwhelmed her, and Ester instead focussed on the physical pain in her cheek as she turned the shame into anger. How dare her stepmother strike her like some commoner.

“After the hanging, your father and I will talk. This behavior of yours will not stand, not any longer. You are not a child, and you have not been for some time. It is time you start acting like a proper lady, and if you can't do that, then I will just start finding suitors for you, and you will be someone else's ungrateful burden. If you won't learn my lessons, then you will learn someone else's lessons, and you will find the royalty in Klejnot is not nearly as tolerant of childish insolence as we have been.”

Ester had remained silent, biting the inside of her lip as she scowled at the thick carpet at their feet. She had wanted to scream that she didn't care, that Heidi’s threats were as hollow as her heart, but a small, treacherous grain of truth had lodged itself in her mind. What had she become?

Alone in her rooms, she pushed the memories and shame away, rolling onto her back and staring up at the canopy of her bed. She wasn't the problem. She had never been the problem. Before Heidi had arrived Ester and her father had been happy. Or had they? The memories were thin now, easily colored by her current misery. She told herself they had been happier days, a time of laughter and sunlight before the shadow of the Governess had smothered her joy.

Still, the shame and Heidi’s cold words remained, an ever present bur in her mind, and now she wondered if she was truly unwanted.

She forced a sigh, the physical effort distracting her overactive mind as she threw herself face down into the pillows. It wasn't fair. Her stepmother wasn’t with her, and still her words resounded within her, a constant reminder that as much as she hated the woman, how similar they had become.

Ester rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, crossing her legs in a decidedly unladylike fashion. She cocked her head, listening. The execution should have been over, and she braced herself for the sound of her father’s heavy footsteps, and the sound of the lecture that was undoubtedly coming. She could see it now, Heidi standing just behind him, a silent puppeteer pulling the strings of his disappointment.

But his footsteps did not come, and instead, she heard something that made her frown in uncertainty.

It was a sharp, brisk clicking sound.

Someone was running.

Ester stood, her heart rate picking up now. She crossed the room and pressed her ear to the door. The sharp clicking was now joined by muffled cries. Then came the clanging, a sound like the head maid beating on a sheet pan to summon the kitchen staff, but it was frantic and discordant.

Then the screaming started.

It wasn't the scream of a startled servant or the cry of a child. It was a bloody sound, the kind of noise her father made during his most violent fits of rage, but multiplied by a thousand voices. Ester went utterly still, the air vanishing from her lungs as if she had been struck in the chest.

She took an uncertain step back, eyes darting around the room that suddenly felt too small. She wanted to hide, but the lavish chambers offered no sanctuary. The armoire was too shallow; the space beneath the bed too exposed. She stood caught in indecision, expecting the door to burst open at any moment and her father to tell her it was alright, that this was just a drill.

Something heavy slammed into the door, and Ester jumped, a small shriek escaping her throat. She clutched her petticoats around her, bunching the fabric and lifting it from her legs to allow freedom of movement.

“Lady Ester!”

The voice was frantic, muffled by the wood. More blows rattled the door, the sound vibrating through the floorboards and into Ester’s bones. She stood dumbly, frozen by terror and uncertainty.

The door flew open with a crash and Captain Arella charged in. The sight of him should have reassured her, but it did not. He stood helmetless, his face a mask of sweat and grime, and framed with a bloody gash that ran down the left side of his face and ran down his once pristine armor, soaking into his sleeve. His hair was matted with gore, and he swiped desperately at his eyes to clear his vision.

Ester shrieked and dove toward the bed, her mind convinced this was a fever dream. But then Arella’s hand clamped onto her arm and she was yanked stumbling towards the door.

Behind him, another guard followed, a man Ester recognized but couldn't name. He was whimpering, a high, pathetic sound of pure agony. One of his eyes had been reduced to a bloody ball of meat, the other wide and rolling.

“Move, your grace! Move!” Arella cried.

Then they ran, Ester nearly dragged off her feet as they hit the back stairs, the narrow stone passage that led toward the kitchens. They passed room after room, the sounds of the mansion’s destruction echoing from above, the smashing of glass, the splintering of wood, and the terrifying roar of a rabid mob.

Somewhere between the third floor and the kitchens, the second guard vanished. There was a shout, the sound of a heavy fall, and then he was gone. Arella didn't look back. He gripped Ester’s arm with a strength that left her shoulder tingling and numb. When she tripped on the hem of her gown, he hauled her up with a sharp jolt that nearly dislocated her arm. His breathing was coming in deep whistling wheezes now, and the sweat ran down around his haunted eyes, but still he pressed on.

They reached the lower levels, the light of the upper floors replaced by the flickering, orange glow of wall torches. They were in the dungeon corridors now, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and unwashed bodies.

A sharp crash erupted from the darkness ahead. Arella jerked to a halt so suddenly that Ester slammed into his back, the impact knocking the wind from her.

“Runnin’ somewhere, you little shit?”

The voice was gruff, dripping with unadulterated hatred. It came from the shadows just beyond the reach of the torchlight. Ester wanted to shrink into the stone walls, to disappear into the cracks. Around them, the prisoners were waking. She could hear the rattling of chains and the wheezing, predatory chuckles of men who had spent years dreaming of this moment.

An arm, gaunt and covered in filth, lashed out through the bars of a nearby cell, fingers clawing at Ester’s hair. She shrieked, closing her eyes as she cowered in Arella’s shadow.

There was another presence then. An older guard, her face grim and determined and she stepped into the light. The guard did not speak as she grabbed Ester by the shoulders and yanked her back, freeing Arella to draw his sword.

“Your grace, please,” the woman said, her voice a low command.

More voices were echoing down the cell block, filled with a ravenous hunger. It was the sound of starved dogs realizing their masters were made of meat. Ester watched, her vision swimming, as Arella stepped into the storm, his sword already weaving a deadly tapestry in the air.

The other guard’s hand clamped over Ester’s mouth, stifling her scream, yanking her toward a cell door, the keys rattling in her trembling hand.

“Quiet now,” the guard hissed.

Ester saw Arella vanish into a roiling sea of black figures. She saw the flash of his blade, heard the sickening thud of metal meeting flesh, and the high, wet screams of the men he cut down. But this was not a tide one man could stem, and even as Arella fought he fell back losing ground to the vicious pack.

The guard shoved Ester into a darkened cell, the force of the throw sending her sprawling across the straw covered floor. Ester scrambled to her feet, her hands catching on the iron bars as the door slammed shut. The grinding of the lock sounded like a death knell.

“Captain!” Ester cried, but the word came out strangled and was lost in the darkness.

Down the hall, the sound of the struggle changed. The ringing of steel against steel was replaced by a different noise, dull, meaty whacks. One after another.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

There was cruel laughter, and obscene words spoken. Then came the sound of the female guard screaming in a rage that was cut short by a sudden, wet silence.

The charging feet slowed. The shouting turned into dark, conversational chuckles. Ester gripped the bars, her knuckles white, her breath coming short and panicked. She knew. She knew they were gone.

The air in the cell felt heavy, pressing in on her. She took deep, gasping breaths, but to no avail. The world tilted and spun, the orange torchlight stretching into long, distorted ribbons of fire. A wave of coldness washed over her, starting in her fingertips and racing toward her heart. Her legs gave way, and she slid down the bars, her silk gown rustling against the stone.

As the darkness of the cell rose to meet her, Ester’s last thought wasn't of her father, or even of the mob. It was of Heidi, and the sting of the slap that had started the end of the world. Then, the cold claimed her, and the daughter of Marchand fell into a deep, merciful unconsciousness.