The bathroom was damp, lit only by the faint orange flicker of a distant torch through the cracked vent. The door was barred with a stolen broomstick Rosanna wedged into the handle hours ago.
Cale stood near the basin, his back to the door, eyes fixed on the floor as Regan outlined the final timing.
"We know the patrol paths. The tool bag's ready. North fence post, fog peak just before second rotation. We move tomorrow at midnight," Regan whispered, tapping the rolled parchment with his finger.
Cale nodded. "We slip out with the third group for night chores, cut through the slope trail, cross the clearing before shift change."
Rosanna leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Everything's in place. Even the weather's on our side."
"Then it's settled," Cale said. "Tomorrow."
But before the final word could hang, a shouting cut through the walls.
Heavy boots. Barked orders. Clattering doors.
They froze.
A fist banged against the outer walls of the sleeping quarters. "Everyone out! Now! Yard! Line up!"
Cale's eyes snapped to Regan. "That's not normal."
Regan was already stuffing the map back into his tunic.
"No time," Rosanna said sharply, unlatching the broom handle and kicking the door open. "Let's go before they start dragging people."
______________
Bob nearly dropped the oil lantern as he stumbled back from the main hall. Sweat rolled down his temple.
"She's early," he gasped. "Why is she early?!"
He fumbled with the pigeon note he'd kept folded in his coat pocket. The seal was still intact. Arrival confirmed in three days. Three. Not now. Not tonight.
But the gate guards had called in—Lady Emilia's convoy was already coming up the forest path, her carriage unmistakable: black lacquer, silver trim, red-plumed standard.
She was arriving tonight.
Bob's stomach flipped.
He rushed toward the courtyard, heart pounding. The children were gathering sluggishly under torchlight, most blinking in confusion, some not even dressed properly.
No time. No order. No preparation.
He found the shift warden near the edge of the yard, dragging out the sick girl from the infirmary.
"Get them in line!" Bob barked. "Uniform spacing! No bruises visible—tuck in shirts, clean their faces!"
"Why?" the warden hissed. "She's not due until—"
"She's coming now!" Bob nearly shrieked. "Lady Emilia is here. And if she sees this mess, we're all—"
The crack of hooves echoed beyond the walls.
Too late.
A breeze rolled in, carrying the scent of perfume and leather.
Lady Emilia had arrived.
______________
The wheels of the black carriage rolled to a stop just beyond the courtyard gate.
Two guards opened it in a hurry, nearly stumbling over each other as they bowed. A cold wind blew through as the door creaked open.
Lady Emilia stepped down without assistance.
She wore a high-collared coat, buttoned to the throat, and gloves that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Her red hair was pinned back in a sleek twist. Not a single strand was out of place.
She took one slow step forward, her heels clicking softly against the stone.
Bob swallowed hard as she passed him. He lowered his head instinctively, as if the very act of meeting her eyes might burn.
She said nothing.
She didn't have to.
The children had been lined up in the yard — disheveled, sleepy, confused. They stared at her as though she were something from another world.
She moved through them like wind through grass, her gaze unreadable, arms behind her back.
No shouts. No scolding.
Just silence.
Emilia stopped in front of one boy, reached out, and brushed something from his sleeve — a speck of lint. The boy didn't move.
Then she turned to Bob.
Her voice was soft. Musical. Controlled.
"This isn't the day I was expected, is it?"
Bob's mouth opened and closed. "N-no, my lady. You were—your arrival was confirmed for—"
"And yet," she said gently, "I am here."
Bob nodded furiously. "Yes, yes. I—I apologize. There must've been a miscommunication. Or—"
"I don't need an apology," Emilia said, still smiling. "I need compliance."
She turned to the warden beside him. "Bring me your cleanest quarters. I will be inspecting tonight."
The warden hesitated. "T-the Vorrak trials—"
"Have not begun," Emilia said. "I noticed."
Her eyes wandered briefly over the line of children. And paused.
There. Second row, third from the right.
Red eyes.
She didn't blink.
Just smiled.
Then, to no one in particular, she said, "I'll take tea before the tour."
And walked away.
______________
Cale ducked back into the sleeping quarters, heart pounding. Kids were stumbling out of beds, pulling on coats, whispering questions no one could answer.
He spotted Regan near the door, motioning for him.
"What the hell is going on?" Cale hissed, slipping beside him.
Regan's face was pale in the torchlight. "The guards are frantic. Something's wrong. Something big."
Rosanna slid up next to them, the stolen satchel hidden beneath her oversized shirt. "I saw the gates," she whispered. "Carriage. Black. Looks expensive."
Cale's stomach dropped. "It's her."
"What?" Regan said.
"The lady with the red-hair. She's here. Now."
Regan looked at him. "But we said tomorrow—"
"She's not following our schedule!" Cale snapped. "We wait, we die."
The room tilted. Or maybe it was just the blood draining from Cale's face.
They weren't ready. Not fully.
But it didn't matter anymore.
Rosanna was already unhooking the satchel. "Then we go. Tonight. Now."
Regan's eyes darted across the room. "We'll have to improvise."
"We'll have to survive," Cale said.
Someone shouted outside. Boots pounded past the walls. A scream followed—one of the younger boys being shoved into line.
Cale's mark pulsed hot under his sleeve.
Emis.
He didn't speak, but Cale could feel it—now or never.
He looked at the others.
"North slope," he said. "We follow the plan, adjust where we have to. We're not waiting anymore."
Regan gave one tight nod.
Rosanna pulled a short, dull knife from her boot.
Cale exhaled slowly. "Alright then."
He turned to the crowd. Twenty kids. Confused. Terrified.
He raised his voice just enough for the few nearest to hear.
"If you want to be free—follow us."
Cale hadn't meant to say it so loudly.
But he couldn't take it back.
A few of the older teens looked at him, wide-eyed. One of them—thin, sharp-nosed, always watching—nodded once and turned to help a younger girl out of her bed.
Others stayed frozen. Uncertain. That was fine.
Cale turned and moved.
No more hesitation.
They slipped out the rear door, shadows on shadows. The hall was mostly clear—most of the guards had swarmed the front yard. Screaming and sharp orders echoed through the walls. Someone dropped a torch. The smell of smoke licked the air.
"Rosanna—door," Cale whispered.
She darted ahead, picked the lock with the broken screwdriver in less than ten seconds. Regan helped two of the younger kids through.
They moved fast, ducking through narrow corridors, sticking to the dark. It felt wrong—too easy. Cale kept waiting for a shout, for a hand on his shoulder, for—
"Stop right there!"
Cale spun.
Two guards blocked the passage behind them, one already drawing his baton.
Cale stepped forward, hand clenching.
Emis…?
The mark on his wrist burned white-hot.
And then, the air around the guards shimmered.
For a blink—just a blink—they flinched. Their eyes widened in sudden, silent terror.
They didn't scream.
They just backed away.
One dropped his weapon.
Rosanna didn't ask questions. She slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place.
Cale stood there, chest heaving, staring at the faint glow fading from his wrist. He didn't know what had just happened. No shadows bursting from Emis like back in the forest. But he knew it was Emis. He did not kill the guards, but it seemed like Emis had scared them off.
"What did you—" Regan began.
"Later," Cale snapped. "We have to move."
They reached the northern hallway—emptier, quieter. The fog was seeping in through the slats of the outer wall.
Freedom was close.
But noise surged behind them now—guards shouting, children screaming.
Someone had noticed.
The whole building was waking up.
Doors flew open. Kids poured out, confused and panicked. Some followed them. Some ran the other way.
But something had broken—and there was no undoing it now.
Cale could hear the guards yelling commands, trying to regain order.
He pushed open the final side door—cold air rushed in, thick with wet earth and mist.
They were outside.
"Fence!" Rosanna hissed.
The north slope was right there. The fog was heavier here, curling low along the grass. Regan ran ahead and yanked at the warped board in the fence. It gave with a loud crack.
One by one, they slipped through.
Cale was last.
He turned to look back just once—and there, in the far distance, silhouetted in the light from a torchlit corridor—
—stood the red-haired woman.
Watching.
Unmoving.
No guards with her.
No weapon in hand.
Just that same calm smile.
Like she'd expected this all along.
Cale felt his legs turn to lead.
But Emis's voice whispered in his mind.
"Run, Cale."
He did.