Past frozen guards in polished breastplates. Past gasping courtiers in silk and velvet. Past the great bronze bells hanging silent in the archways, waiting to ring for a life she never chose.

Her shoes, thin-soled and meant for carpets, struck the cold flagstones of the courtyard. She slipped through a side archway, away from the main procession, and into the sprawling palace gardens.

Breath burned in her lungs. Heartbeat wild in her ears. The crisp autumn air smelled of damp earth and dying roses.

She ran faster, veering off the gravel path and onto the wet grass, the hem of her gown snagging on thorny branches.

She turned a corner around a tall hedge—and collided with someone solid.

Hands caught her arms, steady and unyielding. They kept her from falling, but did not pull her closer.

She looked up. No royal colors. No insignia. Just a dark, travel-worn coat and eyes—a deep, observant steel-gray—that watched her far too closely.