CHAPTER THREE

The sun hadn’t risen yet when I was shaken awake.

“Up.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to slice through the fog in my head. I jolted upright, heart pounding like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

Julise stood over me, fully dressed, her red braid pulled tight against her scalp. Her eyes were shadowed, like she hadn’t slept but she looked alert, focused. She tossed a bundle of clothes onto my chest, while she holds unto one piece. “Wear that. You smell like smoke.”

I blinked at her, still groggy. “What?”

“Move.”

She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t even look particularly angry, but her tone brooked no argument. I shoved off the thin blanket and reached for the bundle—just a plain beige tunic, rough brown trousers, and a stained apron. It smelled like soap that didn’t quite do its job.

“Are you a cook?” I asked, watching her tie on her own apron. Hers was cleaner, and she wore it like armor.

She gave a small smirk. “What, you thought I was just another maid?”

I didn’t reply. I hadn’t known what to think. She moved like a soldier and talked like someone who knew exactly where everyone’s secrets were buried.

“Get changed. You start now.”

She pivoted and walked out, leaving no room for more questions. I scrambled to my feet and dressed as fast as I could, trying to keep the linen from scratching the welts on my arms. I tucked my hair back and rushed after her, apron still loose around my waist.

“Start what, exactly?” I asked, catching up as she strode down the hallway.

“You’ll see.”

I hated that answer. It sounded too much like everything else in this place—uncertain, halfhidden, dangerous.

Julise shot me a sideways look. “Keep your head down today. That gold in your eyes glows when you’re worked up.”

I froze for half a second. “You noticed?”

“Everyone does,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “Some are just better at pretending not to.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. My fingers drifted toward my face out of instinct, like I could somehow dim the unnatural color.

We walked fast through corridors lined with old tapestries that looked like they hadn’t been dusted in years. There were no windows in this wing, just iron sconces holding flickering blue flames that didn’t give off heat. It felt less like walking through a castle and more like moving through something old and watching.

I kept my steps light and my eyes on the floor.

The silence of the early hour made every sound feel louder—our footsteps, the distant clatter of pots, a muffled shout behind a closed door. The castle hadn’t fully woken up yet. Or maybe it had, and it just didn’t want anyone to know.

“You’ll be with the scullery girls today,” Julise said suddenly. “Washing, chopping, whatever they bark at you to do.”

“And you?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Everywhere.”

That wasn’t helpful, but nothing about her ever was. I still didn’t know why she’d helped me back at the gate. Maybe she regretted it already.

“Why even bother?” I muttered.

She stopped walking. I nearly bumped into her.

Julise turned, her face unreadable. “Because sometimes one wrong move ruins more than just you. Don’t give them an excuse to make an example out of you. Or me.”

Then she started walking again, a little faster this time.

I didn’t ask anything else. I already knew this wasn’t about kindness. It was about survival. Hers. Mine. Everyone’s. And for now, that meant blending in, keeping my mouth shut, and learning fast.

We reached a side door. She pushed it open, and warm, greasy air wafted out—onions, wet stone, and burned oil.

“Kitchen’s through here,” she said. “Try not to die before lunch.”

Then she vanished into the corridor, leaving me in the doorway with a growling stomach, raw nerves, and the knowledge that this castle chewed through girls like me every day.

I stepped through the door.

Julise moved like she belonged here. She didn’t speak unless necessary. She nodded to a few people as we passed—a stable boy, a tall guard with hollow eyes—each interaction tight and economical.

We stopped outside thick oak doors that groaned on their hinges when she pushed them open.

Inside was chaos.

The kitchen was already alive. Flames roared beneath giant pots. Boots thudded. Knives clattered. The smell—yeast, smoke, blood, and salt—wrapped around me like a second skin.

No one noticed me right away.

No one except a tall, broad woman near the ovens with several fingers missing from her right hand.

Julise caught her eye. “Tomasina.”

Tomasina grunted in response, handed me a long paddle, and jerked her chin toward the hearth.

I stared at the paddle, then the oven door. Tried to open it.

She smacked my hand. Hard. “Wrong.” Demonstrated.

I didn’t ask questions. I just copied.

The heat was immediate. Intense. I had to squint past it just to see what I was doing. Tomasina shoved a pan of shaped dough in and nodded for me to follow.

I kept glancing at her hand.

She caught me. “Don’t ask.”

“I—wasn’t.”

Her mouth twisted in something like amusement. “Good. You learn.”

Later, I asked Julise about her, when I was elbow-deep in peeling roots. “What happened to her fingers?”

I waited for something, but all she gave me was silence.

The day stretched long and brutal. I moved from ovens to barrels to boiling pots that stung my arms with splatter. By the time noon hit, my palms were red and raw, my legs aching. My eyes stung from smoke and fatigue.

Still, no one offered help.

They knew I wasn’t one of them. Not just because I was new—but because something in me unsettled them. Maybe they couldn’t name it. But they felt it.

Except for one.

A girl with a crooked nose and quiet steps slipped me a fig when no one was looking. Her gaze flicked to my wrists—at the faint scars I usually kept covered.

She didn’t ask.

She just nodded once and walked away.

When Julise returned, she looked me over with sharp eyes.

“You don’t move like a servant,” she said.

“Maybe I’m not meant to be one.”

Her lips thinned, not seeing the joke. “Keep saying things like that and you won’t last a week.”

She brushed flour off my shoulder like it offended her.

“Second rule,” she added. “No crying. No questions. Don’t trust anyone—not even me.”

I paused. “Then why are you helping me?”

She didn’t answer.

I should’ve noticed it then—the way the others stepped out of her path, the way Tomasina looked to her with deference instead of eye contact. But I didn’t.

Not until the flour spilled.

I’d been rushing, carrying a sack that weighed more than it looked. The seam split. White powder poured like snow across the stones.

Silence fell sharp and immediate.

And then—Marga.

The butcher’s apron was red from shoulder to hem. She stopped in front of me and stared.

“Clean it.”

I dropped to my knees. My cuts stung where flour mixed with sweat and grime.

I expected cruelty. Kicking. Shouting. Something

What I didn’t expect was Julise kneeling beside me.

Not speaking. Just scooping with practiced hands, until the last trace of flour was gone.

Then she stood and shoved a bucket into my arms. “Wash your face. You’re meeting someone tomorrow.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“The Beta.”

That made my heart stutter.

“Hayden Moore?”

Julise nodded, then glanced around before lowering her voice. “He doesn’t miss a thing. If you lie to him, don’t fidget. He’ll know.”

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the bucket.

That night, I lay on the thin mattress in the servants’ quarters. Every part of me ached. My fingers blistered. My scalp itched from the smoke. My stomach clenched with something worse than hunger—anger that I just couldn't get rid of.

The ceiling above me was cracked stone, dripping with cold.

Somewhere above, in the main halls, I heard a scream. Short. Sharp. Then silence.

A minute later, footsteps.

Outside my door.

“She’s not ready,” Julise whispered. “She’ll get us all killed.”

“She’s what we have,” a man replied, voice calm.

“She doesn’t even know who you are.”

“She will.”

The door creaked open.

I kept still. Eyes shut. Breath shallow.

Someone entered. A step, then a pause. I felt their presence more than saw it. Felt it like a pressure in the room.

A hand touched my forehead gently.

The scent of wolfsbane wrapped around me—bitter and biting.

But beneath it…

Lavender. Pine. And something else. Smoke and salt and wind.

The smell of old stories.

Of home.

Then the hand lifted. The presence withdrew. The door shut.

Whoever Nana had arranged to help me—whoever this silent stranger was—

They were here.

Watching.

And waiting.

But I still didn’t know who they were.

Or what they wanted from me.

And worse—I didn’t know if I could trust them to help me get revenge.