MINE

The servants’ quarters lay at the far end of the west wing, past the kitchen and down a narrow corridor lit by a single flickering lantern. The light trembled over the walls, catching the uneven surface of the plaster and the pale gleam of brass hooks where cloaks hung to dry. The air here was warmer than the rest of the keep, heavy with the smell of fresh bread, damp wool, and the faint trace of old stone that seemed to breathe out the cold even in summer.

Margaret’s footsteps echoed ahead, her shadow stretching long and thin across the walls. She didn’t speak as they walked. There was no need. The weight of the silence pressed harder with every step, until they reached a small door at the very end of the corridor.

Inside, the room was crowded with narrow beds pressed close together, their patchwork quilts worn soft from years of use. A few women sat on the edges of their mattresses, mending clothes by lamplight or tugging pins from their hair. The rhythm of their quiet work slowed as Sophia stepped into the doorway, their chatter dropping to a murmur. Several pairs of eyes flicked toward her — quick, assessing — before they bent back to their tasks.

“This one will sleep here,” Margaret said, her tone brisk, businesslike. She nodded to the empty bed in the far corner. “She starts work in the morning.”

No welcome followed. No questions. Only the faint creak of a bedframe as someone shifted. Margaret turned and left, closing the door with a soft, final click.

Sophia stepped carefully to the bed she’d been given. The folded blanket in her arms smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. When she sat, the thin mattress sagged under her weight, but it was clean, the sheet smooth beneath her fingers. It should have been comforting. It was warmer than the forest, warmer than the bitter cold that had clung to her bones hours earlier… and yet the knot in her stomach remained, tight and unyielding.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling’s dim expanse, the plaster faintly cracked in places. The murmured voices from across the room rose and fell, slipping past her defenses.

“…did you see her at dinner?” a voice whispered, low but not low enough.

“Aye. She’s new.”

“Grace said Lord Azriel brought her himself. Found her in the forest.”

Sophia’s eyes opened, her gaze fixed on the shadowed ceiling above. The lanternlight wavered, pooling across the beams.

“That’s not like him,” another voice replied, hushed and wary. “He doesn’t bring strangers here. Not unless…” The words trailed off into silence.

“Unless what?”

A pause. The rustle of fabric, the soft groan of wood as someone shifted on their bed.

“Unless she’s different.”

The words landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of silence spread outward, swallowing the whisper whole. No one dared speak after that.

Sophia turned onto her side, facing the wall. She could still see him in her mind — not the others at the table, not the silver platters and crystal goblets — only him. The way he’d sat at the head of the table, straight-backed, silent, his gaze weighted enough to hold her still. The quiet recognition in his eyes when they had met hers, though she could not name what he recognized.

Different.

The word clung to her skin, slipped beneath her ribs, lodged there.

Somewhere above them, a door closed softly. Footsteps moved across the floor, faint but deliberate, their rhythm steady until they faded into nothing. She found herself holding her breath, straining to listen for their return.

Her eyelids grew heavy, but sleep did not come easily. Even here, wrapped in a blanket among strangers, she felt as though a part of her remained in that candlelit hall — standing at the far end of the table, caught beneath a gaze she could not read, knowing that something in this place had shifted the moment she crossed its threshold.

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The fire in the hearth burned low in Azriel’s study, embers casting a faint, living glow into the corners. Shadows clung stubbornly to the high shelves where leather-bound tomes leaned like old sentinels. The scent of parchment mingled with candle wax, the air holding the metallic chill carried in from the forest.

Azriel sat behind the broad oak desk, though the pages before him lay unread, the quill resting motionless between his fingers. His gaze had drifted to the tall window, but beyond the glass there was only darkness — and the faint reflection of his own pale face.

She should not be here.

Humans did not survive in Azura. The few who wandered close rarely made it past the treeline. And yet she had — frost clinging to her lashes, defiance flickering in her eyes even through exhaustion, her heartbeat uneven and fragile enough to draw predators from miles away. The forest should have claimed her. It would have been easier if it had.

But he had not let it.

That choice unsettled him more than her presence itself. It was unlike him to intervene. Instinct and reason both told him to leave her — to keep distance between his world and hers. Yet something had rooted him to that spot, held his hand when it might have let go.

Rising, he crossed the study to the cabinet in the corner. The crystal decanter caught the firelight, scattering it in fractured glints. His hand hovered over it before withdrawing. Wine would not ease the restlessness under his skin.

He could almost hear them already — the servants whispering in the quiet hours, the council asking questions with too-sharp smiles. Why her? Why now? He had no answer that would not sound dangerously close to weakness.

Memory pressed in — the moment at dinner when her head had lifted, however briefly, to meet his gaze. She had not looked away immediately. Most did. Her pulse had leapt in her throat, but she had held that small scrap of defiance as if it were armor.

Different.

The same word the servants would be murmuring now, their voices low so the walls would not carry it. The same word that had struck him the instant he saw her in the snow. Different could mean many things. Some of them were dangerous. Some, impossible.

Returning to his desk, he sat, letting the chair creak beneath his weight. The fire cracked sharply, spitting a thin arc of sparks up the chimney. He told himself she would remain in the servants’ wing, work quietly, and fade into the rhythm of life here until her presence was no longer worth remarking upon.

That was the logical path.

But logic did not explain why, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her standing in the hall — a lone human girl in a world that would devour her — and feel the sharp, uninvited thought:

Mine.