5: The plan

Natasha’s POV

The night had swallowed the palace whole.

No moon. No stars. Just a thick blanket of darkness stretched across the sky like a mourning veil. Everything lay still, like the world itself was holding its breath. Even the wind, usually bold enough to whistle between the stone corridors, had fallen silent. It was the kind of silence that didn’t comfort—it warned.

That was when I moved.

My eyes had been open for a while, staring at the ceiling in my room—counting each breath, waiting for that fragile hour between late night and early morning, when the palace was at its weakest.

I sat up slowly, moving like a whisper. The thin sheets slid off my legs with a soft rustle. I barely breathed as I swung my feet to the floor. The stone was cold, biting at my skin, grounding me. This wasn’t a dream. This was it.

I reached for the outfit I’d folded beneath the bed—chosen with care, worn soft from repeated handling. A brown tunic, loose enough not to cling, tight enough not to catch on anything. Black pants, fitted. No boots, just soft-soled slippers. I didn’t need anything loud tonight. No perfume, no jewellery. Even my hair was braided into a simple rope, tucked tightly down my back.

Just me.

And the plan.

The escape I’d been crafting since the moment he said, “You belong to me.”

I sprayed masking spray all over me, it almost felt like I had taken a bath with it. I just didn’t want to give any chance for mistakes. The masking spray cost me more than half my savings, but I didn’t care.

I crept to the door and pressed my ear against the heavy wood. Nothing. No footsteps. No low voices. No keys clinking down the corridor. Just emptiness.

Perfect.

I eased it open, just a hair at first. Then enough to slip through. The hallway outside yawned long and dim, lit only by the faint glow of a dying torch at the far end. Shadows clung to the edges like sleeping ghosts. I walked fast, but lightly. Every step calculated.

I didn’t need to get far.

Because she was already there.

My mother stood near the back staircase, hidden in the folds of a shallow alcove, her shawl pulled tight over her shoulders. Her eyes flicked up the moment she saw me. She didn’t speak, just gave a nod.

I moved toward her and we pressed close together in the shadows.

“You remember the path?” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible—just breath wrapped in words.

I nodded once. “Kitchen hall. Past the laundry. Through the storage corridor. Second junction, take a left. Then follow the servant trail behind the west wing garden.”

Her lips pressed together, eyes scanning my face like she wanted to etch it into memory.

“You sure about this, Tasha?”

I didn’t answer right away. My heartbeat was too loud. My throat was thick with everything I couldn’t say.

Then I looked her dead in the eye. “I have to leave, Mama. This place—this life—it was never meant to be mine. I stayed because I thought I could help. But now my life is about to get altered, leaving no hope for my original plan. I can’t sit back and let that happen.”

Her face twisted slightly, not in surprise—but in pain. She looked down. When she looked back up, there was no doubt in her eyes, only resolve.

She pulled me into a hug, one of those tight ones she used to give me when I was little. The kind that said more than words ever could. Her arms wrapped around me like she wanted to protect me from everything. From him. From what was coming.

Then she pulled away and turned.

We moved.

She took the lead, and I followed like her shadow. My mother had worked here since forever. She knew every stone, every loose tile, every crack in the walls. Every shift change. Every back route that didn’t show on the palace blueprints.

We slipped down the servant stairs, each one groaning faintly beneath our steps. But the noise was minimal. Her movements were fast but fluid, like someone who’d practised this a thousand times in her mind.

Down the second floor.

Past the side hallway that led to the war chamber.

Then toward the kitchen.

The air changed here. Smelled like stale bread, iron, and old wood. The kitchens were dark. The fires had long died out, and the counters were clean—ready for another day of feeding royalty. We ducked behind the large bread oven, then passed the back racks filled with drying herbs and baskets of fruit.

There was no one. Just us.

We reached the laundry wing. A single lantern flickered at the far end, but its light barely reached us. Piles of folded linen sat neatly along the wall. The scent of lavender and clean cotton clung to the air.

We moved quickly through it.

I could hear my own breathing now. It was sharp and maybe too fast.

Then we turned into the narrow storage corridor.

This was the worst part. The walls here were stone, uneven and cold. They absorbed every sound, even the softest breath. One loud footfall could carry.

We kept low.

Shelves full of old tools, crates of sealed wine, and rolled carpets lined the walls. The scent of rust and time was overwhelming.

We reached the first junction.

I didn’t speak. Just kept following.

Then the second.

My pulse leapt. We ducked through the tight archway, and just ahead—finally—there it was.

Open air.

The west garden stretched beyond the stone wall. Low hedges. Carefully planted rose beds. The gravel path that led toward the service gate. Above all that—silver light.

The moon had come out.

As if blessing our timing.

I almost cried.

But we didn’t stop. We ran.

No noise. Just speed. Our feet pounded the grass. My lungs burned, but I kept going. The satchel at my side bounced with each stride—just a change of clothes, some coins, an ID card.

Freedom was a few feet away.

Then—

CRASH!

A sound so sharp and violent it tore through the stillness like a blade.

Glass?

A vase? A mirror?

I didn’t know. But I knew that noise wasn’t part of the plan.

Then—A scream followed, short and ragged.

The next thing we heard were boots.

Lots of them.

The garden behind us lit up. Torches sprang to life one after the other. Voices shouted in the distance.

“Shit,” my mother breathed. “—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I turned sharply.

The garden was swarming.

Guards poured out of every corner, dressed in black and silver. Their eyes alert, their hands already on their weapons. The air turned electric. Full of the sharp scent of alert and fear.

One guard pointed.

“There! By the hedges!”

We dropped down behind a stone bench, hearts thundering.

“What do we do?” I asked, voice trembling.

“ I-I don’t know,” she said, her breath shaking. “Something must’ve triggered the alarm. Someone must’ve broken something. This wasn’t the night for patrol—”

I looked at her, then toward the path again.

We had to go.

“We split,” I whispered. “I’ll run. If they chase me, go the other way. Just move as quiet as possible.”

But I didn’t wait for her to agree, I bolted.

As planned, I calculated the guards movements and moved the opposite way, hoping to cut them. This was the moment where the masking spray I’d used earlier did it’s job.

But—

“HEY!” someone shouted behind me, causing the hairs on my body to stiffen.