The Gilded Cage
The West Tower room was a masterpiece of expensive lies.
Silk curtains the color of midnight. A canopied bed with carved posts depicting roses and thorns. Velvet cushions scattered across chairs that cost more than most peasants earned in a year. Everything chosen to whisper: You are valued here. You are safe.
Ghost gave it ninety seconds before she found the first observation post.
She moved through the space like she was examining a crime scene, which, in a way, she was. Every luxury item was evidence. Every comfort was part of the prosecution's case against reality.
The bed was positioned to be visible from three angles. Smart.
The writing desk faced the door—anyone sitting there would have their back to the eastern wall. Deliberate.
The wardrobe containing silk dresses in Anya's size had been stocked before her arrival, which meant Malakor had been planning this reception for weeks. Interesting.
Ghost trailed her fingers along the stone walls, feeling for temperature differentials. Cold stone was solid. Slightly warm stone meant a hollow space behind it where body heat from an observer would transfer through.
Third panel from the window on the north wall: warm.
She didn't react. Didn't pause. Just continued her "nervous bride exploring her new prison" routine, letting her hand drop away as if the stone's texture had startled her.
In her previous life, she'd escaped from a CIA black site in Romania that had surveillance in the toilet bowl. This was almost quaint.
The window presented more interesting possibilities.
Thirty-foot drop to courtyard stones below. No convenient ledges, but the decorative stonework between tower levels created potential handholds. The drop wasn't survivable in this malnourished body—not yet—but with rope made from torn sheets and sufficient upper body strength...
She filed it under "future options" and moved on.
The room contained exactly seventeen objects that could function as weapons.
Letter opener on the writing desk: eight inches, steel, decent point. Throat or eye work.
Curtain rods: iron, hollow, could be broken to create a sharp edge.
Ceramic water pitcher: heavy base, blunt force trauma potential.
Mirror above the vanity: breakable into shards, multiple cutting implements.
Fireplace poker: obvious, but effective.
Embroidery needles in the sewing basket: small, concealable, excellent for pressure points.
She counted them all while pretending to admire the furnishings, her assassin's brain cataloging angles and reach distances automatically.
The locked door on the eastern wall was warded.
Ghost could feel it—a prickling sensation across her skin when she stood too close. Magic. The kind that would probably alert someone if she tried to force it. Which meant whatever was behind that door was either very valuable or very dangerous.
Possibly both.
She was testing the door's hinges—casually, as if leaning against it while examining a nearby tapestry—when someone knocked.
Ghost snapped into character instantly.
Posture: collapsed inward, shoulders hunched.
Expression: startled rabbit.
Hands: clasped at her waist, trembling slightly.
"E-enter?" Her voice came out breathy with fear.
Perfect.
The girl who entered was maybe sixteen, with dark hair tucked under a gray servant's cap and hands that shook badly enough to rattle the dishes on the tray she carried.
"Y-your dinner, my lady." The title came out automatic and wrong, like she'd been trained to say it but didn't mean it. "Lady Rowena sent instructions that you should eat well and regain your strength."
Ghost watched the girl set the tray on the small table near the window, noting everything.
The blood-magic sigils embroidered at the girl's cuffs in thread that looked black in some lights, red in others. Binding oaths. The kind that compelled truth and prevented betrayal—she'd seen similar magic in Anya's memories, used on prisoners in the dungeon.
The way the girl's eyes darted to the north wall panel—the warm one—before she spoke. Confirming the observation post's location.
The careful distance she maintained from Ghost, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt.
"Thank you," Ghost whispered, making herself smaller. "I'm... I'm Anya. What's your name?"
The girl blinked, clearly surprised to be asked. "Mira, my lady."
"Not a lady." Ghost let her voice crack slightly. "Just... just a girl who made her family angry."
It was exactly what Anya would have said—the truth wrapped in self-deprecation, apologizing for existing.
Mira's expression softened microscopically. "You should eat, my—miss. The kitchen prepared something gentle. For your stomach. After the... the journey."
After the poison, she meant. After Anya had vomited poison in the carriage and arrived at the Keep looking like a corpse.
Ghost glanced at the tray. Broth, bread, some kind of soft cheese. Nothing that required teeth or a strong stomach. Thoughtful, if you ignored the fact that she was a prisoner.
"Is the Keep always so..." Ghost gestured vaguely at the window, where twilight pressed against the glass like something solid. "Dark?"
"Yes, miss. His Lordship prefers it that way. The shadows are... easier for him here." Mira's voice dropped to a whisper. "They say the sun hasn't risen over the Onyx Keep in five hundred years. Not since Lord Malakor bound himself to the Devil's pact."
Useful information, delivered through gossip. Ghost filed it away.
"Do you..." Ghost twisted her hands together. "Do you serve Lord Malakor directly?"
"No, miss. I serve Lady Rowena. She controls the household. All the servants answer to her, except—" Mira cut herself off, eyes going wide.
"Except?" Ghost prompted gently.
"Except the Onyx Guard. They answer only to His Lordship." Mira busied herself with straightening items on the tray that didn't need straightening. "Lady Rowena says the previous brides never... that they didn't..."
"Didn't last long," Ghost finished quietly. "I heard the guards talking. In the carriage."
Mira's silence was confirmation enough.
Ghost let the fear show on her face—easy, since Anya's memories provided plenty of reference material. "How long?"
"The last one... three days." Mira's voice barely reached whisper level. "But she screamed a lot. His Lordship doesn't like screaming. Says it's... boring."
Three days. A new record, apparently.
"What happened to her?" Ghost asked, even though she could guess.
"The shadows took her." Mira glanced at the corners of the room where darkness pooled thicker than it should. "That's what they do. What His Lordship commands them to do, when he's... finished."
Translation: Malakor executed his previous bride after she failed to interest him.
Good to know the stakes.
"Has he—" Ghost's voice caught convincingly. "Has he sent for me?"
"Not yet, miss. Lady Rowena says you'll dine with His Lordship tomorrow night. To formally... to formally begin your duties as bride." The way Mira said "duties" made it clear she meant something between political hostage and sacrificial lamb.
Ghost nodded slowly, letting hopelessness settle over her expression like a veil.
Inside, her assassin's mind calculated.
Twenty-four hours to prepare. To learn the Keep's routines. To identify all major players and their relationships. To determine which threats were immediate and which could be exploited.
Tomorrow night would be her first real test.
"Thank you, Mira," she whispered. "For being kind. No one's been kind in... in a long time."
It was true—Anya's memories contained very little kindness. And it had exactly the effect Ghost wanted.
Mira's expression crumpled slightly with sympathy. "I'll... I'll bring breakfast at dawn, miss. Try to rest."
After the girl left, Ghost sat at the small table and ate the broth methodically. No poison in it—she'd checked. Rowena wasn't moving yet, just positioning pieces.
But she would.
Women like the "Blood Rose" always struck at new competition. It was just a question of when and how.
Ghost finished eating and began a systematic exploration of the room's acoustics, testing how sound carried, where words would be clearest to the hidden observers, where she could whisper without being overheard.
The northeast corner had the best acoustic shadow—the angle of the walls created a dead zone where sound dissipated strangely. The washroom was even better, with thick stone walls and a heavy door that muffled everything.
Those were her safe zones. Where she could drop the performance and think.
Everywhere else, she was on stage.
Ghost returned to the writing desk and found expensive paper, ink, and a quill that had been carefully maintained. They wanted her to write letters. Probably wanted to read them, see who she contacted, what she said.
Fine.
She'd give them a performance.
Dear Father and Mother,
I have arrived safely at the Onyx Keep. Lord Malakor has been most gracious in his welcome, and I am honored by the chambers provided for me. The servants are kind, and I want for nothing materially.
Every word a lie wrapped in propriety.
I understand the great responsibility you have placed upon me as a representative of House Valerius. I pray I do not disappoint you or bring shame to our family name. Lord Malakor is everything the stories describe—powerful, commanding, and worthy of respect.
Translation: I know you sent me here to die, and I'm playing the role you wrote for me.
Please know that I think of you often and miss the comforts of home. I will do my duty with honor and grace, as befits a daughter of our house.
Your obedient daughter, Anya
She signed it with Anya's flowing script—pulled from muscle memory in this body—and added a postscript:
P.S. Please thank Lord Malakor for his mercy in accepting me. I am so grateful for his patience with my inadequacies.
The last line would absolutely reach Malakor. Either through Rowena's spy network or through his own surveillance. He'd see it as evidence that she was properly terrified and submissive.
Which was exactly what she wanted him to see.
Let him think she was broken. Let Rowena think she was weak. Let the whole Keep dismiss her as just another failed bride waiting to scream herself into irrelevance.
Meanwhile, Ghost would learn. Adapt. Plan.
She'd infiltrated worse than this. Governments. Cartels. Black-site prisons designed by people who understood human psychology better than Malakor understood his own boredom.
This was just another mission. Another target. Another impossible situation that only looked impossible to people who weren't trained to see the gaps.
Ghost positioned herself on the bed with a book she'd found—some kind of history of House Valerius, boring and useless—and made sure she was visible to all three observation posts.
Innocent. Frightened. Reading to distract herself from tomorrow's dinner with the monster.
The perfect image of a lamb awaiting slaughter.
Outside her window, the eternal twilight pressed closer. Somewhere below, in the depths of the Keep, shadows moved with purposes she didn't yet understand.
But she would.
Give her time, and she'd understand everything.
Then she'd decide who lived and who became just another body in the dark.
**