Fall of Fire

Chapter twelve

Whispers in the Garden
In the silence of shadows, survival outweighed fear.

Lysaena's breath came in short, sharp bursts, each step down the narrow corridor echoing like a distant drumbeat in her ears. The shadows clung to her like a second skin, her every movement careful, deliberate, as if the stone walls themselves held their breath along with her. The cold bite of the stone beneath her bare feet was a constant reminder of the danger she was in, yet she pressed forward, her heart pounding in her chest.

The key Mira had stolen from Aerion felt impossibly heavy in her hand, as though the cold metal carried the weight of an entire kingdom. Her mind raced, trying to anticipate every possible twist of fate. She knew that at any moment, she could be discovered. The walls of Maelarys Keep were never truly empty, always patrolled by the ever-vigilant Dread Guard, loyal to Aerion and his merciless vision of security. One wrong turn, one slip of her foot, and she would be dragged back to that gilded cage, her fleeting hope for escape shattered.

As she reached a bend in the corridor, Lysaena paused, pressing herself against the cool stone. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the air around her suddenly feeling too thick to breathe. She strained to listen, to catch any sound from beyond the corner. The distant clatter of footsteps reached her—steady and rhythmic—the unmistakable sound of a guard on his patrol.

Her heart lurched. The guard was approaching, the soft hum of his armor growing louder. There was nowhere to hide here, nowhere to turn back. If he rounded that corner, he would see her—there was no avoiding it.

Lysaena gripped the key tightly, willing herself to disappear into the shadows. Her mind raced with fear, the possibilities of capture flashing before her eyes like the blade of an executioner. The guard's footsteps grew closer, each step a deafening reminder that her freedom was fragile, hanging by a thread.

And then, from behind her, a hand shot out of the shadows, small and quick, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a hidden alcove carved into the wall. Lysaena gasped, her heart leaping into her throat, but before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Quiet," a soft voice whispered, almost too low to be heard over the pounding of her heart.

She blinked, her vision adjusting to the darkness, and for the first time, she saw the outline of the figure beside her—a child, no older than ten, with sharp, watchful eyes and a gaze that seemed far older than his years. His hand remained over her mouth, his finger pressed to his lips, signaling her to remain silent as the guard's footsteps drew nearer.

Lysaena remained perfectly still, her breath shallow beneath the boy's hand. The guard's shadow loomed, his armor clinking softly as he walked past their hiding place. For a terrifying moment, Lysaena was sure he would stop, that he would hear the frantic beating of her heart or sense the tremor in her body. But the guard merely paused for a breath, glancing down the empty corridor ahead of him, before continuing on his patrol.

As the footsteps faded into the distance, the boy slowly removed his hand from Lysaena's mouth. She exhaled a long, trembling breath, relief mixing with the fear that still pulsed in her veins. She pressed herself against the stone wall, trying to calm her racing heart.

"You need to be more careful," the boy whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes gleamed with intelligence, his small frame wrapped in the tattered cloak of a servant, though there was nothing servant-like about the way he moved. There was a certain poise to him, a calmness in the face of danger that only came from experience.

Lysaena studied him, her mind whirling. He wasn't just some lost child—he was something far more dangerous. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice hoarse from the fear still clawing at her throat.