The night smelled of smoke and sour wine.
She was sitting on the thin mat, back pressed hard against the wall, her fingers digging into her own skin.
The attic was pitch-dark except for a faint glow from the moon through a narrow crack in the wall.
Her nails scratched at her palms, over and over, leaving faint red marks. She barely noticed the sting — it was the only way to stop her hands from shaking.
It's tonight. She repeated the words in her mind over and over, forcing herself to breathe through the twisting knot in her gut. It's tonight or never.
"Downstairs, the sounds were fading: the drunken laughter dulled, the clink of cups slowed, the girls' giggles softened, the men's barking voices trailed off — until, finally, all fell quiet."
She strained to listen, ears wide open, every muscle drawn tight, her breath shallow. She was waiting — waiting for the one sound she needed: the slow, measured steps of the mistress retreating to her private room to count the night's earnings.
The corridor had to be empty. She couldn't risk a single misstep.
Her fingers dug harder into her skin. She felt the faint bite of her nails but didn't stop.
Her bare feet were raw from the cold floor, her thin robe already damp with sweat. She had no shoes, no money, no cloak. Just her body, her speed, and a fierce, quiet will.
Down below, a door slammed. She flinched.
Almost.
Almost time.
She squeezed her fists tight, pressing her nails deep enough to sting. Her heart pounded, her pulse racing in her ears.
Any moment now.
The trapdoor loomed before her, black and heavy in the dark. She crouched down, fingers curling under the edge, feeling the cold bite of the old wood. Her pulse spiked; she hesitated.
The hinges were old, rusted. She knew they groaned.
She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together, willing her hands to be steady. Slowly, slowly, she lifted — just a crack, just enough to slip through.
A faint creak whispered in the dark.
Her chest squeezed tight. She froze, every muscle clenched, waiting, straining her ears.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices below.
She exhaled, a slow, shaking breath.
She pushed the hatch open just enough, easing it with painstaking care so the hinges wouldn't screech. She swung her legs over, toes brushing the ladder's worn rungs, feeling them tremble under her weight.
Please don't creak, she begged silently, inching down rung by rung, her hands tight on the rough wood, breath caught sharp in her chest.
One slip, one loud noise, and it would all be over.
When her feet finally touched the ground, she almost collapsed with relief — but there was no time.
*Move.* Her pulse thundered in her ears. She had to move before her legs gave out just from nerves.
A figure lay slumped in one of the side hallways — one of the house guards, sprawled half on his side, a wine jug slipping from his loose fingers. His mouth hung open, breath ragged, a faint mutter bubbling out between snores.
She crept forward, bare feet brushing lightly over the cracked floor.
Suddenly — her toe caught something.
A faint scrape echoed in the silence.
Her eyes snapped down.
An empty clay wine cup wobbled where her foot had nudged it, spinning in a slow, dangerous circle on the ground.
No. Her breath caught sharp in her throat.
The man stirred. His brow furrowed, his head twitching. His hand jerked slightly near the jug.
Heart hammering, she crouched low, pressing herself into the shadowed wall. Her breath came in shallow, silent gasps; every muscle in her body tensed, ready to run.
The guard grunted softly, lips smacking, eyes flickering under heavy lids.
Please, stay asleep. Please…
His hand twitched — then went slack.
A long, ugly snore rattled from his chest.
She waited one beat longer, two — then, quick and light, she darted past, feet whispering over the floor, eyes locked forward.
She didn't look back.
There was no time to look back.
The back courtyard was cold and empty. The guards were off drinking, same as always, their laughter echoing faintly near the front. She exhaled, chest tight, and slipped into the shadows.
For one heartbeat, she thought she'd made it.
Then —
"Oi!"
Her heart jolted to her throat.
She spun. One of the brothel's hired thugs, thick-shouldered and half-drunk, was squinting at her from the shadows. "Where d'you think you're going, dirty blood?"
Her breath caught — and then she lunged into motion, adrenaline flooding her limbs, launching her in a desperate sprint.
She heard his angry shout behind her, the heavy thud of his steps pounding the ground. Panic surged through her veins as she darted into a narrow alley, feet slapping the stone, weaving through crates and half-rotten trash.
"Stop her!" the man bellowed, his voice booming. "Catch that girl!"
She stumbled over a loose stone, caught herself on scraped palms, and pushed harder, legs burning. The icy air tore at her lungs, and every breath came ragged, but she couldn't stop. She dodged startled figures in the night, slipped between vendors' carts, ducked under low-hanging signs.
Ahead, the city gate loomed — towering stone walls, iron-bound doors, massive and gleaming under the moonlight. Banners bearing the imperial dragon rippled in the sharp wind.
But something was wrong.
More soldiers stood there than usual — lines of armored men, halberds gleaming, their postures rigid.
Her stomach dropped. She'd never get past them.
She slowed, slipping into the shadow of a side wall. Her breath came in shaky gasps, heart pounding against her ribs.
From her hiding place, she watched.
A cluster of guards stood near the gate, speaking in low voices. Their armor caught the moonlight, polished and sharp. A tall officer, hawk-eyed and stiff, gestured briskly.
"Clear the outer roads by dawn," he barked. "No interruptions. His Highness departs for the Longwei trials at first light."
"Yes, sir," one guard murmured, shifting his halberd.
Another, younger, leaned in slightly. "Do you really think he'll pass, Captain? They say this year's trials are harsher than ever."
The officer's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "He's the emperor's son. He'll pass. He must."
A third voice, dry and skeptical: "I heard the last prince cracked on the third day."
A short, tense silence.
"His Highness," the officer said crisply, "isn't the last prince."
A faint laugh, clipped and nervous, rippled through the group.
The girl's fingers clenched against the rough wall. She caught the words — prince, trials, His Highness — but they washed over her like meaningless noise. Her heart slammed in her chest, her breath sharp with panic.
The shouts behind her were getting closer. The heavy steps of her pursuer, the barked calls to stop her.
"HEY!"
The shout jolted her back. She twisted around — the brothel guard was closer now, barreling toward her, shouting for backup.
Her breath hitched. She turned frantically, scanning — and then spotted it.
Near the old section of the wall, half-covered by vines, was a narrow break, barely wide enough for a body to slip through.
She didn't think. She bolted.
A sharp stone scraped her knee as she forced her way through the gap, robes tearing, branches scratching her arms. She stumbled, nearly fell, and then —
Suddenly she was outside.
Cold air rushed against her face. The forest loomed, dark and dense, the trees crowding together like shadows. She staggered forward, gasping, heart hammering.
Behind her, faintly, she heard: "She went that way!"
Her legs moved on instinct. She ran.
The trees blurred past in streaks of black and silver, moonlight flickering through the canopy. Her breath came in ragged gulps, her pulse loud in her ears. She stumbled over roots, ducked under low branches, her robe catching and tearing as she pushed forward.
Leaves slapped her face. Twigs snapped underfoot. Every step was a fight to stay upright.
Keep running. Don't look back.
It felt like she had been running for hours before her foot caught on a root. She pitched forward, hit the ground hard, elbows scraping raw. For a moment she lay there, chest heaving, vision blurred.
No footsteps behind her.
No voices.
She snapped out of her daze — then, slowly, trembling, pushed herself upright.
Her breath came in fast, shaky gasps. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to steady the violent tremble still running through her limbs from the effort.
I made it. The thought came, quiet but triumphant, like a whisper in the back of her mind, almost too good to seem real. I'm out.
She looked around — trees, shadows, the faint glimmer of moonlight on damp leaves.
She was out — free — but what now? She had no map, no plan, no one waiting for her. She was just a half-blooded girl, alone in the forest, with nothing but the clothes on her back.
And somewhere back there, in the city, people were probably already talking. The mistress would be furious. The guards would spread word. By dawn, half the slums would know a girl had run.
But no one would bother searching for a mutt-blooded, lowborn girl from a brothel.
She pictured the mistress's face — furious, red, spitting curses. The other girls too — wide-eyed, whispering, jealous that she'd escaped the life they were trapped in.
A wide, satisfied grin stretched her dry lips — chapped by the cold and thirst.
She forced herself to her feet, wincing as the fresh air bit into her scraped skin — then staggered a few steps forward, hugging herself, trying to trap what little warmth she could.
The moon hung high, pale and cold. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called softly.
Her legs ached. Her stomach churned with hunger. The cold gnawed at her bones.
But she was free.
For the first time in her life, no one was watching her. No one was pulling her by the wrist, shoving her into shadows, barking orders at her.
She clenched her fists.
I need to keep moving as far from here for now.
She'd never been outside the city walls before. Never seen the wild forests beyond the stone borders. It smelled strange — wet earth, pine, decaying leaves — and every creak of a branch or rustle of wind made her heart lurch in her chest.
Her feet dragged forward on the damp earth, into the dark.
Somewhere deep inside her chest, under the hunger and fear, under the ache of exhaustion, a strange, small spark stirred.
It wasn't hope.Not yet.
But it was something.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing back the tears that pricked at the corners — the kind that came not from crying, but from the cold wind cutting against her face during her frantic race.
The night swallowed her silhouette as she disappeared between the trees, a faint figure against the cold silver of moonlight.
---
Somewhere far behind her, in the city, soldiers were preparing.
Guards polished their weapons, secured the gates, tightened the golden dragon banners for the dawn departure. Horses were saddled. Men in heavy armors stood at attention.
The second son of the emperor, heir to the imperial line, would soon leave for the Longwei trials — a test of strength, strategy, and loyalty only the finest nobles men could endure.
She knew nothing of this.