The soft scent of lavender and rosewater hung in the air as Tyche dabbed the last bit of balm behind her ears. She turned slightly, adjusting the way her copper-shimmer hair framed her face in the cracked mirror Xanthe had managed to sneak into her room. Her dress—simple but freshly laundered—fluttered gently as she spun in place, uncertain whether she looked hopeful or foolish.
Xanthe stood behind her, brushing out the folds in her own indigo skirt, her eyes glowing with barely restrained excitement. "We'll slip through the south path," she whispered. "Behind the olive trees near the old fence. The servants rarely go that way, and it's closest to the stream. We'll loop around and join the crowd from the west gate."
Tyche nodded slowly, nerves gnawing at her belly. "And if someone sees us?"
"They won't," Xanthe said with a wink. "Besides, it's a festival night. Everyone's eyes will be at the square. Not here."
With hearts alight and dresses swaying, they crept quietly through the darkened corridor. The hush of the house deepened the thrill of their escape. Every creak of the floorboard made Tyche's breath hitch, but Xanthe remained fearless. They reached the outer veranda, where the moon spilled silver light across the courtyard. Tyche could already hear distant music—laughter, fiddles, drums—it sounded like freedom.
Until a shadow moved.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice sliced through the night like a blade.
Standing before them was Lysandra, arms folded, her expression carved from ice. Right beside her stood Ourania, lips curled in smug satisfaction, reddish-blond hair cascading over her shoulder like a war banner.
Xanthe froze, her hand still lightly brushing Tyche's wrist. Tyche's body locked in place, her breath caught.
Lysandra's voice sharpened. "So this is what you've been up to. Plotting like little thieves." Her eyes bore into Tyche. "You—of all people—dressed like a lady. Do you really think you belong among decent folk?"
"Aunt Lysandra, it was just a festival—" Tyche began, but the slap of footsteps was the only warning before pain bloomed in her ear. Lysandra had closed the distance in a blink and seized Tyche by the ear, twisting it hard as she began dragging her back across the courtyard.
"You disgrace this house with every breath you take," Lysandra hissed, dragging Tyche through the cold dirt path. "Corrupting my daughter. Do you think dressing up can hide what you are?"
"Aunt, please—"
"Silence!"
Behind them, Xanthe tried to lunge forward, but Ourania stepped into her path, folding her arms. "Stay where you are," she said coldly. "You've done enough damage tonight."
Xanthe's voice cracked. "Let her go, Ourania. This isn't right!"
Ourania only smirked. "Right or wrong, she's not one of us. You know that."
Lysandra didn't stop until they reached the sitting room. She threw Tyche to the floor, using the same ear she had gripped. Tyche landed hard, the stones beneath her scraping her palms as she tried to push herself upright.
No words were spoken.
Ourania was already gone and back, a broom in her hands, which she handed silently to her mother.
Tyche's chest rose and fell rapidly. The warmth from earlier had vanished; her heart pounded like a trapped bird.
Lysandra raised the broom.
And the house went silent.
---—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed through the tense sitting room like a thunderclap.
Lysandra froze, her hand still raised, eyes narrowing with irritation. "Who dares—at this hour?" she hissed, voice low and venomous. She dropped the broom with a loud clatter, the bristles thudding lifelessly to the floor beside Tyche. With a final glare, she turned on her heel and stormed to the door.
Xanthe helped Tyche up, whispering frantically, "Are you alright?" Tyche winced but nodded, rubbing the ear Lysandra had twisted red.
At the door, Lysandra yanked it open, ready to unleash fury.
Instead, her breath caught.
There he stood.
Cloaked in a weathered traveler's coat, boots dusty from the road, hair streaked with gray and eyes sharp with years—Demetrios, her long-absent husband, filled the doorway. The man who had vanished on kingdom business nearly six years ago.
His voice was low, unreadable. "Are you going to leave me standing out here, Lysandra? Or will you let me in?"
For a moment, her face faltered—uncertain, calculating. Then she stepped aside, forcing a strained smile as he entered.
The sitting room fell silent as Demetrios's gaze swept across the scene: Tyche's disheveled form, the dropped broom, Xanthe hovering protectively. His brows furrowed. Something was wrong.
"What's going on here?" His voice carried the weight of command.
Before Lysandra could form a lie, Ourania sprang forward, as though on cue. She rushed to Tyche and wrapped an arm around her shoulders—delicate, sisterly.
"Oh, Father," she began, her voice trembling, perfectly performed. "She had another dream. One of those dreams again. About the accident. She was screaming and shaking… we found her like this, in my room. I—I brought her here to calm her down."
Demetrios's expression shifted—concern flickering in his eyes as he turned to Tyche.
"Is that true, little one?" he asked softly.
Tyche opened her mouth to speak, but paused. Her ear still throbbed. Her eyes darted to Lysandra, who stood stiffly by the fireplace. Then to Ourania, whose grip had subtly tightened.
She gave the smallest nod. "Yes, Uncle," she whispered.
Demetrios sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "These dreams again…" He looked over his niece with a gentle frown, then turned toward Lysandra.
"You should have sent for me long ago. I told you, if the dreams worsened…"
Lysandra's lips pressed into a thin line. "You were gone."
"And now I'm not."
He turned back to Tyche. "Perhaps some air will do you good." Then, looking over to Xanthe, he added, "I hear there's a festival tonight?"
Xanthe blinked in surprise, then gave a small smile. "Yes, Father."
Demetrios nodded. "Then I see no reason why Tyche can't go."
Lysandra's face paled. "She's—"
"She's going," he said firmly.
And with that, Demetrios turned and gestured toward the hallway. "Go get ready, girls. The night is waiting."
Tyche stood frozen for a heartbeat. Then slowly, cautiously, she walked past Ourania, past Lysandra, and followed Xanthe up the stairs—her heart pounding not with fear this time, but with disbelief.
Freedom, even if for one night, had finally been granted.
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