Celestia's POV
I kill my second man with Thorne's training echoing in my head: Don't hesitate.
My blade cuts across his throat before he can raise his sword. Blood sprays. He falls.
I don't feel guilty this time. Just alive.
Around me, the cottage is chaos. Thorne fights like a demon, cutting down mercenaries with brutal efficiency. I stay close to him, blocking strikes, stabbing when I see openings.
We move together. Partners.
The last mercenary runs.
Silence falls, broken only by our ragged breathing.
Are you hurt? Thorne asks, checking me over frantically.
No. I'm covered in blood, but none of it is mine. You?
I'm fine. He looks at the bodies—eight dead mercenaries. You did well.
I stare at my bloody hands. I killed three men tonight.
Three men who would have killed you. He cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. Never apologize for surviving.
Before I can respond, a slow clap echoes from the doorway.
We both spin, weapons raised.
Raven stands there, completely calm, surveying the carnage.
Impressive, she says. Maybe you're not completely useless after all.
Dawn comes too soon.
I barely slept, nightmares full of blood and blades haunting what little rest I got. My body aches from fighting. My hands shake when I think about the men I killed.
But Raven doesn't care.
Stand up straight, she orders, circling me like a predator. You're slouching.
I'm exhausted.
And you think enemies care? She stops in front of me. Today I teach you to become someone else. To hide in plain sight. To survive when strength isn't enough.
She dumps a pile of clothing, wigs, and makeup onto the table.
We start with walking.
Walking?
Nobles walk differently than servants. Merchants move differently than thieves. Every person has tells—body language that screams who they are. Her eyes rake over me with contempt. You, Lady Celestia, reek of privilege with every step.
My face burns. I can change
Prove it. She points to the floor. Walk across the room like a servant girl. Someone who's scrubbed floors her whole life. Someone beaten down by years of bowing to people like you.
I try. I hunch my shoulders, take smaller steps, keep my eyes down.
Raven laughs harshly. Pathetic. You look like a noble pretending to be humble. Try again.
Again. And again. And again.
She critiques everything. My posture. My hands. The way I hold my head. The speed of my steps.
Servants don't look around like they own the space! she snaps. They look for threats! For orders! For escape routes!
Hours pass. My legs ache. My pride is shredded.
But I keep trying.
Now talk like a merchant, Raven commands. Someone haggling in the market. Loud, crude, concerned only with profit.
I try to roughen my voice, to speak with the accent I've heard in the Lower City.
Terrible! You sound like a noble with a sore throat!
More hours. More humiliation.
Raven makes me walk like a thief—quick, silent, constantly checking shadows. Talk like a drunk sailor. Move like a frightened child.
By afternoon, I'm ready to scream. Or cry. Or both.
You're trying too hard, Raven says, frustration creeping into her voice. You're performing instead of becoming. You need to think like them. Feel like them. BE them.
I don't know how! The words burst out. I've been a noble my whole life! I don't know how to be anything else!
Then maybe you should think about that. Raven's voice turns cold. Your noble life got you framed for treason. Got you married to an executioner. Almost got you killed a dozen times. How's that privilege working for you?
The words hit like punches.
And suddenly, rage floods through me. Hot and fierce.
Rage at being told I'm not good enough. At being called privileged when I lost everything. At being judged by someone who doesn't understand what it's like to have your own father destroy you.
I channel that rage into the performance.
I slouch like someone beaten down by life. Let my shoulders curl inward. Make my steps small and fearful. When I speak, I don't try to sound like a servant—I think about fear. About survival. About making myself small to avoid being noticed.
I become invisible.
Raven goes completely still.
I walk the length of the room, then turn back to her. My voice comes out soft and scared: Please, milady, I didn't mean no harm. Just doing my work, milady. Please don't beat me.
For the first time since we met, Raven actually smiles.
Better. She nods slowly. Much better. You might survive after all.
Pride swells in my chest, warm and unexpected.
Again, she commands. But this time, be a street merchant. Confident, loud, shameless.
I do. And this time, I nail it.
We work until sunset. Wigs that transform my appearance. Makeup that ages me or makes me look sickly. Accents from every corner of the kingdom.
By the time darkness falls, I'm exhausted but exhilarated.
I can disappear. I can become anyone.
That night, Thorne returns from scouting to find me practicing in the main room.
I don't notice him at first. I'm too focused on perfecting the walk of a tavern girl—hips swaying, shoulders back, that careful balance between confidence and availability.
When I finally look up, he's staring at me with an expression I've never seen before.
His eyes are dark. Intense. Almost... hungry.
Raven taught you that? His voice is rough.
I straighten, suddenly self-conscious. She said I needed to learn disguise. To blend in.
You blend in too well. He moves closer, studying my face. I almost didn't recognize you. If I'd seen you on the street like that...
He doesn't finish the sentence.
The air between us feels charged. Dangerous.
Is it good enough? I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
It's perfect. His hand reaches up, almost touching my face, then drops. Tomorrow, we test it in the city.
My heart stutters. The city? But the bounties—
Which is exactly why we need intelligence. He steps back, creating distance. If you can move through the Lower City unrecognized, you can gather information. Listen to gossip. Find out who's hunting us and why.
That's dangerous.
Everything we do is dangerous. His smile is sharp. At least now you'll look like someone else when danger finds you.
I should be scared. Terrified, even.
But I'm not.
I'm ready.
The next morning, Raven transforms me completely.
A brown wig covers my blonde hair. Makeup darkens my skin and adds fake dirt smudges. My clothes are rough wool, patched and worn.
When I look in the mirror, a stranger stares back. A servant girl. Nobody important.
Perfect.
Remember, Raven says, handing me a basket. You're Eliza, a scullery maid buying supplies for your mistress. Keep your eyes down. Don't engage unless spoken to. And if anyone threatens you
Run, I finish.
Good girl. She actually sounds approving.
Thorne waits outside, also disguised. He looks like a common laborer in stained clothes and a worker's cap.
Even knowing it's him, I barely recognize him.
Ready? he asks.
I nod.
We set out for the city on foot, joining the stream of workers heading to market.
The Lower City is loud and chaotic. Merchants shouting. Children running. Smells of cooking meat and unwashed bodies mixing together.
I keep my head down and follow Thorne's lead.
Everything goes smoothly for the first hour.
Then I see him.
Standing across the market square, scanning the crowd with cold calculation.
Duke Adrian. My former fiancé.
And he's not alone. Isabella is with him, along with at least a dozen armed guards.
They're searching for someone.
For me.
I freeze, every instinct screaming to run.
But running will draw attention.
So I force myself to stay calm. To be Eliza. To be nobody.
Adrian's gaze sweeps past me once. Twice.
Please don't recognize me. Please
His eyes snap back to my face.
And I watch recognition dawn in his expression.
He's seen through my disguise.
There! Adrian shouts, pointing directly at me. Seize her! That's Celestia!