It was the ice in the air that dragged Madeline from the deep, dead sleep of the exhausted.
She opened her eyes slowly, the movement causing the skin across her raw shoulders to pull and sting. Through the heavy, suffocating gloom of the abandoned ward, she looked across the aisle of dust-coated bunks. Directly opposite her, Michael was asleep on a bare wooden frame.
He didn't look peaceful. The stoic, unshakeable giant who had dismantled Derrick with two precise blows was currently trapped in a violent, invisible war. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks spasmed. His massive hands were curled into white-knuckled fists, and a thin sheen of cold sweat glistened on his pale forehead. He was thrifting his head from side to side, a low, unintelligible rumble vibrating in his throat. He was speaking, but the words were mangled, tangled in the teeth of a nightmare.
"Michael," Madeline called out, her voice a fragile whisper behind her leather mask.
He didn't wake. The murmuring grew sharper, more frantic.
Driven by an impulse she didn't quite understand, Madeline pushed herself up from her bunk, her joints cracking in protest. She stepped across the cold stone floor and reached out, gently poking his rigid shoulder.
Michael's eyes snapped open instantly.
For a single, terrifying heartbeat, Madeline froze. In the faint, gray light filtering through the high window, she could have sworn his pupils didn't look human—they seemed to shift, widening into golden, predatory wolves eyes before snapping back into their sharp, piercing forest-green. But the dark room played tricks on the eyes. Before she could process it, the illusion was gone.
"What?" Michael rasped, his voice rough, sitting up with a sudden, coiled speed that made Madeline take a hasty step back.
"It's morning," she murmured, gesturing toward the narrow slit window.
Outside, the sky was the color of bruised iron. They had spent so many hours scrubbing the centuries of filth from the room, entirely lost in the rhythm of the punishment, that the transition from night to day had happened without them noticing. The room wasn't sparkling clean—such a feat would require a miracle—but the cobwebs were gone, the floor was cleared of the thickest grime, and the rotted blankets had been piled in the corner. They had done their best.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping on the heavy oak door shattered the quiet. The deadbolt slid back with a heavy clack, and a young, sharp-faced guard peered inside.
"Time's up," he announced coldly. "Follow me."
They were led deep into the bowels of the administrative keep, a part of the fortress where the air smelled of stale ink, old leather, and the heavy wax used to seal execution orders.
The guard ushered them into a stark, spacious office and left them standing in the center of the room. Madeline's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her bound chest. They waited in the stifling silence for what felt like an eternity, until the heavy oak door behind the desk swung open.
The Sergeant walked in.
He looked tired, the deep lines around his single, slate-grey eye carved deeper by a long night of administrative duties. He didn't look at them as he walked past, his midnight-blue uniform crisp despite the early hour. He sank heavily into the large leather chair behind his dark mahogany desk, leaning his elbows on the wood and steepling his thick, scarred fingers.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, his gaze finally dropping like a guillotine onto Madeline.
"You're remarkably small to be causing this much trouble so early in your tenure, don't you think, little shadow?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a chill straight down her spine.
Madeline immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, staring intently at the polished wood, utterly unable to meet that terrifying eye.
"And now, you're dragging my best assets down into the mud with you," the Sergeant continued, his tone shifting from weary to dangerously sharp. He leaned forward. "Care to tell me exactly what happened behind the armory yesterday? Because Derrick is currently lying in the infirmary with a jaw wired shut, and the adjudicator tells me neither of you uttered a single word during your isolation."
Madeline swallowed the lump of glass in her throat. She had spent the night thinking about this moment. She couldn't let Michael take the blame. If he was expelled, or worse, executed for striking a fellow recruit, she would be entirely defenseless. She had to lie. She had to make it believable.
"Derrick... Derrick wouldn't leave me alone," Madeline said, her voice trembling but resolute behind her mask. "He kept cornering me. He kept bullying me. So... I got mad. And I punched him. Michael just happened to be passing by after it was over."
The silence that followed her statement lasted for three agonizing seconds.
Then, the Sergeant burst into a loud, booming laugh. It was a terrifying sound, completely devoid of mirth, echoing off the high stone walls. He laughed so hard his broad shoulders shook, leaning back in his chair.
"You?" the Sergeant roared, pointing a thick, calloused finger at her small frame. "You are telling me that you are responsible for putting a twenty-stone mercenary in the sickbay? You? The worm who couldn't even manage to complete a fraction of the morning warm-up without collapsing into the dirt?"
Madeline forced herself to nod, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
The Sergeant's laughter cut off instantly, his face twisting into a cold, hard mask. "Do not lie to me, boy. I can break you with a single thought."
"I did it."
The words were spoken with a quiet, lethal finality. Michael stepped forward, his face completely expressionless, his green eyes boring into the Sergeant. "It was me. It won't happen again."
The Sergeant shifted his gaze to Michael, staring at him for a long, suffocating moment. He didn't laugh this time. He just tapped his thick fingers against the desk.
"Everyone is responsible for himself in this yard," the Sergeant said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Who do you think you are, boy? A hero? A savior for the weak? If this pathetic little shadow isn't strong enough to handle himself against the wolves, then he belongs in the dirt. He knew exactly what kind of hell he was walking into when he signed the registry."
He stood up, towering over the desk, his presence filling the room like smoke.
"I don't have the time to waste on your petty squabbles today. I have a garrison to run," he snapped. "Now, out of my sight. You will spend your day scrubbing the latrines, clearing the filth from the mess hall, and mucking out the horse stables. I want every inch of it immaculate before the evening assembly. If I find a single speck of dirt... you will find out what the dungeons taste like. Get out."
They started in the latrines.
The stench of ammonia and stagnant water was overwhelming, but it wasn't the smell that broke Madeline. It was the crushing realization of her own utter helplessness. She was a girl trapped in a cage of monsters, forced to clean the filth of men who wanted to destroy her, running from a past she couldn't escape. She was always under her grandmother's fierce, protective wing in the village. She had never been left to defend herself like this.
As she held the heavy, splintering broom, a hot tear escaped her eye, soaking into the leather of her mask. Then another. Within moments, she was weeping silently, her shoulders shaking as the tears flowed uncontrollably.
Michael stopped scrubbing the stone trough. He let out a long, weary sigh, leaning against his broom handle.
"What is it now?" he asked, his voice cold, but lacking the viciousness from the day before.
"I miss my grandma," Madeline choked out, the words muffled and broken. "She always... she always took care of me. She always protected me from the world. And now I'm out here, and I'm just a nuisance. I'm just a weak, useless weight getting you into trouble."
Michael didn't offer a word of comfort. He just stared at her. "Then why did you come here? If you're this fragile, why didn't you stay by her side?"
"Because she's dying!" Madeline cried out, the truth ripping through her teeth before she could stop it. "She's incredibly sick. I needed the funds. The recruitment bounty was the only way to pay for the medicine to save her life." She bit her lip, holding back the details of the debt, of Woodsman, of the crushing trap her life had become.
Michael remained quiet. He didn't mock her. He didn't walk away. He just turned back to the wall and began to clean, his movements fluid and unnaturally fast. Madeline stood there, her limbs feeling like lead, her mind too exhausted to even figure out how to lift her broom. She wondered, not for the first time, where he found the infinite reservoir of strength to keep moving like a machine.
She hesitantly reached for her broom to join him, but before her fingers could close around the wood, Michael raised a single, large hand.
"Sit down," he commanded flatly.
"But the Sergeant said—"
"I told you to sit," he repeated, not looking at her. "I'll handle it."
Madeline felt a sharp pang of guilt, but her body was too broken to argue. She slid down against the damp stone wall, pulling her knees to her chest, watching him work. He moved with a terrifying efficiency, sweeping and scrubbing so fast the air seemed to hum around him.
After a long, heavy silence, the question that had been burning in her mind since the recruitment hall finally slipped past her lips.
"Why do you want to be a Royal Guard, Michael?"
The giant froze. The question seemed to catch him completely off guard, striking a nerve deep within his armor. He stood perfectly still for several long seconds, his back to her. Madeline thought he was going to ignore her, to snap at her to stay silent.
But then, he spoke.
"I'm married," he said softly. The coldness in his baritone vanished, replaced by a strange, melodic reverence that Madeline had never heard from him before. "She was... she is the most beautiful woman I have ever set my eyes upon."
He looked up toward the small window, his green eyes softening as if he were staring at a vision only he could see. "We loved each other fiercely. I would have torn the world apart for her. On the day we wed, we made an oath. A blood oath. If one of us dies... the other follows immediately into the dark."
Madeline stared at him blankly, her mind struggling to comprehend such a terrifying concept. "Why would you promise something like that?"
"Because that is what true love demands," Michael whispered, his hand tightening on the rag. "She is the only soul who owns my heart. She is my entire existence."
Madeline sat in awe. She couldn't believe he was opening up to her, showing a side of himself that was so profoundly vulnerable, so deeply human.
"So... you're training to become a guard to protect her? To provide for her?" Madeline asked.
Instantly, the warmth vanished from Michael's face. He turned to face her, his features hardening into an expression of such pure, unadulterated malice that Madeline instinctively pressed her back harder against the wall.
"Someone took her away from me," Michael said, his voice dropping into a register that sounded like grinding stones. "To hurt me. To break me."
"Who?" Madeline whispered, her curiosity overriding her fear.
"A very evil man," Michael replied, his green eyes burning with a terrifying, hellish fire. "The most ruthless, sadistic monster you will ever encounter in this life or the next. He feeds on the agony of others. He hoards pain like gold."
Madeline could hear the jagged, bleeding edges of his heartbreak in every syllable.
"I am not here to serve the King, Madel," Michael whispered, leaning in. "I am here to get her back. And then, we will live our happily ever after, just as she promised me."
Madeline felt a tear prick her eye, a strange sense of envy washing over her. "I envy her," she said softly. "I hope she knows she has a man who cares for her this much."
And then, it happened.
For the first time since she had met him, Michael's lips curved upward. It wasn't a smirk or a predatory grin. It was a genuine, breathtaking smile that transformed his face, full of a tragic, beautiful warmth. He looked incredibly handsome in that fleeting moment, a glimpse of the man he used to be before the world tore him apart.
But just as quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished, and he turned back to the filth, drowning his ghosts in hard labor.
By the time evening arrived, the tasks were completed. It was entirely due to Michael's impossible speed; Madeline had spent most of the day slipping into fitful pockets of sleep against the walls, her body refusing to cooperate. She felt a profound sense of shame for letting him do all the work, but she truly had nothing left to give.
The heavy evening bell tolled, its iron voice summoning the recruits back to the primary training grounds.
The air was thick with mist as Madeline and Michael marched back onto the packed dirt, falling into the very back of the formation. The men stood at rigid attention, their stiff grey uniforms lined up like tombstone markers. Because of her short frame and her position in the rear line, Madeline's view was entirely obstructed by a wall of broad, muscular backs. She couldn't see anything happening at the front of the yard.
The Sergeant stepped onto the raised wooden platform at the front of the field, his single eye sweeping over the crowd.
"Listen up, you miserable lot," the Sergeant's voice boomed through the fog. "Due to some... administrative restructuring and late arrivals from the other provinces, our ranks are being supplemented. You will welcome them as your brothers, or you will bleed with them in the dirt."
He unrolled a piece of parchment, his voice echoing across the silent field.
"William Hill!"
A heavy set of boots marched forward from the gate.
"Andrew Pris!"
Another thump of boots.
"John Kape!"
Madeline stood quietly, her arms crossed against the chill, waiting for the tedious ceremony to end so she could crawl back to her corner of the cell.
"Miguel Smith!"
The universe stopped.
The air in Madeline's lungs turned to liquid lead. Her heart didn't just skip a beat; it stopped entirely in her chest, the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears like a tidal wave.
Miguel.
No. It's impossible. It has to be a coincidence. There are a hundred Miguel Smiths in the kingdom.
Panic and a desperate, wild hope seized her. She couldn't stop herself. She shoved her hands against the backs of the towering men in front of her, wedging her small frame between the gaps in their armor, ignoring their angry grunts and curses. She pushed and clawed her way to the very front row
Standing beside the three other new recruits, dressed in the stiff, pristine grey uniform of the Royal Garrison, was a tall man with sharp, familiar features and dark, observant eyes.
Madeline's breath completely failed her behind the leather mask.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a coincidence.
It was Miguel.