I was so happy I could barely breathe. I could not believe he had agreed. I had been so certain I would have to leave Caleb behind, that I would have to make the journey north alone, that I would have to learn to exist in a strange kingdom without the one person who made everything bearable. And now – now I was running through the corridors of Valerion, past startled servants and curious guards, with the impossible, wonderful knowledge that Caleb was coming with me.
The servant quarters were at the far end of the palace, down winding corridors and narrow staircases that I had walked so many times I could have navigated them blind. I knew which boards creaked, which corners to cut, which doors were always locked and which could be slipped through. I had been making this journey since I was twelve years old, stealing away from banquets and ceremonies to find the only person who had ever looked at me without seeing a disappointment.
I did not knock on Caleb's door. There was no time for that, no time for formalities. I pushed it open, my breath coming hard, my heart still racing.
Caleb was inside.
He was already awake – of course he was, the servants rose before dawn – dressed in his plain grey tunic, his pale hair tied back, his hands still holding the cloth he had been using to wipe down his small shelf of treasures. He looked up at the sound of the door, and his eyes went wide.
"Heavens –" He jolted, the cloth slipping from his fingers. "My lord." He pressed a hand to his chest, his breath catching. "You scared me."
"We have to leave," I said. The words tumbled out too fast, too eager. "Get changed."
"What?" He stared at me, blinking, as though I was speaking a language he did not understand.
"This is no time to argue, Caleb." I was already moving into the room, my eyes scanning for his things. "Get changed. We have to leave. Now."
"Leave?" He was still standing in the middle of the room, still holding nothing, still looking at me like I had lost my mind. "My lord, what do you mean? Leave where?"
"I mean you are coming with me." I dropped to my knees beside his bed, shoving aside the thin blanket, looking for the box I had told him to pack. "Where is your box? I told you to have your things ready."
"I cannot come with you, my lord." Caleb's voice was soft, uncertain. "You know I cannot."
"Yes, you can." I found the box tucked beneath his bed frame, wedged between a broken stool and a stack of old linens. I pulled it out, the wood scraping against the stone floor. "My husband agreed to it. Now hasten. We have no time to waste."
Caleb went very still. "He did?"
"Yes, Caleb." I almost groaned, the sound half frustration and half giddy relief. "Can you get your things? Please? We need to go before someone stops us."
"I cannot believe it." He was staring at me with that same shocked expression, his green eyes wide, his hands limp at his sides. "He said you could bring me?"
"He said yes. Now can you please –" I stopped.
The box was empty.
I stared down at it, at the bare wood, at the nothing inside. No clothes, no books, no small treasures. Just dust and shadows and the faint scent of old wood.
I looked up at Caleb. "What?"
He shifted his weight, his hands coming together in front of him, his fingers twisting. "Well. I did not think I would leave."
"But I told you to pack." My voice came out sharper than I intended, edged with something that might have been fear. "I told you to be ready."
"I know." His voice was small. "But I was too scared."
I stared at him. At the way his shoulders had curved inward, at the way he was looking at the floor instead of at me. At the familiar, heartbreaking shape of a boy who had learned never to hope for anything.
"I just could not believe I could escape this place," he said. "Every time I let myself think about it, I –" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought something would go wrong. I thought –" His voice cracked. "I thought I would get my hopes up and then lose you anyway."
Something in my chest clenched tight. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him and tell him that he never had to be afraid again, that I would never leave him behind, that he was coming with me even if I had to drag him.
But there was no time. There was never enough time.
"I want to hug you," I said, and my voice was rough. "But we have no time. We need to hurry. Can you pack? Now? Please?"
He nodded, his eyes bright with tears he was blinking back. "Yes. Yes, I can."
We moved through his small room like a storm, pulling clothes from his meagre wardrobe, snatching his books from the shelf where he kept them arranged by height and colour. I packed while he changed, shoving his tunics and trousers into the box with none of the care he would have used, folding the corners of his blanket the way I had seen him do a hundred times. His novels went in next – there were so many of them, far more than clothes, the cheap paperbacks he bought with every coin he could save, their spines cracked and worn from being read again and again.
There was hardly any cloth in his box. Just books. He had always said he was a servant, that no one cared how he looked. He spent all his money on novels, smuggling them into the palace one at a time, reading them by candlelight when his work was done.
When I was done with the box, I helped him tidy his hair, my fingers working through the pale strands while he stood frozen, still not quite believing this was happening.
"We have no time," I said again, tugging at his sleeve.
He pulled away, reaching for the shelf again. "I know, but the servant in charge does not need to fret about cleaning this room too. I should at least make the bed, leave it neat –"
"Caleb." I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door. "We do not have time to make your bed. We have time to run. That is all."
He looked at me for a long moment, and then something shifted in his face. The worry smoothed, the fear eased, and in its place was determination.
"All right," he said. "Let us go."
We stepped out into the corridor, Caleb's box clutched against my chest, and began to hurry toward the main hall. The servant quarters were empty now, most of the workers already scattered to their various duties. Our footsteps echoed on the stone, too loud, too fast.
"Caleb!"
We both froze.
I knew that voice. Martin. The butler who had overseen the servant quarters for longer than I had been alive, who had never liked me and had made no secret of his contempt for the servant who spent too much time with the unwanted prince.
His footsteps approached. Heavy. Measured. Inevitable.
Caleb's hand found mine in the corridor, his fingers cold and trembling.
"Do not stop," I whispered. "Keep walking."
We walked faster. Our breath came harder. Martin's voice rang out again.
"Stop right there!"
I wanted to keep running. But I saw the guards at the end of the corridor – two of them, hands on their swords. If we ran, Martin would call out, and they would stop us by force.
We stopped. Turned.
Martin halted a few paces behind us, a thin figure in his dark housecoat, his face already twisting into contempt. His eyes moved from Caleb's face to mine, and something shifted in his expression – surprise, then calculation.
"What do you think you are doing?" he asked, and his voice was soft. Dangerously soft.