From the far side of the manor, just beyond the line of trees and ornamental hedges, a column of fire burst into the sky. Smoke roared upward as fshes of violent orange and red engulfed the gardens, swallowing the stars in thick bck plumes. Shouts rang out from everywhere at once—guards barking orders, servants panicking, masqueraders tripping over their hems and masks as they stumbled away from the bsts.

  Estel stumbled after the Witch, lifting her skirts to avoid the brambles underfoot. “A-are you sure it’s safe for us to stay here?” she asked, her voice tight with panic. “The Viscount’s estate is under attack, isn’t it?”

  “This is exactly why I had to remove Captain Marcus from the picture,” the Witch calmly replied, using the light from her phone screen to illuminate the path. “This entire masquerade is a trap devised by the Viscount to draw his enemies out. If Marcus had found out you were here, he would’ve come charging in with all the subtlety of a battering ram and ruin everything—the Viscount’s pn, and mine.”

  It took her a moment to connect the dots. “Don’t tell me the target that you’re after is the Viscount’s enemy?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Have you met that person before?” Estel asked tentatively.

  The Witch swatted a branch out of the way. “Only once.”

  “Then—” she brushed aside the same branch from her face “—why are you so certain that he will help us?”

  “Let’s just say he will owe me a favour tonight.”

  Before Estel could ask what she meant, the Witch had already stepped out into the clearing in the middle of the thicket.

  “You look like you are in need of some assistance, Sir Robin,” she announced in a bold voice.

  Estel stepped into the clearing behind the Witch—and let out an inadvertent gasp. Standing at its center was a man who seemed carved from the wilderness itself: tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in a forest-green cloak that billowed gently in the breeze. The hood had been thrown back, revealing a tousled mane of chestnut-brown hair, windswept and wild, as if no comb had ever tamed it. A weathered leather jerkin hugged his frame, molded to muscle and movement, reinforced at the shoulders with darkened steel ptes. Strapped to his thighs were twin daggers, their hilts gleaming with quiet danger, and a quiver of bck-fletched arrows rested at his hip with the zy confidence of a man who rarely missed.

  “You know who I am?” he asked, lowering the longbow he had just finished restringing, mouth curled into a roguish half-smile that screamed danger. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking with?”

  The Witch held up her phone. “Perhaps this might jog your memory.”

  In an instant, his smile vanished into a twitching of his lips. “How the fuck are you still alive?”

  “Is this how you greet someone you haven’t seen in fifteen years?” the Witch said, pulling off her mask and carelessly tossing it aside into the underbrush. The moonlight caught her features—sharp, defiant, and unmistakably smug.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone—not even a witch—coming out of the Temprs’ trials alive…” His voice broke around the words, rough with disbelief. “Hell, most of the time there’s not even a corpse left to bury. By Lumina’s grace, how did you manage to escape, Alice?”

  Before she could answer, a sharp crack lit up the night behind them—fshes of white light burst between the trees, followed by the glint of steel and barked orders echoing through the forest.

  The Witch nodded her head. “We can save the reunion for ter, Robin. I have a feeling that your presence here isn’t welcome.”

  “Follow me,” he said, his tone shifting to something colder, more focused. “We can steal a carriage from the stables—”

  “Don’t bother, you will be arrested the moment you step foot near the stables,” she interrupted, kicking her heels off. “Estel, take off your shoes too. We are going underground.”

  “Underground?” Estel and Sir Robin echoed at once before sharing a confused look.

  “If you chose Marcus’s route in the original game, one of the key scenes involves Seraphina and Marcus infiltrating the Viscount’s manor to retrieve a quest item,” the Witch muttered to herself as she moved to the base of an old willow tree that loomed near the edge of the clearing and began to dig into the moss. “And to complete the quest successfully, Seraphina and Marcus must enter the tunnels to hide from the Viscount’s guards…”

  “There she goes again.” Estel sighed and turned to Sir Robin. “You and her seem to share quite a history, do you understand what she’s saying?”

  “I know it sounds like utter nonsense,” he whispered. “But trust me, whatever she says will always prove useful in the end.”

  “Oi!” the Witch interjected. “Stop talking among yourselves and come give me a hand, will you?”

  With a low groan of shifting stone and cracking roots, a rectangur sb of earth gave way, revealing a darkened stairwell beneath the willow tree. The musty smell of damp stone and stale air filled Estel’s nostrils immediately.

  “…search the area…can’t be far…”

  Armed, Estel peered over her shoulder as torchlight flickered through the trees. The guards were sweeping the thicket now, their footsteps getting closer and closer.

  “Down,” Sir Robin ordered, grabbing a discarded ntern from a wooden peg buried just inside the shaft. He struck a flint with swift, confident hands, and a flickering orange glow blossomed in the dark. “Now!”

  Estel descended first, careful not to let her bare feet slip on the damp stone steps. Sir Robin followed wordlessly, his jaw tight with tension, while the Witch closed the trapdoor above them and plunged them into near-total darkness—save for the flicker of the ntern and the sound of their breaths, suddenly amplified by the tunnel’s narrow walls.

  “This tunnel connects to an exit beneath the cliffs,” the Witch said, urging them forward. “From there, we can follow the river downstream to the vilge.”

  “To think that the Viscount built a smuggler’s tunnel right beneath his manor,” Sir Robin breathed, his tone caught between suspicion and awe. “By the way, Lady Estel, please pardon my sudden question—but might you be the Duchess who is engaged to His Highness?”

  “Ah, about that…” Estel let out a self-deprecating ugh. “You’re right, Sir Robin, but I am no longer engaged to the Crown Prince.”

  “Is that so?” He shot a knowing look at the Witch.

  She nodded. “Some details have changed here and there, but the general plot events thus far are still progressing as usual.”

  “So the prophecy is coming true, isn’t it?” he muttered, his gaze shifting solemnly to Estel. “That the Duchess will die at His Highness’ hands.”

  “That’s precisely why I am helping her out,” the Witch said. “And on that note, Robin, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Me?” He arched his brow. “What can a mere outw do to save the doomed Duchess?”

  “You frequent the thieves’ market in Livroche, don’t you?”

  Sir Robin scratched the back of his neck. “I mean…I used to. Haven’t set foot there in over a year,” he muttered, clearly uneasy. “The market’s a different beast these days. Ever since the raid, it’s been crawling with spies and snitches. Even the rats are paranoid.”

  “Then it sounds like the perfect pce to gather intel on the conspirators trying to overthrow the dukedom,” the Witch said in a pleased voice. “I already have a few names in mind, but just in case there are other extras that I missed, I trust that you can deal with them.”

  “Even if this is to repay you for helping me escape, isn’t it too unreasonable of a request?” he groaned. “You should be asking someone like the Captain of the royal guards to bring those traitors to justice.”

  “I can’t trust the Captain,” she rejoined ftly. “At least until he decides where his loyalties lie.”

  Estel stopped mid-step. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said.” The Witch let out a resigned sigh. “You said it before yourself, didn’t you? It is Captain Marcus’ responsibility to protect the royal family—not a disgraced noble cast aside by the Crown Prince.”

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I-I know, but…”

  “Hey, look. Isn’t that our exit?” Sir Robin broke the tense silence, pointing toward the darkness ahead.

  Estel turned and saw the tunnel widening into a broad stone chamber, its walls slick with moss and condensation. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of damp earth and river silt. At the far end, a wooden hatch stood half-sunken into the wall, just wide enough for a person to pass through.

  Robin moved forward and braced his shoulder against it. With a grunt and a heave, the hatch creaked open, spilling pale moonlight and the distant rush of water into the tunnel.

  “Well, would you look at that,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “Leads straight to the river, just like you said. And the Viscount even prepared a raft for us—how thoughtful of him!”