Chapter 1-
Shouts rang up through the palace corridors.
The quarry they hunted paused, back pressed against the rough stone wall of a linen closet used to store the thicker winter blankets. Breath held, the fugitive listened intently, tracking the direction of the hurried tramp of boots outside the corridor as they marched aggressively towards the end of the hall. Shadow and silence were the fugitive's friend, and both were hard to keep when one's heart was thundering in one's ears.
Waiting.
Waiting...
There! That tell-tale sound of the foot-falls fading, turning the corner and marching away.
That was the signal needed for the fugitive, the sole surviving heir of the House of Kyanite, to slip out of hiding and race down the hall, opposite the direction the pursuers had marched.
Screams echoed down the hall. Angry shouts. Clashes of steel.
The Palace was under siege, while the last vestiges of nobles and servants loyal to the fallen House were being slaughtered in their beds. Some lucky few made it into the hallways as they poked bewildered heads out to see what the commotion was about, only to have those heads severed at the neck. The Heir had only barely made it out of bed too, before a flood of angry enemies had broken through the door.
Three older brothers were dead. Mother's broken corpse had been thrown down the grand stairs. Father's body had been in the hall, but his head had been missing.
Pausing, the fugitive Heir leaned against the wall, and fought the urge to be sick again as the images came back, unbidden and unwanted. Now was not the time to stop though, especially as more heavy boots could be heard getting closer. Pushing aside the throat-clenching fear of feeling trapped, the Heir drew in a deeper breath, steadied fraying nerves, and pushed on.
Moving quickly, the Heir slipped into a sitting room, then pressed against one of the wall panels that disguised a servant's door. Years of playing hide and seek, tailing servants, and generally escaping tutors had left the Heir with some limited knowledge of the servants' corridors. Never had the thought come up that these might be useful to escape.
Although time was limited, the Heir took the time to pause again. A laundry basket held a prize of uniforms- mostly for servants and scions, but it would be better than bloodied and tattered nightclothes. Quietly grateful for the small blessing, the Heir quickly changed, stealing a few precious moments moments more to rip bandages from a sheet and wrap a small gash across the ribs- better to hide blood, once out in the streets...
Another dash through a hall to a second servant's wing.
A sprint down a tight corridor between walls.
A flight of steps, steep and narrow as they wound down, down, down...
The fugitive jumped the last few steps, and took off running through the kitchens to the courtyard.
An outcry rose up as a watchman spotted the fleeing figure, and more voices joined the alarm. An arrow flew dangerously close to the Heir's head, and lodged with a heavy thump into a wooden beam nearby. Panting, the fugitive Heir pressed on harder, reaching a tie post where several horses were tethered. Fingers fumbled with the reigns, adrenaline making it difficult to undo the leather straps with violent trembling, but they eventually came free. Relieved, the Heir pulled the horse free, grabbing hold of the pommel to swing up into the saddle. The shouts were more urgent now as the horse was turned towards the open gate.
A shout. A kick. The horse lurched forward, almost throwing its passenger from the saddle. But they were moving forward, together, and the gate was only a few yards away ahead.
A few yards.
A breath away.
