They shove me through a narrow doorway, kick my ankles until the shackles scrape the threshold, and then slam the wood.
Metal clacks—bolt, latch, second bolt. Silence.
I lunge back up and pound both fists on the door. "Hey! Guard guy! Weirdo‑cop! Whatever you are—open this piece of junk!" My voice bounces around a stone box barely bigger than a walk‑in closet: one slit window, a bucket in the corner, and a cot that looks stolen from a medieval summer camp.
I hammer until my palms sting. Nobody answers. My ribs sting harder. So I spin, press my back to the door, and slide down until the splintered floorboards meet me halfway. Curl up. Try to breathe.
Great. New body, same garbage luck.
I don't know how long I sit there—long enough for the torchlight to fade into nothing and my eyes to adjust to black. Long enough for the panic to crest, crash, and leave me hollow. I finally climb onto the cot, curl around my stolen knees, and whisper, "Wake up, Nero. C'mon. It's just a coma dream."
Sleep sucker punches me anyway.
…tap.
Something brushes my ankle.
I jerk awake so fast the cot slams into the wall. Heart in my throat, I shove back until my spine hits the stone. A girl kneels at my feet, candle in one hand, tiny key in the other.
"Please—don't scream," she whispers. "I'm only unlocking the chains."
Candlelight shows round cheeks, nervous freckles, and a linen maid's cap. Her aura feels… soft. Familiar in a way I can't name. The collar of her dress hides a faint silver crescent burned into her throat—another weird mark.
I force my shoulders to unclench. "You unbolt the door for every kidnapped stranger, or am I special?"
She winces, fits the key to my ankle shackles, and they click free. Pain floods out as circulation returns. I hiss, flexing my toes. "Thanks," I mutter, then catch her wrist before she can scurry off. "Please—I need out. I'm not Nael, I'm definitely not anybody's property, and whatever 'alpha' bought me is making a mistake the size of Jupiter. Just… show me a back exit. You'll never see me again."
Her eyes dart to the door. "If His Grace learns I helped you, my family's dead before dawn. The Bastion punishes traitors."
"I'll keep your name buried, promise. Look—do I look like I can survive chained in some royal dungeon? Help me ghost out, I'll find real help, come back with an army, and upgrade you to a better life with indoor plumbing."
She wavers. Sighs. "Fine. East‑wing laundry stairs. First right, then left past the armory. There's a side gate that the stable hands prop open for the night air. Two sentries rotate every five minutes—wait for the bell chime, then go. The forest starts twenty paces beyond."
"Forest, got it." I squeeze her hand, mean it. "You're a lifesaver."
"Be safe, Nael—whoever you are." She blows out the candle and slips away.
Sneaking through a nightmare castle is easier when every guard thinks you're shackled in bed. I hug shadows, duck tapestries, and repeat first right, left, bell chime until the chilly night air slaps my face. The side gate yawns open like a grin missing teeth. No alarms. I bolt.
Grass, gravel, then tree line. A crescent moon glows violet through shifting clouds—definitely not Earth's moon. My lungs burn fast; this body's lighter but weirdly under‑trained. "Cardio day starts tomorrow," I wheeze, shoving branches aside.
Somewhere behind me, distant horns bleat. Maybe not for me. Not sticking around to check.
The trees thin into a clearing—and that's when I hear low growls. Two wolves step from the brush, fur bristling silver under moonlight. Eyes reflect amber fire.
"Nice doggies," I croak, backing up. "Sit? Roll over? Please?"
They prowl left and right, hemming me in. Adrenaline surges. I spin—too late. Something barrels from the dark and knocks me flat. My breath whooshes out; my skull thuds moss.
Not teeth—hands clamp my shoulders.
A man straddles me where a wolf should be. Wind‑tossed hair, half‑buttoned tunic, yellow eyes still glowing. Odd. Great.
He smirks. "An omega wandering alone? Moon favors me tonight."
I buck under him. "Get off, pervert!"
He pins my wrists above my head effortlessly. "Relax. I don't force what's mine—"
"I'm nobody's anything!"
Terror spikes. Something inside my chest flares—hot, metallic, wrong. A scent leaks into the air: smoky sugar, burnt and bitter. The alpha's eyes widen; he gags like someone punched his gut. He staggers off me, retching. The other wolf whines and retreats.
"Ancestors—your stink—cursed‑born," he rasps, wiping sweat from his brow. "Keep it."
They vanish into the brush, leaving me shaking on the ground amid the bitter haze of my instinct. I crawl to a tree, chest heaving.
"Okay," I mutter between gasps, "men repellent—handy trick."
Somewhere deeper in the forest a night bird calls, lonely and thin. I pull my knees close, every muscle trembling.
Lucius thinks I'm cursed. Weird men think I'm cursed. Maybe they're right. But if being toxic cologne is what keeps me alive tonight, I'll take it.
I rest my forehead on my arms and whisper to the damp earth, "Hang in there, Nero. Dawn's coming. Figure out the wolf politics later—just keep breathing till sunrise."
I inhale the damp loam, and—under the burnt‑sugar tang—catch one fragile thread of hope: freedom still smells better than any cage.