She was alone.
For the first time in weeks, she had a moment to think.
She did not know how long it would take for her uncle to send men after her. But she would not sit idle and wait to be some northern warlord's pet.
She paced the chamber, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her reflection in a polished metal tray caught her off guard.
Her silver hair hung in tangled waves over her shoulders streaked with dirt. Her pale skin was smudged, her body was thinner from the lack of food. Her golden and green eyes gleamed in the firelight—fierce, furious, unbroken.
And it would remain that way. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her weakened or scared.
The silence felt unnatural. No clashing steel, no screams, no scent of smoke and burning flesh. But the ghost of it lingered. Her fingers curled, remembering the rough grip of the warriors who had dragged her here, the cold steel of their blades still burning in her mind.
She took a slow, shaking breath. She could not stay here.
The chamber was sturdy, built of thick timber. Its only light came from a fire in the hearth. She searched for any escape route—anything. The windows were high but not impossibly so, and the door had a heavy lock.
Could she break it? No—not without drawing attention.
Her gaze landed on a solid wooden chest pushed against the far wall. If she could drag it beneath the window…
She moved toward it, ignoring the way her body trembled from exhaustion. Her thin nightgown—ripped and filthy from days of captivity—did little to keep out the chill. She grasped the chest's edge, readying herself to push—
A sound outside.
She froze.
The door opened without warning.
She stumbled back as a group of women entered, carrying steaming buckets of water.
They were not warriors. Their thick woollen dresses were dyed in deep, earthen colours, layered with fur-lined aprons. Some wore woven belts and beads in their braids. Their ages varied—some as young as their late teens, others old enough to be grandmothers.
Vesaria went rigid as they moved inside, speaking to one another in their guttural tongue. She caught the way the younger ones snuck glances at her, their eyes curious. The older women, however, remained guarded, their expressions wary, lips pressed into thin lines.
She was not a guest. She was not welcome.
A large wooden tub was set near the fire. More women arrived with steaming water, pouring it in, the scent of herbs filling the chamber.
Then one of the older ones—her graying hair bound in a single thick braid—turned to Vesaria and spoke.
The words were meaningless to her. A rough, northern dialect.
Vesaria lifted her chin. "I don't understand you," she said coldly.
The woman's face did not soften. She gestured toward the bath.
Vesaria hesitated.
She should refuse. Let them know she was not broken. But her body ached. Her muscles throbbed, her skin frozen, stiff. If she wanted to survive—if she wanted to escape—she needed her strength.
Without a word, she stepped forward and pulled the torn remains of her nightgown over her head.
Heat enveloped her.
A shuddering breath escaped before she could stop it. The warmth seeped into her frozen bones, easing the ache in her bruised flesh. Her fingers curled over the rim of the tub as she fought the sudden urge to sob. She would not cry in front of them.
Then hands reached for her.
Vesaria flinched, twisting away from the touch. The women stilled, raising their hands in a clear gesture—they only meant to help.
For a long moment, she debated.
Letting them near her was humiliating. But… her hair was tangled, her arms too sore to properly scrub the dirt from her skin.
She let out a slow breath. And nodded.
They worked quickly, running warm water over her hair, and scrubbing her skin with scented oils. Their fingers were firm but careful, unbothered by her silence.
When she was clean, they helped her out and wrapped her in a thick woollen robe lined with soft fur. It was not the garb of a servant.
A gown meant for status.
The realization sat uneasily in her stomach.
As she dressed, one of the younger women set down a wooden tray of food—dark bread, smoked meat, and a small bowl of hot broth. Vesaria's stomach clenched at the scent. She was starving.
But she did not eat.
Her instincts screamed at her. They would drug her. Weaken her. Make her easier to control.
The women took the tub and buckets, murmuring softly before departing. But the food remained.
The door clicked shut.
Vesaria waited. Listening.
Silence.
She swallowed hard and turned toward the window again.
Her body was weaker now—relaxed from the heat, sluggish. But she forced herself to push the chest across the room.
If she could get onto the roof, she could see how many guards were stationed outside. If she could reach the stables, she could steal a horse. If she—
Her breath came fast, uneven, but she climbed atop it, pressing her fingers to the icy stone window frame—
Barred.
Her stomach dropped.
Vesaria's breath came in sharp bursts as she stared at the iron grid blocking her way. Her vision blurred with anger. She had come so close—
Her foot slipped. She barely caught herself, stumbling as she landed back on the floor.
Fury and exhaustion tangled in her chest. Think, think, think.
There had to be another way.
Then it struck her.
The door.
Had they locked it?
Slowly, she crept toward it, every muscle in her body tensed. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, barely breathing, and twisted.
It moved.
Her stomach flipped.
Carefully, she eased it open—
And collided with solid, unyielding muscle.
A broad, bare chest.
Vesaria staggered back, inhaling sharply as her gaze snapped upward.
Azgar loomed before her, his imposing frame blocking the doorway, the firelight catching on the sharp planes of his face. His long, dark hair was unbound, draping over his shoulders, and the fur-lined mantle hung loosely from his hips, revealing the sculpted lines of his torso.
She sucked in a breath, heart pounding.
His mouth curled at the corner. "Running so soon, little rabbit?"
Of all the people she could have bumped into!
His lips quirked as his gaze flicked over her. The damp strands of her silver hair. The way the thick robe swallowed her frame. The chest she had dragged to the window.
And the untouched plate of food.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "You didn't eat."
Vesaria swallowed. Steeled herself. "Move."
He didn't.
Instead, he took a step forward. She stepped back.
"You tried to climb out." His voice was smooth, filled with amusement. "Not very smart, little rabbit."
Vesaria's fingers curled into fists. "Don't call me that."
His lips simply twitched in response.
Another step. Another retreat. The space between them vanished, her pulse drumming in her throat.
"I'm not your prisoner," she said through clenched teeth.
Azgar only raised a brow. "A free woman wouldn't be trying to climb out a window."
She scowled, moving sideways, but he was faster. A single shift of his body blocked her path, forcing her back again.
Until the backs of her thighs met solid wood.
The table.
He had caged her with nothing but his presence, his sheer size. He still hadn't touched her, but it didn't matter. She felt him everywhere.
Vesaria squared her shoulders. Refused to be cowed.
"I will escape," she vowed.
Azgar's lips twitched. "Of course you will."
She hated that look in his eyes—that light, icy amusement.
"You find this funny?" she snapped.
He hummed, tilting his head. "It's entertaining, really. Watching you fight so hard when we both know how this ends."
Her temper snapped. She shoved at his chest—hard.
He didn't budge.
His smirk deepened, infuriating.
Vesaria exhaled sharply. "You are insufferable."
"And you," he murmured, leaning in, "are wasting my generosity. Will you eat, or are you waiting for me to feed you?"
The heat of him pressed closer, his hands braced on either side of the table.
A flicker of something restless coiled low in her stomach. A tension she didn't understand.
Vesaria squared her shoulders, refusing to shrink beneath his stare. Ignore it. "I wasn't hungry," she bit out.
His smirk deepened.
"Strange," he murmured, eyes flicking to the untouched tray. "You're starving, yet you won't eat. You're exhausted, yet you won't rest."
"Because I cannot. I will escape."
Azgar exhaled a slow, amused breath. "I admire the confidence, little rabbit."
For a single beat, the air between them stilled.
Vesaria was suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of him—of the firelight flickering across his bare skin, of the faint scar cutting across his bottom lip, of the warmth curling off him like a living thing.
Then his mouth dipped lower.
Her breath caught. Surely he wouldn't dare—
His lips ghosted near hers—not touching, just a breath away. Close enough that if she moved, even slightly, they would—
His next words were a whisper. A rasp curled around her like smoke.
"Run, then."
shiver licked down her spine, hot and treacherous.
Azgar's lips almost brushed hers before he chuckled—deep and low, like he could taste her frustration.
"I'll even give you a head start."