Chapter 5 The Voice in the Rot

The Black Boar Inn did not sleep; it festered.

I lay on the narrow bed, the silk of my gown feeling like a shroud. The fire in the hearth had died down to a pile of glowing, orange eyes that watched me from the dark. Alaric was gone, likely downstairs to ensure his men were as sharp as his blades and I was left with the silence of a room that had seen too much misery to ever be truly quiet.

The bed was lumpy, smelling of damp straw and the sweat of a thousand desperate travellers. I kept the bloodstained ledger tucked under my pillow, my hand resting on a hair pin I had tucked in the belt of my dress before we left the Ashford manor. It was a pathetic weapon, but it felt like a lifeline.

Scratch. Scratch. Scritch.

The sound did not come from the door. It came from the wall behind my head: a dry, rhythmic sound, like a rat with long claws. I froze, my heart thumping against the mattress.

"Do not scream, little map," a voice whispered.

It was a raspy, papery sound, muffled by the wood and the insulation of dust. It did not sound human; it sounded like the wind blowing through a graveyard. I sat up slowly, clutching the hair pin.

"Who's there?" I breathed, my voice barely audible.

"A friend of the forgotten," the voice replied. A small section of the wood panelling near the floorboards shifted, and a knot of wood was pushed inward. A single, milky white eye peered through the hole. "The Duke is a cold man, is not he? He looks at you and sees a door. He looks at your skin and sees a fortune. But the Undercord... we look at you and see a player who has not realized she is holding all the cards."

I lowered the hair pin, though my grip remained tight. In my old life, I knew the types who lived in the walls. They were the fixers, the snitches, the ones who knew which floorboards creaked and which pockets were full.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Information is the only currency that does not bleed," the voice whispered. "I am a Whisper Broker for the Undercord. We know what the Ashfords buried. We know what Alaric wants. But we also know that a key that does not want to be turned is a very dangerous thing."

"You are watching me," I said, a chill running down my spine.

"We watch everyone. But you... you have the look of someone who has died once already. You have the eyes of a scavenger." The eye in the wall crinkled, as if smiling. "The Duke thinks he's taking you to Ravenshollow to unlock the King's Treasury. What he has not told you is that the 'map' on your back is incomplete. It is a puzzle, Lady Elowen. And the other half is not on your skin; it is in the black market of the capital."

I leaned closer to the wall. "Why tell me this?"

"Because the Duke plans to 'harvest' that map once the wedding is done. He does not need a wife; he needs a parchment. If you go to Ravenshollow without an ally, you won't survive the winter. But if you work with us... if you feed us the secrets of the Duke's trade routes... we might just give you the other half of your own life."

The weight of the situation settled on me like lead. Alaric was not just a cold man; he was a lethal one. He had branded the Ashford daughter or his ancestors had and now he was waiting for the right moment to use the tool he had purchased.

In the warehouse, I had seen what happened to tools that outlived their usefulness. They were tossed into the scrap heap.

"How do I know you are not working for Vane?" I challenged.

"Vane is a blunt instrument," the Broker hissed. "He wants to break the lock. We want to own the door. Think on it, little map. When you reach the capital for the winter season, look for the merchant with the crooked scale. He will have what you need."

The knot of wood slid back into place. The scratching sound receded, moving downward through the guts of the inn.

I sat back against the headboard, my mind reeling. My skin was a map. My husband to be was a potential executioner. My family was a collection of debtors who had sold my life to cover their losses.

I reached back and touched the mark again. It felt warm now, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heat that matched my own heartbeat.

He does not need a wife; he needs a parchment.

The words echoed in my head. I looked at the door, where the Duke's guards were surely standing watch. I was not just a bride-to-be. I was a prize in a game I had not known I was playing.

But as the man who had died in the rain, I had learned one thing: when everyone is trying to use you, the best thing you can do is become too sharp to handle.

I would not run. I would not hide. I would walk into Ravenshollow, and I would learn every secret Alaric kept. I would find the other half of the map. And when the time came to turn the key, I would be the one holding the handle.

I lay back down; the hair pin still clutched in my hand. I did not sleep. I watched the door, waiting for the dawn, and for the man who thought he had bought a map, but had actually invited a revolution into his home.

At the break of dawn, as Alaric comes to collect Elowen, he notices a smudge of ink on her fingers the exact same ink used in the secret ledger. He does not say a word, but as he leads her to the carriage, he whispers, "I hope you enjoyed your reading, Duchess. It will be the last thing you read that is not authorised by me."