Chapter 5 Trial at Dawn

I waited until the shift changed, when the tension in the air settled into a rhythm I could read. The guards rotated with military precision, but the one with the scar near his temple was late. Not by much, three minutes, maybe five, but enough to make me notice. Enough to make me wait.

He came pushing a cart of fresh linens, his shoulders squared and his eyes unreadable beneath the hooded shadow of the corridor.

I stepped in front of him.

"Are you going to kill me," I asked, "or help me?"

He didn't flinch. Just looked at me, eyes dragging from the bruises under mine down to the blood-stained hem of my shirt. And then past me, to the wall camera whose red light had gone dark for maintenance an hour earlier.

"No one's watching," he said.

His voice wasn't what I expected. Deep, yes, but textured. Not local. Romanian, softened by years of travel. London, maybe. Or Berlin.

I met his gaze. "I know who you are."

"And I know what you want," he answered. "But nothing leaves this estate. Not calls. Not people. Not secrets."

He reached into the folds of his coat. I didn't move.

What he pulled out wasn't a weapon. It was a cloth napkin, folded tight.

He handed it to me with the precision of someone passing poison.

I unfolded it slowly. Inside, block letters, precise and inked with intent:

You're not safe.

That's all it said.

He started walking again, past me like I was nothing more than another vase along the hall.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He didn't look back.

But his voice came, low and deadly soft.

"My name is Lucien."

That night, the silence in my room hummed like a held breath.

The napkin was folded and pressed into the lining of my boot. I stood at the edge of the bed with my heartbeat in my throat, the shadows too long and the light too still.

At 2:04 a.m., the lock turned.

Lucien stepped in, alone.

He moved with the silence of someone who knew what happened when noise reached the wrong ears.

He handed me something. A folded paper. A map.

Drawn by hand. Intricate. Coded.

It outlined the estate: north tower, south tunnel, sub-basement. Every corridor, stairwell, blind corner. One route was marked with a thin red line. At the end of that line, a single word: Unmonitored.

"What is this?" I asked, voice hoarse.

"Your only chance," he said. "You're not the first girl to be kept here. You're just the only one they made public."

I clutched the map tighter. "Why are you helping me?"

His jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me.

"Because he thinks you're a pawn. And pawns... are always sacrificed first."

His voice carried something else under it. Regret? Guilt? Or something heavier.

"You served him," I whispered.

"For years," Lucien said. "I helped build this place. This trap."

"And now you're tearing it down?"

He stepped closer. The moonlight caught the edge of his scar, ran a line of silver across his temple.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm betraying everyone."

I reached out, caught his wrist. His pulse beat steady beneath my fingers.

"Are you sure?"

He leaned in, so close I felt the whisper of his breath against my ear.

"Run. Tonight. Or you won't live to see morning."

He kissed the air beside my temple, never touching, but close enough to linger, and vanished into the dark like a ghost escaping his own grave.

I didn't sleep.

Not because of the threat. Because of the possibility.

The map burned under my fingers. My pulse had no rhythm. My thoughts churned, spiked, spiraled.

I wasn't afraid of Damien.

I was afraid of what he hadn't done yet.

The estate changed at sunrise. The rhythm of movement, the crispness of commands, shifted.

Doors opened and slammed. Orders were barked in Russian and Romanian. Metal echoed. Footsteps doubled in the halls.

I hid the map behind the armoire just as my door opened.

Damien entered like he always did, without hesitation, without apology. But this time, he didn't speak.

Two masked men followed him. Tall. Armed. Expressionless.

Lucien was nowhere in sight.

"What is this?" I asked.

Damien looked at me like I was already halfway gone.

"A test."

One of the men stepped forward, holding leather straps.

I didn't move.

"You want answers," Damien said. "You'll earn them."

They bound my wrists, rough but precise. I didn't flinch. Didn't resist. My arms ached, but I welcomed the pain. It meant I was still awake. Still me.

Inside, I started counting. Not seconds. Steps.

Five to the door.

Twelve to the staircase.

Twenty-seven to the east wing.

They marched me through silence carved from stone and shame, past guards who wouldn't meet my eyes.

At the edge of the east corridor, the air changed. Thicker. Cooler. Like the walls themselves knew something I didn't.

They opened a door at the end of the hall.

Inside, nothing.

Just a room carved in black. No windows. No exits.

A single chair sat beneath a hanging bulb.

They pushed me forward.

Damien followed.

He stepped to my side, leaned close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath against the back of my neck.

"Your trial begins now," he said.

And then the door slammed shut behind us.