Reborn to Reign

Chapter 8: Running for My Life

Pandora's POV

The low drainage pipes were drawn in dark charcoal lines. Useless, I thought, crossing that route out in my mind. Silas's big hunting dogs were walking the lower yard, and the guards were dumping burning lye down into the pipes. I moved my eyes to the top part of the paper map.

The big western grain storehouse. The tall, dark bell tower. The old wooden bridge that crossed the empty air between the high grain loft and the outer stone wall.

That wooden bridge was thirty years old. It had been built long ago when the packhouse was being expanded, and it had been left to rot in the cold winter rain and snow. The wood was old, cracked, and exposed to the freezing north wind. If those old wooden beams held my weight, I could reach the high outer wall while the two lone guards were watching the yard far below. I could tie my thick rope to the heavy iron hook above the empty snow ditch and slide all the way down into the deep white snow.

Twenty-five feet straight down. Beyond that snow ditch, the Dead Lands stretched out for hundreds of miles. No roads. No laws. No arrogant pack leaders trying to lock me in a basement.

Just frozen white ground, broken old ruins, and blowing gray ash storms. Once you jump over that wall, you can never come back, I told myself, staring down at the charcoal lines on the paper. If you freeze out in the cold wastes, you die. If the wild beasts find you, you die. And if you stay here, you spend your entire life locked in a dark room as Bastian's secret s*x pet mate until you rot. I did not wait another second.

I took the leather coin pouch and tied the thick leather strings tightly around my waist under my shirt. The forty-two heavy silver coins pressed hard against my ribs—cold, heavy, and real. I picked up the small kitchen knife and pushed the sharp blade into the hidden cloth pocket I had sewn inside the lining of my right boot. I shoved the small iron file, the sharpening stone, and the roll of string deep into the large pockets of my heavy winter coat. Finally, I folded the charcoal map around the dried beef strips and pushed the bundle deep inside my inner shirt pocket, right over my fast-beating heart.

I stood up. My left hand throbbed painfully under the thick leather glove, but I pulled the wrist strap tight and squeezed my fingers into a hard fist. I walked toward the heavy wooden door, reaching my hand out to lift the wooden security bar. Then, I stopped. A faint, terrible sound came down through the stone air holes from the floor above.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Sharp metal dog claws scraping across the stone floor. A deep, angry growl vibrated through the rock walls. My blood turned completely to ice.

The hunting dogs. They were not out in the yard anymore. They were inside the lower packhouse hallways.

"Hold the chains, damn you!" Roman's loud, harsh voice shouted down the stone stairs from the kitchen hall. "Keep a tight grip on them!"

"Commander, the dogs caught a fresh scent of blood by the washhouse water bucket!" a guard shouted back, his heavy iron boots clattering down the stone steps. "The scent goes straight down into the lower servant rooms!"

"Move the whole squad down!" Roman roared. "Silas gave the command! Kick in every single door! If anything moves in the shadows, cut it down!"

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to break free. They found the blood in the washhouse. When I had pushed my burned hand into the cold rainwater bucket this morning, a few drops of fresh blood had dripped onto the stone floor. The big hunting dogs had smelled the blood from my open blisters and followed the trail directly down to this very hallway. They were only thirty steps away.

Right at the end of the hall. I did not have until ten o'clock. I did not even have five minutes.

If Roman kicked open this wooden door, he would find me with forty-two silver coins, a stolen knife, and an escape map tied to my chest. He would not wait for Silas. He would pull his sword from his belt and cut my throat right where I stood. Move, my inner wolf snarled in my mind. MOVE. I did not touch the door latch.

I turned toward the back corner of the small room, where an old, vertical wooden grain chute ran straight up through the ceiling into the high loft of the grain storehouse. The chute was barely three feet wide, made of rough wooden boards to dump dry grain down into the lower feeding bins. Nobody had used it in ten years. The wood was dry, full of sharp splinters, and covered in thick spiderwebs and gray dust. I reached up with my good right hand and grabbed the bottom edge of the wooden shaft.

I pulled with every bit of strength in my body. My shoulder muscles burned as I hauled my weight off the floor. I jammed my boots against the narrow inside corners of the wooden chute, pressing my knees hard against the rough pine boards. Below me, the heavy wooden door shook with a massive boom. BOOM.

A heavy iron boot slammed into the outside of the door. The hunting dogs started barking in a wild, vicious frenzy, throwing their massive bodies against the wooden panels.

"The door is locked from the inside!" Roman roared from the hall. "Bring the heavy iron hammer! Smash it open!"

BOOM. The thick oak cracked down the center. A sharp piece of wood flew across the dirt floor. I dug my elbows into the sides of the wooden chute, shoving my body up into the pitch-black shaft.

The sharp boards tore straight through my pants, ripping the skin off my knees and shins. Thick dust and old dry grain fell into my eyes and nose, making me choke and cough. I reached blindly above my head with my wrapped left hand, grabbing a wooden support beam. The raw, open blisters on my burned hand exploded with blinding pain as my full body weight hung from the hurt fingers.

I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted hot, metallic blood, but I refused to let go. I pulled with everything I had left, dragging my hips up through the small wooden opening. Below me, the heavy wooden door smashed open with a deafening crash. The room below filled with bright yellow torchlight.

"Search the room!" Roman barked.

The vicious growls of three giant hunting dogs filled the small space, their heavy iron chains rattling as they tore through the dry straw on the floor.

"Commander!" a guard yelled. "Look at the far corner! Someone dug out the dirt between the big wall stones!"

"The hidden hole is empty," Roman's voice dropped into a dark, murderous growl that vibrated straight through the wooden boards beneath my boots. "The cursed little b***h is running."

He did not need to say my name. He knew exactly who it was.

"Blow the general alarm!" Roman shouted at the top of his lungs. "Lock all the front gates! Send the dogs up into the high storage rooms! Bring her to the yard alive—or bring me her split-haired head!"

The loud brass horn sounded. Three long, blasting notes echoed through the stone bones of the packhouse, cutting right through the loud music and laughter of the great feast above. The hunt had begun. I kicked my boots against the top edge of the wooden chute, pushed my body through the small trapdoor, and rolled out onto the dusty floorboards of the high grain loft. The freezing winter wind blew through a broken window, hitting my face like a slap of ice.

Outside, across the icy, sloped roof, the narrow wooden bridge stood all alone against the black night sky. The cold wind was howling. I scrambled to my feet, reached down to draw the sharp paring knife from my boot, and began to run.