Reborn to Reign

Chapter 5: The Hounds Close In

Pandora's POV

I jumped to my feet and pressed my face against the small metal air vent near the ceiling. The front yard was covered in thick gray fog. Marching through the mist were eight big guards wearing the heavy black metal armor of Roman's personal squad. They were holding thick iron chains.

At the ends of those chains were three huge hunting dogs. The dogs were massive, their sharp metal collars clinking as their noses sniffed the cold dirt, growling and pulling on the chains. Roman walked right behind them, his black fur coat blowing in the wind. Next to him walked Silas.

"Search the horse barns and the hay rooms first," Silas commanded, his loud voice cutting through the cold air. "Check every vent, every drain, and every loose floorboard. If you find a single hidden tool, a knife, or any stolen silver, bring it straight to me."

"Are you sure we need to do this, Father?" Roman asked, touching the sword at his hip. "Bastian's guards are already riding through the gates. If the visiting Alpha lords see our hunting dogs tearing through the grounds, they will think we do not have control of our territory."

"I do not care what the lords think," Silas growled, his jaw tight. "The high priest sent a message by bird this morning. The priests held a prayer at the temple at sunrise. They say the energy in this valley is wrong. There is an unclean presence rotting inside these walls, and I know it has something to do with that b***h. She is planning something."

Silas stopped walking. He turned his cold grey eyes right toward the wall of the washhouse.

"Search the servant rooms, the laundry rooms, and the lower cellars first," Silas ordered. "Tear every single room apart."

My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. They were not just adding more guards for Bastian. They knew. Someone had seen something, or the temple priests had felt that something was wrong. I backed away from the metal vent, my back hitting the cold stone wall.

My hands started to shake. I could not wait until tomorrow night.

If I waited, those big hunting dogs would smell my hidden bundle behind the wall stones before the sun went down. They would find the silver coins. They would find the map. My stolen treasures. And Roman would drag me out into the yard and beat me to death.

I looked down at my wrapped, burned hand. It hurt terribly, but deep inside my chest, a cold, hard choice locked into place. It has to be tonight. Tonight, during the big opening feast. While the music was playing, the wine was flowing, and every single person in the room was watching Bastian and Aurelia.

I had twelve hours to find another way over the high stone wall. And if I failed, I was dead.

# CHAPTER TWO: Crumbs from the Golden Table The heavy smell of roasted pig fat and burnt herbs hit me the second I pushed open the kitchen doors.

The room was so hot I could barely breathe. Four huge stone fireplaces blasted orange heat into the room, making the air thick, wet, and greasy. Thirty servants ran back and forth across the floor like frightened ants, shouting orders, dropping heavy iron pots, and dodging boiling kettles of soup. Long wooden tables were lined with piles of food fit for powerful pack leaders.

There were big silver platters of roast deer meat covered in sweet blackberry sauce. Deep bowls of creamy onion soup. Tall towers of white sugar that looked like little snowy packhouses.

"There you are, you lazy little wretch!"

A heavy wooden spoon flew through the air, heading straight for my head. I ducked to the left just in time. The spoon slammed against the stone wall with a loud slap, leaving a wet brown streak of pork grease dripping down the rock.

"Do not just stand there staring!" Martha screamed at me. Her face was bright red from the hot ovens, and wet gray hair was stuck to her sweaty forehead. "Go get the salted butter from the cold storage room! Then haul four heavy wooden boxes of spiced winter wine up from the lower cellar rooms! If the main high table runs out of wine during Bastian's speech, Silas will take a horse whip to every single servant in this kitchen starting with you!"

"Yes, Martha," I answered right away.

I reached deep into my apron pocket and pulled out a stiff leather work glove. I slid it very carefully over my left hand. The thick, hard leather rubbed right against the fresh, open blisters on my knuckles. A wave of blinding, white-hot pain shot straight up my arm, making my eyes water and my vision go blurry. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until the sharp, warm taste of blood filled my mouth.

I did not let out a single cry. I could not show any weakness. If Martha saw that my hand was badly burned and useless, she would report it to the head house manager. The manager would take me away from the kitchen and put an armed guard on me so I did not break any expensive plates. The guards were cruel and would probably find worse ways to put me more in pain, but that was beside the point.

I could not have a guard watching my every move. I needed to move around freely. If I was locked in a room or watched by a guard, my escape plan was dead. I picked up a heavy iron box hook from the wall rack by the door and walked toward the dark cellar stairs.

Going down into the lower cellar rooms took me far away from the burning heat of the cooking fires. The air got colder with every single step I took down the stairs. Ten feet down, the air stopped smelling like sweet roasted meat and sugar. It smelled like cold stone dust, wet dirt, and old wooden wine barrels. I did not walk straight to the wine barrels.

I turned down the narrow side hallway, walking very quietly on the front of my feet until I reached the small metal air vent near the top of the wall. I dragged an empty wooden cider barrel beneath the vent. I climbed up on top of it and looked out through the cold iron bars. My stomach dropped like a heavy stone. The yard was full of armed guards.

Roman had put four extra guards in heavy black iron armor at the southern gate. Two more guards stood on the high stone walkway above the horse stables, holding heavy wooden crossbows loaded with metal arrows. In the middle of the muddy yard, the big hunting dogs were pacing back and forth on short chains.

They were massive northern beasts. They had thick gray fur, heavy muscle, and thick iron bands strapped over their noses to keep them from biting until their master gave the word. Their jaws were strong enough to snap a man's leg bone in half with one bite. Silas walked right beside the main dog trainer, pointing his leather riding whip toward the lower buildings.

"Search the lower grain rooms first!" Silas barked. His deep, angry voice carried easily across the freezing yard. "Then check every single drainage pipe under the washhouse! If you find any open pipes or strange scents, dump three big barrels of burning lye down the holes!"

I stood on the wooden barrel, completely frozen in place. The drainage pipes are gone. A cold, heavy knot tightened in my chest. Those drainage pipes were my second backup route to escape. If Silas dumped burning lye down into the pipes, the white smoke and poison chemicals would burn the skin right out of my throat before I could crawl ten feet.

Every single exit on the ground level was being locked and sealed, one by one. I lifted my eyes through the iron bars of the vent, looking higher up into the gray sky. Above the inner yard stood the old, tall bell tower, covered in dead brown vines. Below the tower ran the steep, sloped roof of the big grain storehouse. From the edge of that high sloped roof, an old wooden bridge stretched across the empty air to the high outer stone wall.

It was twenty-five feet above the frozen snow ditch. The drop was terrifying. The sloped roof was covered in slick winter ice, and the cold north wind coming off the mountains was already blowing hard. Go high, or die down here, I thought, staring at the dark wooden beams high above. Those are your only choices now.

I had no inner wolf to land on four feet and soften my fall. If I slipped off that high wooden bridge, my bones would smash to pieces on the hard frozen ground below. Better to break my neck in the white snow than spend the rest of my life locked in a dark room. I climbed down from the wooden barrel. I loaded four heavy wooden crates of spiced wine onto a rolling iron cart and started pushing it toward the service lift.

Every push of the cart sent a sharp bolt of pain through my wrapped left hand. The rough wood pressed into my torn blisters, soaking wet fluid through the stiff leather glove. I did not stop. Pain was just a feeling. You could sit down and cry about it, or you could keep walking.

I kept walking.