Dear, God! NO!

The Mistress

Hours passed, or maybe it was only moments, until the world around me quieted enough for me to breathe. The darkness outside remained thick, unyielding, and I knew I would carry the weight of that image. I needed a distraction.

The day that followed was a haze of restless planning. I kept my mind focused on the details I could control, on the steps I needed to take. I refined my map of Cuitridge, tracing the familiar paths and marking the vantage points I knew well. Every tree, every bend in the river, every shadow cast by the sun as it moved across the sky. It was a small comfort, a way to hold onto some semblance of control amid the chaos.

I drafted a second message for Sterling through Laoise, my fingers trembling as I carefully requested details on Carlin’s guest registry at the stone house. I needed to know who was there, who had come and gone, who was part of Carlin’s web of influence. It was a fragile thread I was pulling and one that could easily snap if I was careless. I ate the dried venison Mariae had brought me without tasting it, my appetite dulled, my mind elsewhere. I didn’t look at Victor, who had found another shirt and spent the afternoon splitting wood at the far end of camp. Each strike of his axe was deliberate, each landing with the force of something being settled, I felt it in my core.

As the sun dipped lower and shadows lengthened, I knew I couldn’t stay still. Restlessness clawed at me, gnawing away at my patience. When darkness finally fell, I made my way to Victor.

“The passage,” I said softly, voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “I want to go again.”

He nodded without hesitation, as if he had expected this. We moved through the forest under the cover of night, silent and sure. The cool air of the woods seeped into my bones as we descended into the ravine and slipped through the narrow cleft in the rock. The stream brushed against our ankles, icy and relentless, but I welcomed the cold. It sharpened my senses, cleared my mind, made me feel alive amid the suffocating dread.

The passage felt shorter this time, my body already learning its rhythms, my senses attuned to the faint sounds and shadows. We emerged behind the boulders above Cuitridge and settled into our watching position, tucked away in the darkness. The village stretched out before us, silent and waiting.

Victor grabbed my waist, practically lifting me off the ground, and dragged me backward into the deepest, darkest alcove. I was pinned aggressively against the cold stone wall. Victor pressed his massive, heat-radiating body completely flush against mine, crushing the oversized shirt between us. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot breath ghosting over my collarbone. His massive hand clamped firmly over my mouth, a silent, absolute command to remain perfectly still. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through me but I didn't have time to dwell.

Carlin’s house was lit again, the upper windows glowing warm and golden against the night’s darkness. The flickering light seemed almost inviting, yet beneath it lurked a darkness I could not ignore.

I began counting the sentries. Four tonight instead of six. Two horses fewer in the stable. He was sending men somewhere, probably to the roads to tighten the net around the forest’s edge, preparing for something I dared not imagine.

Then I saw them.

A silhouette in the window. Tall and angular, a wine glass in hand. He moved to the desk and sat. A moment later, the second figure entered the room, the woman, Carlin’s mistress. She wore something pale that caught the lamplight, her form illuminated in ghostly hues. She crossed to him, and he pulled her onto his lap with a casual ease that sent a cold shiver through me. One hand on her waist, the other still clutching the glass. She leaned into his neck, her body seemingly relaxed, yet I sensed something darker beneath, an intimacy that was both genuine and calculated, a transaction written in the quiet language of possession.

My stomach clenched. I watched the way his fingers played along her side, the proprietary ease of it, the intimacy that was both tender and possessive. In my first life, I had imagined this woman as a faceless shadow, a rumor whispered through dungeon walls. Now she had a shape and a presence, moving in his arms like she belonged there, like she was part of him.

She turned slightly, and the lamplight caught her profile. The faint light revealed small features: delicate and refined, with a jaw that hinted at fragility. Her hair was pinned up with something that caught the light, a small ornament, something silver, gleaming softly. She looked peaceful, almost content, yet I knew better than to trust appearances in this dark game.

I gripped the boulder until my palms ached and the rough stone cut into my skin. The figure in the window shifted again, her face turned further into the glow. The angle was wrong, the distance too great for certainty. I could not confirm what my body already knew deep within, what I was desperately trying to deny.

"Victor," I breathed. "Your eyes are better than mine. The woman in the window. Describe her."

He was silent for a moment. Then, quietly: "Young. Small build. Dark hair pinned with silver ornaments."

The world tilted. The boulders, the village, the glowing windows, all of it swam and blurred. I pressed my forehead against the cold stone and felt something break open inside my chest that was beyond fury, beyond grief, something that had no name in any language I knew.

Silver flowers. Vivienne always wore the tiny silver flowers. She hadn't written that letter under duress. She hadn't written it out of naive trust in Carlin's kindness. And here he was with some woman, just like before. He will do the same to her.

The night pressed down on me like a hand. I could not speak. I could not move. Victor's warmth was beside me but I was somewhere else entirely, falling through ice into black water with no bottom.

“We go back,” I said, my voice hollow and cold, nothing like the voice I had once known. It sounded forged in a furnace, cooled in snow. “Now. I need Laoise. I need Sterling’s intelligence. And I need your tunnel.”

Victor did not ask why. He had seen what I had seen. He rose, offering me his hand: rough, calloused, familiar and I took it. His palm closed over my bleeding fingers, anchoring me. Victor’s grip was firm but steady as he led me through the thick underbrush, our footsteps muffled by the damp earth and fallen leaves. The cool night air pressed against us, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and moss, a reminder that we were still part of the forest, still hidden in its shadows. Together, we descended into the earth, into the shadows where hope and despair danced in a deadly waltz, and I knew this was only the beginning of what would come next.

I need to gather every fragment of strength, every piece of intelligence, every ounce of cunning I could muster. I still need to plan, to prepare, to find a way to undo what Carlin had already begun. Time was a cruel, unforgiving master, and each moment that passed felt like a step closer to the inevitable, to locking Vivienne in a fate sealed in that house, in that cell, in the freezing cold.

The weight of that knowledge settled deep within me. I had to be ready. Because I knew if I failed, if I hesitated even once, it would be her in that cell, lost forever. And I would never forgive myself for that.

Seventeen days.