Bloodbound Crown

Chapter 3: The Hidden Prisoner

A shaft of pale dawn light crept through the narrow window high in the eastern tower, illuminating dust motes that danced like trapped fireflies. Nora stirred on the hard straw pallet, her arms aching where the lance and the prince's bite had drained her strength. She blinked against the brightness, trying to recall how she'd come to this place—a sealed room, barred and silent, far from the warmth of kitchens and the bustle of service corridors.

Footsteps clanked on the spiral stairs below. She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, heart fluttering with hope and dread. A keyed lock turned, and the door swung open with a groan.

Page Jorin slipped inside, hood drawn low. In his hand was a battered leather satchel. He pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet," he whispered. “I smuggled this for you." He dropped the satchel at Nora's feet, then retreated before she could speak.

Nora sank to her knees and unbuckled the satchel—inside lay her old diary, its pages stained but intact. Her breath caught: the tiny porcelain vial of ink her father had given her still nestled in the leather flap. She ran her fingers over the locked clasp, then tore it open.

Footsteps approached again. Nora jammed the diary beneath her tunic and leaned against the door, forcing calm. The warder's key rattled. The door creaked—and in stepped High Healer Meredis's assistant, a gaunt man with weary eyes.

“Serf," he said, lobbing two slices of rye bread and a small flagon of water onto the pallet. “Eat. The prince's physicians want a status report."

Nora snatched the bread, sinking teeth into its stale crust. “When will they move me?" she asked, voice hoarse.

The assistant shrugged. “As soon as the Court of Seal grants a verdict. You're a tool now—an inconvenient one. They'll decide soon." He backed away and left, the door clanging shut behind him.

Nora tore at the bread, mind racing. A tool. They saw her only as the living remedy for Leon's volatile blood—an error to be hidden or destroyed. But the diary… Her father's coded notes on Project Symbiont lay beneath the pages she'd scrawled when she was ten. If she could decipher the formulas, she might learn why Canglan had perished—and perhaps why her parents had vanished.

She settled cross-legged, opened to the first page: her childish scrawl gave way to precise, looping symbols—chemical ratios and dosing charts. The initials “L.S." marked certain entries: “Leon Seres" she'd realized in chapter 2. A stab of anger lanced through her. The prince hadn't been an innocent victim; he'd been the subject of experiments—her father's experiments—long before the m******e.

A low groan drew her attention to the barred window. She rose and peered out: beyond the courtyard wall, the sun gilded the palace towers in gold. In the yard below, courtiers and guards milled about as bright cloaks passed beneath the barred view. Amid them, a cluster of servants carried fresh straw to the infirmary wing—where Leon surely lay recovering, his newfound stability under scrutiny.

Nora's pulse quickened. If she could slip a page of diary outside—send a coded message—someone might help her escape. Someone like Joshua, the palace blacksmith's apprentice, whose kindness had saved her from Rudwick's lash more than once. But she had no means of communication—only the diary and her resolve.

Footsteps sounded again. This time, two pages: first Yeoman Captain Arlow, then Meredis's second-in-command, a tall woman in emerald robes. They brandished scrolls and quills, muttering of verdicts and royal decrees. Nora caught phrases: “containment," “quiet execution," “transfer to the dungeons."

Her stomach twisted. Execution. She swallowed a dry sob. Ignoring the pounding in her skull, she shoved the diary into a hidden pocket sewn into her bodice—her last treasure from a life before ruin.

The healers glanced at her and shook their heads. Meredis's lieutenant dipped a quill into ink. “The prince is well," she said, voice clinical. “His alpha surges have ceased." Arlow nodded, brows knit. “Yet the bond remains; we can't release her until we understand the long-term effect."

MereDis flicked her wrist. “Keep her isolated. No visitors."

Arlow sighed. “Yes, High Healer."

They closed the door. Nora slid down the wall, knees trembling. She pressed her hands to her temples, blinking through the haze of pain and anger. Project Symbiont had designed hosts—children like her—to absorb an Alpha's violent peaks. She was never an accident: she'd been the sole surviving prototype of her father's research.

Determination hardened within her. She would escape, uncover the truth of that fateful night when Canglan burned, and free both prince and people from the horrors forced upon them.

Hours later, snow began lightly drifting against the window's exterior. Nora traced the diary's cover with her finger, then sat at the edge of her pallet and squared her shoulders. She would need help. First, she had to prove the diary's value.

That evening, as torches flickered down the corridors, she called for Jorin, using the tapping code her father had taught her. He appeared, face grave.

“I've read the diaries," she said quietly, pulling them free. “Leon was the royal alchemist's own test subject. Project Symbiont wasn't just a wartime measure—it's how they built the prince's bloodline. Canglan's destruction…"

Jorin swallowed. “Your people."

Nora nodded. “They killed my tribe to harvest blood. Now they'll kill me to cover it up."

Jorin peered down the hallway, breath fogging. “There's a maintenance tunnel beneath this tower. I can open the hatch—if you can get past the guard shift."

Nora's heart leapt. “Yes—tonight."

He leaned close. “Bring the diary. They'll kill you if they find it."

She folded the leather satchel into her cloak. “I'll get us both out. For Canglan. For Leon."

Jorin ducked away, ghosting back down the stairs. Nora pressed her hand to the stone, as though feeling her father's presence in every crack. A fierce hope ignited: she would not be broken.

As midnight bells tolled across the palace, Nora rose, wrapping shawl around her shoulders. Through the dusty window, moonlight glimmered on red-streaked snow. She pressed her palm to the cold glass, whispering a vow:

*“I am Nora Awen of Canglan. I will not be hidden. I will not be silenced. I will reclaim redemption for my people—and for him."*

Beyond the bars, the palace slept. But tonight, a hidden prisoner dared to dream of freedom.