Eulah threw off the thin silk blanket.

Her bare feet hit the floor. The thick wool rug was freezing against her toes.

She stumbled forward, her legs shaking so badly she almost collapsed. She crashed into the mahogany vanity, her hands gripping the cold marble top to keep herself upright.

She stared into the brass-rimmed mirror.

A young, pale face stared back. There were no scars. No hollowed-out cheeks from starvation. Just the beautiful, untouched features of a teenage girl.

Eulah raised a trembling hand. She traced the smooth line of her neck, pressing her fingertips against her pulse point.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was strong. It was real.

A wave of overwhelming disbelief crashed over her. Her eyes burned. A single, hot tear slipped down her cheek and splattered onto the marble surface.

Suddenly, her stomach violently contracted.

The phantom smell of the dungeon-the rust, the rotting flesh, the metallic tang of Brandt's blood-flooded her nasal passages.

Eulah bent over the vanity and dry-heaved. Her throat spasmed painfully, but her stomach was empty.

She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She pressed so hard the skin broke.

The sharp, stinging pain grounded her. It forced the PTSD-induced panic back into a locked box in her mind.

Knock. Knock.

Two muffled thumps sounded against the heavy oak double doors of her bedroom.

Agnes, her personal maid, pushed the door open. She looked exactly as she had five years ago-young, vibrant, holding a silver washbasin filled with warm water.

Agnes gasped when she saw Eulah standing barefoot on the rug. She quickly set the heavy basin down on a side table and grabbed a cashmere shawl.

"Miss Eulah, you'll catch your death of cold," Agnes fussed, hurrying over.

Eulah stared at the living, breathing maid. Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Agnes and hugged her tight.

Agnes froze. She was terrified by the sudden, uncharacteristic display of affection from her usually reserved mistress. But slowly, she raised a hand and patted Eulah's back.

Eulah took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her muscles to relax and pulled away.

She needed to control her voice. She needed to sound normal.

"Agnes," Eulah said, her voice slightly hoarse. "What is today's exact date?"

Agnes blinked, confused as she moved to straighten the silk bedsheets. She clearly recited the year and the exact day according to the Foundation Calendar.

The moment the date registered in Eulah's brain, her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

A bloody, forgotten memory tore through her mind like a lightning bolt.

Today. She was eighteen. Today was the day Lord Daryl Langley, the Kingdom's God of War, returned to the capital in triumph.

And today was the day he would be ambushed.

In her past life, Daryl had been attacked while entering the Royal Palace to report his victories. He survived, but he was severely crippled and stripped of his military power.

That ambush was the exact moment Brandt Fischer and the King began their systematic destruction of the military's influence.

Eulah's mind raced. Daryl was the only military force in the entire kingdom capable of standing against Brandt.

If she could save Daryl today, she would be holding the ultimate trump card in this deadly game of chess.

The grandfather clock against the wall chimed eight times.

Daryl was scheduled to enter the palace in less than two hours.

Eulah shoved away the complicated, heavily corseted gown Agnes was holding out to her. Noblewomen's clothing was designed to restrict movement, to keep them docile. She didn't have time for docile.

She tore through the silk dresses, pushing aside the frilly, pastel gowns until she found an old, unadorned riding habit from years ago-the simplest garment she owned. She pulled it on with frantic, jerky movements.

Agnes watched in absolute shock. "Miss! What are you doing? You cannot go out like that!"

Eulah ignored her. She yanked open a drawer and grabbed a leather riding crop.

When she turned back to Agnes, her eyes were completely devoid of warmth. They were cold, calculating, and utterly ruthless.

"Stay in this room," Eulah ordered, her voice cracking like a whip. "Cover for me. Do not let anyone inside. Do you understand?"

Agnes flinched. The sheer, overwhelming authority radiating from the young girl paralyzed her. She nodded dumbly.

Eulah didn't wait. She threw open the heavy glass French doors leading to her balcony.

She grabbed the thick, sturdy vines clinging to the stone exterior of the manor and slid down into the back garden.

Eulah landed in the dirt of the back garden, her knees bending to absorb the shock.

She kept low, using the tall, manicured rose bushes to hide her movements as she sprinted toward the rear entrance of the stables.

She slipped through the wooden back door. The air inside smelled strongly of hay and horse sweat.

The stable boy was slumped on a stool near the front entrance, snoring softly.

Eulah moved silently. She found a massive, purebred black stallion in the third stall. She quickly unhooked his leather lead rope.

There was no time to fetch a heavy leather saddle and strap it on. Every second counted.

She grabbed a handful of the horse's coarse mane and hauled herself up. She swung her leg over, settling onto the horse's bare, slippery back.

Eulah squeezed her thighs tightly against the horse's ribs.

The stallion let out a sharp whinny and bolted.

They exploded out of the stable enclosure.

The estate guards stationed at the front gate heard the commotion. They spun around, raising their long, iron-tipped halberds to block the path.

Eulah didn't slow down. She raised the leather riding crop and brought it down hard on the horse's flank.

The stallion surged forward, its powerful front legs leaving the ground. They cleared the guards' heads by inches.

The horse's iron shoes slammed onto the cobblestone streets outside the estate, kicking up a cloud of gray dust.

The morning streets of the capital were already busy. Merchants pushing wooden carts and pedestrians carrying baskets screamed and scattered as the massive black horse tore through the narrow avenues.

The wind whipped violently against Eulah's face. It tore the pins from her hair, sending long, dark strands whipping around her face. She flattened her upper body against the horse's neck, ignoring the burning in her thighs.

Her eyes were locked on the horizon. The golden, domed roofs of the Royal Palace were getting closer.

Suddenly, at a busy intersection, a heavy wagon loaded with massive oak logs lost control. The draft horses panicked, dragging the wagon sideways, completely blocking the street.

Eulah yanked back on the leather reins with all her strength, desperately trying to force her horse to turn.

The black stallion reared up on its hind legs, letting out a terrified, ear-piercing scream.

Without a saddle or stirrups to anchor her, the violent, upward jerk destroyed Eulah's center of gravity.

She was launched off the horse's back.

She flew through the air in a terrifying arc.

Her body slammed onto the unforgiving cobblestone street. She rolled violently, her shoulders and hips taking the brutal impacts.

A sickening, blinding pain erupted from her right ankle.

It felt as if the bones had been grabbed and twisted until they snapped.

Pedestrians gasped. A crowd quickly formed a circle around the fallen noblewoman, murmuring in shock. A few reached out, offering hands to help her up.

Eulah bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard the skin split. The metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her mouth, shocking her brain past the haze of agony.

She slapped away the hands reaching for her.

She pressed her palms flat against the rough stones and pushed herself up.

The moment she put weight on her right foot, a tearing, agonizing pain shot up her leg. Her knee buckled. She almost collapsed back into the dirt.

Cold sweat instantly drenched the back of her riding shirt. It stuck to her skin like ice.

But when she looked up, her eyes were feral. Like a cornered wolf.

The heavy, bronze bell in the palace clock tower began to toll.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

Time was up. Daryl was arriving.

Eulah dragged her useless right leg behind her. She limped forward. Every single step caused the broken bones in her ankle to grind against each other. It was a suffocating, nauseating torture.

She passed a fruit vendor's stall. She reached out and snatched a thick, sturdy wooden pole used to prop up the awning.

The vendor opened his mouth to yell at her.

Eulah reached up, her fingers gripping the heavy, jewel-encrusted silver clasp at the collar of her riding habit. With a violent yank, she tore it free, ripping the fabric, and threw the expensive piece of jewelry directly at his chest. The man caught the glittering silver and snapped his mouth shut.

She used the pole as a crutch. Her expensive riding habit was torn, covered in street grime and her own blood. She looked like a beggar, but the sheer, terrifying aura radiating from her made the crowd part like the sea.

At the end of the wide avenue, the massive, black iron gates of the Royal Palace loomed.

And rolling slowly toward those gates was a heavily armored convoy of carriages, each bearing the silver wolf crest of the Langley family.

Eulah dropped the wooden pole. It clattered loudly against the cobblestones.

She took a deep breath, forcing her brain to completely shut off the pain signals screaming from her right ankle.

She exploded forward.

She dragged her broken leg, throwing her entire body weight toward the front of the moving convoy.

The massive, armored warhorses pulling the lead carriage panicked at the sudden human figure darting into their path. They reared up, their iron-shod hooves kicking at the air.

The carriage driver cursed loudly, hauling back on the thick leather reins with all his might. The heavy wooden wheels locked, skidding over the stones. The carriage lurched to a violent halt, stopping less than two feet from Eulah's face.

Instantly, the heavily armed guards flanking the convoy drew their longswords. The sharp shing of steel filled the air as they formed a tight circle around her.

Flint Wright, the Chief Guard, spurred his horse forward. He pointed the razor-sharp tip of his sword directly at Eulah's throat.

"Step back, assassin!" Flint barked, his voice cold and commanding. "Move, or I will cut you down where you stand!"

Eulah completely ignored the deadly blade resting against her windpipe.

She tilted her head up, making sure the bright morning sun fully illuminated her dirt-streaked, blood-splattered face.

She opened her mouth and screamed Daryl's name. She screamed it so loudly her vocal cords burned, her voice echoing down the entire avenue.

The early morning crowd-merchants, minor nobles, and commoners-froze. They turned their heads, drawn like magnets to the sudden chaos.

Eulah forced her eyes wide. She let tears well up and spill over her lashes. She perfectly mimicked the manic, desperate look of a woman driven insane by unrequited love.

"Lord Langley!" she wailed, her voice trembling with manufactured desperation. "I threw myself from my horse just to catch a glimpse of you! You cannot ignore me!"

Whispers erupted from the gathering crowd. Someone pointed a finger.

"Is that... is that the Duke's daughter? Eulah Merrill?"

The gossip spread like wildfire. The murmurs grew into a loud, buzzing hum of scandalized disbelief.

Flint's hand hesitated. His sword wavered slightly. He was trained to kill assassins, but butchering a high-ranking Duke's daughter in the middle of the street was a political nightmare he wasn't prepared to handle.

Inside the carriage, a hand reached out.

It was clad in a black leather glove. The fingers slowly pushed aside the heavy, black velvet curtain covering the window.

Lord Daryl Langley's face appeared in the shadows.

His features were sharp, carved from marble. He looked utterly cold, utterly devoid of human emotion. His grayish-blue eyes stared down at Eulah with the detached calculation of a predator assessing a very annoying insect.

Daryl's gaze swept over her. He noted the thin, bleeding scratch on her neck from Flint's sword. He noted the unnatural, sickening angle of her right ankle.

"What is the meaning of this?" Daryl asked. His voice was low, flat, and carried effortlessly over the noise of the crowd.

Eulah met his terrifying gaze. She pressed both hands over her heart, leaning into the ridiculous, lovesick persona.

"Your bravery on the battlefield has stolen my soul, My Lord!" she cried out, her voice cracking perfectly. "I cannot sleep! I cannot eat! I had to stop you, even if it cost me my life!"

In the crowd, several noblewomen gasped in horror, snapping their silk fans open to hide their flushed, embarrassed faces. It was social suicide.

Daryl's dark eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. He was clearly disgusted by this pathetic, public display.

"Flint," Daryl ordered, his tone dripping with ice. "Drag this madwoman away. Do not delay my audience with the King."

Flint immediately swung down from his horse. He reached out, his large hands aiming to grab Eulah by the arms and haul her off the street.

Eulah watched his hands move.

The second before Flint touched her, she let all the tension drop from her muscles. She went completely limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

She angled her fall perfectly, dodging Flint's grasp.

Her upper body slammed hard against the wooden step attached to the carriage door.

The impact jarred her broken right ankle.

A genuine, blood-curdling scream ripped from her throat. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike driving straight into her brain.

She dug her fingernails into the polished wood of the carriage doorframe, clinging to it like a lifeline. She lifted her tear-stained, dirt-covered face and looked desperately into the dark carriage.