Pandora's words hit the stone walls like a physical blow. Alistair stared at his wife, his mind racing to catch up with her madness.

He looked at the tiny baby on the bed. Then he remembered the greedy, filthy laughter in Orestus's hall. Logic and tradition burned away in the face of survival. He gave a sharp, hard nod.

"We need a name," Alistair said, his voice dropping an octave as he fully committed to the treason. "Something neutral. Something that won't draw questions in Navia."

Pandora leaned down and pressed her lips to the baby's forehead. Her eyes were soft, but her jaw was set in stone. "Elinore. Starting today, he is Prince Elinore."

In the corner of the room, Agnes let out a terrified whimper. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed to the floor.

"You're insane! Both of you are insane!" Agnes yanked at her own hair, her eyes wide with panic. "Lying to the King is high treason! When he finds out, he'll tie us to the stakes and burn us alive!"

Agnes scrambled to her feet. She lunged blindly for the heavy oak door, desperate to escape the room and the death sentence it held.

Alistair's eyes went dead. He moved like a striking viper. He grabbed the back of Agnes's collar, yanking her backward, and slammed her hard against the wood.

He drew his dagger. The dried blood on the hilt scraped against his palm. He pressed the freezing steel edge directly against Agnes's pulsing carotid artery.

"You aren't going anywhere, Agnes," Alistair whispered. His voice was colder than the winter wind. "If you take one step out of this room, I will open your throat right now."

Agnes felt the sharp sting of the blade against her skin. Her body went completely limp against the door. Tears and snot streamed down her face as she shook her head, silently begging for her life.

Pandora picked up baby Elinore. She walked slowly toward the door. She didn't yell. She didn't threaten.

Instead, the Queen of Navia dropped to her knees on the filthy stone floor right in front of the healer.

Alistair's eyes widened. He reached out to pull his wife up, but Pandora shot him a look so fierce it stopped him in his tracks.

Tears spilled over Pandora's cheeks. She reached out and grabbed Agnes's trembling hand, squeezing it tight. "Agnes, you have a daughter. You know exactly what happens when they take them away. Please. Save my child."

Agnes stared down at the Queen kneeling in the blood and water. She looked at the dagger still hovering near her neck. Her psychological defenses shattered. She broke down into ugly, racking sobs and nodded her head frantically.

Alistair sheathed his dagger. He moved quickly to a hidden compartment behind a loose stone in the wall. He pulled out a rolled piece of ancient parchment and a short, silver needle.

He unrolled the parchment on the wooden table. His voice took on a dark, ritualistic cadence as he recited the oldest, most unforgiving Blood Oath in Navian history.

Agnes held out her index finger, her hand shaking violently. Alistair didn't hesitate. He drove the silver needle deep into her fingertip. A bright bead of blood welled up and dropped onto the parchment.

Alistair and Pandora quickly pricked their own fingers. Three drops of blood pooled together on the ancient paper. The parchment absorbed the blood instantly, the red stain twisting and forming a dark, jagged rune.

"The oath is sealed. Betrayal means the King's torturers will peel the skin from your bones while you watch your own daughter suffer the exact same fate," Alistair said. He rolled the parchment up and tossed it directly into the roaring fireplace. The flames devoured it, turning the evidence to ash.

The oppressive tension in the room shifted. The pact was made. Agnes wiped her wet face with the back of her sleeve. She accepted her fate and stepped back into her role.

She walked over to her medical supplies. She pulled out a roll of tough, unyielding linen bandages usually used for setting broken bones.

She walked back to the bed. She looked down at the sleeping Elinore. Her hands hovered over the baby, trembling. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

Pandora took a deep, ragged breath. She snatched the linen roll from Agnes's hands. A flash of profound agony crossed her eyes, but her hands were steady.

She grabbed a thick, oversized infant's undergarment meant for a boy. Her hands shook as she folded extra layers of soft linen across the chest, creating a padded bulk that would obscure any delicate features as the child grew. She tied the strings tightly, sealing the disguise.

It was only a symbolic binding for now, but the slight restriction made Elinore squirm in her sleep. The baby let out a tiny, uncomfortable grunt.

Pandora's heart felt like it was being pierced by a thousand needles. She swallowed her tears. She grabbed a loose, oversized male infant's gown and wrapped Elinore up, hiding the bandages completely.

Alistair stepped forward. He held a heavy gold chain. Dangling from it was a massive, flawless blue sapphire-the traditional amulet worn exclusively by male heirs of the Navian royal bloodline.

He placed the heavy chain around Elinore's tiny neck.

He stared down at the bundled child. "From this moment on, there is no little princess in this world," Alistair said, his voice heavy with finality. "There is only Prince Elinore of Navia."

The three adults stood in silence. They had just buried a deadly secret deep in the foundation of the kingdom, locking the first, cruel shackle onto Elinore's life.

Agnes gathered her empty copper basin and the blood-soaked rags. She moved like a ghost, slipping out of the delivery room and pulling the heavy stone door shut behind her without making a sound.

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Alistair walked heavily to the washbasin. He scrubbed the dried blood from his hands, the freezing water biting into his frayed nerves.

He turned around. Pandora was leaning back against the headboard. Her eyes were hollow, staring blankly at the wooden cradle where Elinore lay swaddled in the oversized boy's gown.

Alistair crossed the room and carefully pulled his wife into his arms. Pandora's body shook against his chest like a leaf caught in a winter storm.

"We did it, Pandora. She's safe. At least for now," Alistair whispered, pressing his lips to the crown of her sweat-dampened hair.

Right then, the iron handle of the door gave a faint, metallic squeak.

Alistair's muscles instantly locked. His hand flew to the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

The door pushed open just a crack. A small head peeked inside. It was their six-year-old daughter, Princess Josefina.

Josefina was barefoot, wearing only a thin white nightgown. She had clearly sneaked past the sleeping matrons guarding her quarters.

Alistair let out a long breath and dropped his hand from the blade. He motioned for her to come in.

Josefina tiptoed across the cold floor. The rims of her eyes were red and swollen. The rumors from the Great Hall had already reached her. She knew Orestus was planning to sell her.

But when her eyes landed on the wooden cradle, the sheer terror in her face was briefly replaced by a spark of innocent curiosity. She stood on her tiptoes, leaning over the edge of the crib.

She reached out a slender finger and gently poked Elinore's sleeping cheek. The baby smacked her lips and blew a tiny bubble of spit.

"Mother, is it a sister?" Josefina turned her head, her eyes wide with desperate hope. In a world where women were hunted, a sister was a miracle.

Pandora's heart seized. Fresh tears instantly flooded her eyes. She sucked in a breath, forcing her trembling lips into a broken, agonizing smile.

"No, Josefina," Pandora said. She reached out and grabbed her eldest daughter's freezing hand. "It is a brother. You have a baby brother."

Josefina blinked. A flash of disappointment crossed her features, but it melted away into a fierce, protective warmth. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Elinore's forehead.

"That's okay," the six-year-old girl whispered. Her voice was young, but her vow was absolute iron. "I will protect him, Mother. I will protect my brother with my life."

Hearing those words, Pandora couldn't hold it in anymore. She slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a gut-wrenching sob. Tears cascaded down her face. She looked up at Alistair, who gave her a slow, devastated nod of approval. Pandora reached out and pulled her eldest daughter close, pressing her forehead against Josefina's.

"Listen to me, my brave girl," Pandora whispered, her voice trembling. "This is not your brother. She is your little sister. But the King and the world outside will take her away if they know. We must pretend she is a boy to keep her alive. You must never tell anyone. Can you keep this secret?"

Josefina's wide eyes darted from the baby to her mother. The innocence in her gaze hardened into a fierce, premature understanding. She nodded solemnly. "I promise, Mother. I will protect my sister."

Her eldest daughter was about to be shipped off to a living hell, yet here she was, swearing to die for a sister whose very existence was a death sentence. The weight of that sacrifice was unbearable.

Alistair wrapped his large arms around both of his daughters and his weeping wife. The four of them huddled together in the flickering candlelight, a fragile, doomed island in a sea of monsters.

Hours passed. Josefina fell asleep slumped against the side of the bed, her fingers still gripping the edge of Elinore's cradle.

Outside, the violent storm finally broke. The thick, black clouds tore open, allowing a single, cold beam of moonlight to pierce through the high, narrow window. The light fell directly onto the cradle.

Alistair walked to the window. He looked up at the pale, crescent moon. He pressed his palms together and closed his eyes.

He prayed to the Goddess of Fate. He begged for a miracle. He pleaded for the gods to shield his daughters from the meat grinder of this world.

The moonlight remained freezing and indifferent. The gods gave no answer. The only sound was the clanking of armor from the guards changing shifts on the outer wall-a brutal reminder of reality.

Alistair opened his eyes. The desperation was gone, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve. If the gods wouldn't answer, he would fight the tyrant with his own bare hands.

He walked back to the cradle and stared down at Elinore's peaceful, sleeping face, burning the image into his memory.

The view pulled back. Out of the stone window, over the dark, sprawling corridors of the palace, and past the heavily fortified walls.

The entire city of Navia was dead silent under the night sky. A murder of crows shrieked from the highest tower.

The image blurred. Time began to accelerate. The sun rose and set in rapid flashes. Seasons bled into one another. The cruel gears of fate began to turn, grinding away the years without mercy.

Twenty-one years later.

Blinding sunlight poured through the massive stained-glass windows, painting the central corridor of the Navia Palace in fractured, bloody hues.

Twenty-one-year-old Elinore strode down the center of the hall. She wore a standard-issue, heavy wool military uniform, its stiff, bulky cut deliberately chosen to hide the lines of her body. Her knee-high leather boots struck the polished marble floor with a crisp, rhythmic clack, clack, clack.

Her raven hair was pulled back into a severe, flawless knot at the base of her skull. Her jaw was locked tight. Her eyes were chips of blue ice. She used the cold, arrogant mask to distract from the delicate, inherently feminine bone structure of her face.

Up ahead, a group of young, velvet-clad noblemen leaned against the stone railing, smoking cheap tobacco. The moment they spotted Elinore, they exchanged malicious, knowing smirks.

"Well, well. Look who graces us with his presence," sneered a noble with a face heavily scarred by pox. He dragged out the words, dripping with sarcasm. "Our delicate Prince of Navia."

Another noble snorted, blowing smoke into the air. "Look at that tiny waist. I bet he can't even lift a broadsword. If you ask me, throw him into the Urekai slave camps. Those beasts would probably mistake him for a female and tear him apart!"

Elinore's boots faltered for a fraction of a second. At the word Urekai, her heart violently contracted in her chest. But her face remained a mask of absolute stone.

She didn't turn her head. She didn't break her stride. She simply rested her black-gloved right hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to her hip. Her thumb slowly, deliberately stroked the steel crossguard.

The casual movement radiated a sudden, suffocating aura of lethal violence. The nobles' laughter died instantly in their throats. They subconsciously took a half-step back, pressing against the railing.

Elinore walked right past them. She didn't spare them a single glance, leaving the group of arrogant boys exchanging nervous, humiliated looks.

She turned the corner and immediately ducked into an abandoned, rust-smelling armory. She slammed the heavy iron door shut and threw the deadbolt.

Elinore leaned back against the freezing iron. The icy mask shattered. She gasped for air, her chest heaving like a drowning victim breaking the surface.

She reached up and pressed her gloved hand hard against her chest, right over the thick fabric of her uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow exhaustion.

Twenty-one years. This lie was a parasitic vine wrapping around her throat.

Her parents were gone. Ten years ago, an "accident" orchestrated by King Orestus had taken them. She stared at her reflection in a rusted, polished shield leaning against the wall. No matter how hard she tried to look rough, the face staring back was undeniably, beautifully female.

She let out a bitter, self-mocking breath. After her parents' murder, Orestus had kept her and Josefina in the palace under the guise of "adoption." They were nothing but convenient pawns waiting to be sacrificed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the exhaustion back down. She didn't have the luxury of weakness. Her sister, Josefina, was still trapped in this hellhole.

She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes, taking deep, measured breaths to calm her racing pulse.

Suddenly, her highly trained ears caught a sound. It was faint, coming from deep down the corridor outside the armory. A scuffle.

Elinore's eyes snapped open. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by the hyper-alert focus of a predator. She quickly buttoned her collar and drew the short sword from her belt.

She pressed her ear against the cold iron door. She heard the dull thud of a body hitting a wall, followed by a muffled, desperate sob.

The abandoned library in the South Wing, Elinore calculated instantly. No one ever went down there.

A sickening sense of dread coiled in her gut. She unlocked the door and slipped out of the armory, moving like a shadow.

She stayed close to the walls, her boots silent, bypassing the main patrol routes.

As she neared the library, the sounds grew louder. The sickening tear of fabric. The heavy, wet panting of a man.

Elinore's nose twitched. She smelled it. A cheap, overpowering cologne. It was the signature scent of the Minister of Human Affairs, Lord Corbin Vance.

Then, she heard the cry. A high, terrified sob that she knew better than her own heartbeat.

Elinore's pupils dilated. The blood rushed to her head with a deafening roar.

Josefina!

Elinore reached the heavy, carved wooden doors of the library. They were slightly ajar. Through the crack, the scene inside obliterated every last shred of her sanity.

Her knuckles turned bone-white around the hilt of her sword. A terrifying, murderous rage exploded behind her eyes. She lifted her heavy military boot and kicked the door with everything she had.