The warm breeze whispering through curtains woke Iscah at mid-morning. Just from the smell of hyacinths permeating the air, she knew she was back at her family estate.

Cracking her eyes open she looked around her childhood room painted in whites and muted spring colors, trinkets and stuffed animals sitting on shelves without an ounce of dust coating them or any of the other items neatly arranged.

She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face, glancing out the sheer curtains to the gardens outside and wondering how she had gotten here.

Had it all been a dream?

As if in response the door opened, her mother stepping through and pausing when she saw her youngest was awake.

“Your father thought it best to let you rest a while,” she said by way of greeting, crossing the room and sinking gracefully into the chair by her bed. “The servants will bring you up some breakfast and tea shortly.”

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured, not bothering to look away from the window towards where her mother sat primly.

“Then I shall call the maids now to help you dress. There is an officer downstairs who has been waiting to talk to you for quite some time now, but your father said to let you rest.”

“You already said that,” Iscah muttered, more to herself than the older woman. It meant Naomi was unsettled, or disagreed with Isren’s orders, or both. Her mother leaned over, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear tenderly. She faced her at that gentle touch, her gut sinking at the sadness in her eyes.

“I will fetch one of Ialda’s gowns for you,” Naomi finally said, standing up and smoothing her skirts out, the movement more to settle herself than fix a non-existent wrinkle.

“What is wrong with my own?” Iscah countered, fingers twisting in the sheets nervously.

Naomi paused at the door, not facing her daughter. “It is best you started dressing as a woman.”

Floored, Iscah couldn’t gather her thoughts fast enough to respond as the door closed.

By the time she washed her face in the basin her maids had entered with a lilac dress that her sister had worn after her marriage. Expertly they brushed and pinned her hair up into a conservative queue, adding years to her look with the style meant for older women. Iscah took in the changes in the full-length mirror by the door. Already the low bun that had been woven too tightly was summoning a headache at her temples, and the smocked neckline that radiated from her throat hid her collar bones and already lacking bosom felt like it was slowly choking her.

Anger welled up in her stomach and lodged in her throat; any complaints would only fall on deaf ears. Whatever was going on, it was obvious she didn’t have much of a choice on any of it.

Iscah turned, waiting for the maid to open the door for her before stepping out into the carpet-lined hall, and headed for the main stair that split the two wings of the house.

Isren’s rumbling voice pervaded the silence, ending on a questioning note. Iscah slowed, shifting her weight so her footsteps were even quieter on the runner as she stopped at the top of the stairs out of sight to listen to the guests response.

“The violence was unspeakable. There’s evidence his wife was tortured before being murdered.”

“So it was personal,” her father encouraged.

“From what we can tell so far, yes. But Lord Saurel is missing, though there are signs of a struggle. It’s assumed the assassin has taken him to another location so he can finish the job in his own time, without interruption.”

“Ill omens appearing in the night sky, and now a mule brazenly attacking nobility. These are troubling times,” Isren added with finality, and Iscah knew the subject was over.

Glancing at her ashen-faced maids who had heard the exchange they looked at her with sympathy written across their faces, one even reaching out to touch her arm encouragingly. Iscah only stared, recalling that she too, had witnessed such violence at his hands, and the household knew it.

It had been intense, there was no denying that. Even before their introduction had devolved into bloodshed, she was very aware of his potential. Like a sword resting in its sheath, its existence solely for inflicting pain and death. The male could not have been mistaken for anything other than the apex predator he was, and even the realms best trained warriors would’ve been reduced to the same thing Iscah had been in his presence: nothing but easy prey.

They had expected her to be a wrecked mess, yet all she truly felt was a hollowness inside of her she didn’t want to bother peering into too deeply. Because despite the fear facing a monster like him had instinctively wrought, another emotion had overshadowed that survival mechanism:

Thrill.

Blinking slowly she moved away from the emphatic touch, her steps landing harder, echoing on the wood floor intentionally. The conversation dwindled as they descended, and a man dressed in the uniform of the King’s Law bowing politely as she crossed the foyer to join her parents.

“Constable Edever, this is my daughter, Iscah. Now that we’re all present, let us retire to my office for some privacy.”

Naomi met them at the entrance, nodding respectfully to the officer and entering beside her. Isren shut the door and rounded his desk, taking a seat as the other three sat down on the plush chairs, her mother joining her on the two seats that angled towards the desk and Edever.

“My apologies for pressing you during this trying time, I know you must be still in tremendous shock after having survived your encounter.” Edever crossed his ankle over his knee, removing a sliver of linen-wrapped graphite and pad from his jacket pocket before jotting down a few preemptive notes.

“Unfortunately we need the details while it is all still fresh on your mind. Can you recall what happened after the Cambion Assassin broke down your door and attacked you and Sir Truvien?”

Iscah stiffened, fingers clenching into fists on her lap at the Constables summary.

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“Who told you that,” she managed, not caring he was studying her reaction openly.

“Sir Truvien gave us his testimony last night after he fought off your would-be murderer,” he explained patiently, grey eyes following every detail of her expression. “Is that not what you remember happening?”

There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears as the pieces clicked into place. The officer waiting, her mother’s anxiety and thinly veiled disappointment, the servants gentleness, the adult-style dress.

Truvien had saved her.

Truvien had been in her room, and had saved her.

Her gaze turned jerkily on frozen neck muscles to look at her mothers ambivalent mask, her hazel eyes glittering.

She and Truvien had been together, alone, and he had saved her from the rampaging Cambion.

She knew how it would come off if she denied his account. If she defended Apoch and explained how he, the blood thirsty enemy, had saved her from being raped and the guards had been caught up in a fight they should have never been a part of to begin with. Maybe they wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t dismissed them. If they had remained Truvien wouldn’t have been able to break down her door and—

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered, gripping the arms of her chair as the world tilted.

Gerard and his subordinate would still be alive today if it wasn’t for her choices. They must have gone downstairs to remain on premises, but what they assumed was close enough had actually been far enough away for Truvien to get upstairs without them knowing until he was breaking down her door.

She was trapped, and the truth would not see her free. Last night was not a dream, but a nightmare that was about to get worse with Truvien’s brilliant move to save his reputation by destroying hers. If she hadn’t been on the bottom end of the arrangement, she might’ve been impressed by the sheer deviance.

“Perhaps Sir Truvien’s report will suffice, Constable Edever. My daughter is not emotionally fit to have this discussion after witnessing such violence and surviving it,” Isren offered as Naomi strode to the door and whispered to a waiting servant.

“Of course,” Edever murmured, though he didn’t turn away from Iscah as if sensing she was unable to share what happened. “Well then, feel free to contact me if you do recall any details, Lady Iscah. Truvien was unable to give us a very good description of the cambion.”

Iscah looked up at the undertone of the his sentence, breath catching in her lungs as she read the questions in his even gaze.

The door had been broken down by the cambion, yet Truvien, halfway across the room, had been unable to catch a glimpse of the assailant?

Why was the bed still made up if what your family assumes had happened, did?

Why were you unscathed while three warriors had been dispatched in a matter of seconds?

Her gaze flicked to her father, who was watching the two of them closely. Too closely. She swallowed thickly, nodding weakly.

“It seems this family has quite the luck surviving run-ins with cambions,” Edever added brusquely, Isren’s nostrils flaring in irritation. “How long ago was it again that you were kidnapped, My Lord?”

Isren paused, studying the man coldly. “Is this the representative of the Crown asking, or my guest? Because there is already a report of the ordeal on file so I see no reason to repeat information you already have, especially in the company of gentle folk.”

Edever gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and pointedly tucked the pad and pencil into his coat. “I read the report; supposedly one of Zidaii’s younger generals led the mission. One of the victims in your ill-begotten party had commented on his human-dominant features. Said he had black hair as long as women’s and pale skin, but red eyes full of wicked cunning that gave away his true breeding, and appetite for murder.”

Iscah flinched, unable to stop herself from looking at Edever in surprise. A shock of adrenaline raced through her chest when she found he was still watching her.

“What was his name again?” He feigned thinking it over, his smile beguiling as if they shared a secret.

“That’s enough,” Isren bit out sharply, standing up. “Choose your next words carefully, sir, or I will be having words with your superior.”

“My apologies, My Lord,” he responded, sounding anything but contrite as he rose as well. “It’s a fascinating tale of survival, one I have often studied to the point of excessive curiosity. Forgive my weakness for wanting to indulge and lack of judgement.”

He bowed to Isren before turning to Iscah and her mother. Iscah could’ve sworn he winked at her before bowing to them as well and exiting without another word, passing the servant who was just entering the study with tea sets for four.

“Leave” Isren hissed to the maid, who backed out quickly with a rattle of porcelain on the tray as she shut the door behind her.

The Constable knew of Apoch, which meant her father knew of him as well. The family had always hinted of a conflict her father had been involved in but they had all deemed her too young and too innocent to be told the story in whole. This whole mess was connected somehow, but for the life of her Iscah had no idea how to unravel it.

“It is my fault,” Isren finally said into the silence, sitting back down at his desk and pressing his splayed hands into its leather-covered surface, as if to anchor his next words.

“I sent you in ill-prepared, and allowed you to be taken advantage of.”

“He didn’t touch me,” Iscah managed around the lump in her throat, working to contain her emotions.

“It does not matter, daughter. More than half a dozen soldiers answering the alarm found you in a state of undress and Truvien in your rooms and the only witnesses we have to what truly happened were sent away by you.”

Iscah recoiled at the frustration that whipped her, but still he pressed on. “You have little credibility as a young woman, and even less since—”

He caught himself, and Iscah felt something in her shift. The humiliation and shock transforming into something hard as steel that drew her shoulders back and chin up. “Go on, Father. Say it.”

Isren glared at his youngest, fingertips pressing even further into the desktop. “I failed as a father when I doted on your notions of entering the ranks of the Balenciai instead of listening to your mother’s wisdom and teaching you the arts of the court after you failed the scrying.”

Iscah’s lips thinned, nostrils flaring as the message sunk in. They all believed her silly, inside the family and even more so outside of it. A teenager that had tried to hold onto childish ambitions rather than focusing on future adulthood.

“Your belongings from the university will be arriving in the next few days. From this moment on you are no longer allowed to leave or meet with anyone without the presence of a chaperone. As soon as Sir Truvien has healed enough to travel, you will be married and head to your new home in Sangrath.”

“Do not make me marry that man. Send me away to our northern estate, tell them I’ve become ill, anything but force me to marry that viper.”

“This is not a negotiation, Iscah. You will do as your family requires, and soon as your husband requires.”

She launched to her feet, fists trembling in barely repressed fury. Taking a few short breaths she fled, needing to get out of this room, away from this conversation. Jerking the door open she stopped, an older woman standing in the way with a heartlessness in her eyes that made Iscah take a step back.

“This is Madame Korette. Until Truvien arrives, she will be your guardian and tutor.”

Iscah looked back at her father, silenced by the hardened mask she found on his features. “You will find peace in accepting this. Fighting it will only cause you greater misery, daughter.”

“Come child, best we begin now. We have such little time to make up for so much,” Korette added, turning to march down the hallway.

“How lucky I am,” Iscah whispered coldly, feeling a part of her heart crumble. “To have a family value their reputation above all else.”

Some emotion minutely fractured her fathers mask, but Iscah didn’t bother waiting around to find out what that was.