A thunderous crash shattered the frozen tableau as Renard's massive frame slammed into the nearest banquet table. Crystal shattered and silver platters went airborne, their contents painting abstract patterns across silk-draped nobles who scattered with shrieks of alarm. The heavy oak table crashed onto its side, creating a temporary barricade between Drizella and the advancing palace guards.
The arctic poison still gripped her chest like a vise, but adrenaline sparked through the numbness as she tracked the chaos unfolding around her. Three guards stumbled backward from the avalanche of food and drink, their polished boots losing purchase on the wine-slicked marble. A fourth drew his sword, the steel catching candlelight as he circled wide to flank her.
Seven steps to the servant's door. Four witnesses who saw Corbin's accusation. Two minutes before they seal the exits.
Her fingers, still clumsy from the poison, found the hidden pocket of her cloak where the sleep powder waited. The fabric felt impossibly heavy, each movement requiring fierce concentration to overcome the paralytic's effects. Around her, the great hall had devolved into pandemonium – ladies clutching pearl necklaces as they fled, courtiers shouting contradictory orders, and somewhere in the din, Master Corbin's voice still crying "Witch!"
The guard with the drawn sword advanced another step. His weight shifted forward – the telltale preparation for a lunge. Drizella's muscles screamed in protest as she forced her body to pivot, using the motion to whip her cloak outward. The hidden powder burst forth in a glittering cloud, catching the guard full in the face. His eyes rolled back before he could complete his attack.
Move. Now.
She didn't waste breath on words, letting the surrounding chaos mask her strategic retreat. Each step was a battle against the poison's grip, but she'd learned long ago how to transmute pain into precision. The carved doorframe of the servant's passage loomed closer, its shadows promising temporary sanctuary while her mind raced through contingencies.
Behind her, the overturned table groaned as guards tried to shove it aside. The sound of splintering wood mixed with the continuing cacophony of panic, creating cover for her footfalls as she slipped into the narrow corridor. The difference in air pressure hit her immediately – cooler, dustier, thick with the ancient stone's trapped memories. Wine-stained marble gave way to worn flagstones that had cushioned centuries of hurried servants' steps.
Her vision swam, the poison's effects intensifying with the exertion. But the numbness in her limbs was finally starting to recede, replaced by the sharp bite of pins and needles. She pressed her back against the rough wall, letting its solid reality anchor her as she forced air into her burning lungs. Through the open doorway, she could still see the aftermath of Renard's intervention – the massive table forming a temporary wall of splintered wood and crimson puddles, buying her precious seconds before the guards regrouped.
Time enough to reach the tower. Time enough to finish this.
The first tremors of feeling returned to her fingers as she flexed them experimentally. Not full control yet, but enough. It would have to be enough. The sounds of pursuit grew more organized behind her, boots on marble transforming from chaos to coordinated movement. But she was already gone, melting into the servant's warren she'd memorized so carefully during those long months of preparation. Let them search. She knew where she needed to be.
The guard materialized from the shadows at the base of the tower stairs, his steel breastplate catching the torchlight. No time to think. Drizella's fingers found the powder pouch at her hip, muscle memory from a hundred sleepless nights of practice guiding her movements. The guard's mouth opened—to shout? to threaten?—but she was already throwing the silvery dust directly into his face.
His choked inhale became a wet cough. She slipped past his collapsing form without breaking stride, her boots finding purchase on the worn stone steps. The tower stairs corkscrewed upward into darkness, the kind of ancient servant's passage that hadn't seen regular use since her grandmother's time. Her legs burned with each step, the lingering effects of the arctic poison making her movements less precise than she'd like.
Up. Just keep going up.
The spiral tightened as she climbed, forcing her to press her shoulder against the rough inner wall for balance. Her breath came in sharp gasps that echoed off the stone, mixing with the distant sounds of chaos from below. The sleep powder wouldn't hold the guard long—five minutes at most with such a rushed application. And others would follow.
Moonlight filtered through arrow-slit windows, casting stark shadows that made depth perception treacherous. Her heel caught on an uneven step, sending a jolt of panic through her chest. She caught herself against the wall, palm scraping against centuries of grime. The contact sent spikes of pain through her scarred right hand, but she pushed through it, forced herself faster.
Third floor passed. Fourth. Almost there.
The pins-and-needles sensation in her extremities was fading, replaced by an unwelcome clarity that made her all too aware of her thundering pulse and the growing stitch in her side. She could hear voices now, floating down from above—masculine, threatening. The words were still indistinct, but their tone made her skin crawl.
Her free hand found the letter opener concealed in her sleeve. The weight of it was reassuring, though using it would mean crossing lines she couldn't uncross. But if Lord Harrington had truly cornered Cinderella up here...
Some prices are worth paying.
The stairs ended at a heavy wooden door, its iron hinges orange with rust. Beyond it lay the highest tower's landing—and whatever scene awaited her there. Drizella took one final breath, gathering what remained of her strength. The arctic poison had taught her body new definitions of cold, but now heat flooded her veins, burning away the last traces of numbness.
She hit the door with her shoulder, feeling the ancient wood give way beneath her momentum. The barrier burst open, and the cutting winter wind slapped her face like an angry hand. The door crashed against the stone wall with a sound that made her teeth ache, but she was already through, emerging onto the exposed landing where the real confrontation waited.