ALEXANDER ASHCROFT.

Alexander’s pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything except the thunder of boots behind him. The shouts of guards tore through the alleyway after them, closing in fast. Darlington sprinted beside him, grinning wildly even as they vaulted a vendor’s overturned stall.

“This was your worst idea yet!” Darlington wheezed, breathless from exertion and laughter. The satchel of stolen goods, lifted straight from the castle itself, passed between them quickly as Alexander slung it over his shoulder. It was true—stealing from the castle itself was a foolish endeavor, but the rush of outsmarting royalty was just too good to pass up.

Alexander barked a laugh of his own. It had been his idea, he knew that, but admitting how close they’d come to being caught was absolutely off the table. As was the fact that if they got caught, they’d most certainly be hanged. “Oh, come on. You loved it!”

They burst through the last row of crooked houses at the edge of the city, skidding to a halt at the stone lip of the kingdom’s outer wall. Darlington paused only long enough to clasp his shoulder, grin sharpening.

“Well,” he drawled, far too amused for the situation. “Split?”

Alexander hated this part every time, but they were harder to catch apart than together. He nodded. “Meet at the usual place.”

Darlington didn’t bother answering. He just flashed a cocky, lopsided smirk and bolted down a side street a heartbeat before the guards rounded the corner.

And just like that, Alexander was alone. Though not for long.

“Ashcroft!” Flint shouted as he appeared at the other end of the alley, sword drawn. “You’re done, thief!"

“You say that every time. It’s getting embarrassing,” Alexander replied flippantly, vaulting over the edge of the city wall in a single reckless leap. His boots slammed into the dirt below, sending up a cloud of dust. The drop wasn’t long—he’d fallen farther—but it still jarred his spine.

By the time the guards reached the edge, he was already at the tree line, slipping out of view. Their armor made them unable to follow without ending up in a metal heap at the bottom. They could only curse and shout orders after him, but they were far from done. A search party would be sent soon enough. For now, though, he’d given them the slip.

The forest swallowed him whole, branches whipping past as he plunged deeper beneath the canopy. His lungs burned, breath coming in ragged pulls, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

And he didn’t dare look back.

---

Time seemed to stretch strangely in the forest, measured not by minutes but by the rasp of his breathing and the snapping of twigs beneath his boots. The deeper he ran, the quieter the world became. The noise of the kingdom faded into birdsong and rustling leaves, until all that chased him was the pounding of his heart and the ragged sound of his breathing.

He slowed only when his legs threatened mutiny, bracing a hand against a moss-slick trunk while he dragged air into his chest. Sweat trickled down his spine, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back beneath his vest. He grimaced.

“Brilliant plan, Ashcroft,” he muttered to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face. He pushed off the tree and sighed, starting off at a more measured pace now that he had breathing room between him and the city wall. “Truly inspired.”

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, only that the sun was slowly sinking. Light filtered through the canopy in thinning streaks, turning the forest floor gold at the edges and shadowed everywhere else. The air cooled with it, chilling the sweat on his skin. The adrenaline that had carried him this far ebbed, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue and the realization that it wouldn’t be long before it was dark.

He kept moving, knowing all that lay behind him at the moment was a noose. He couldn’t double back yet—not when the guards would be combing every road and clearing. He needed shelter, somewhere to lay low for a while until things cooled off.

Just when he was beginning to wonder if he’d be forced to build some pitiful lean-to out of branches and wishful thinking, something pale grazed the edge of his vision. He stopped mid-stride.

A stone tower, impossibly tall and completely out of place, its walls swallowed by climbing ivy and weathered by age. It blended so well with the surrounding trunks and bark that he had nearly missed it. There was no road leading to it, no stray cottage nearby—nothing but a solitary structure tucked into the wild as if it had grown there, sprouting from the ground like the trees around it.

Alexander squinted at it. The sight made not an ounce of sense, but sense mattered much less than opportunity, and Alexander was nothing if not a man of opportunity. Caution was overridden by exhaustion. A sheltered place to hide—even for an hour—was a gift.

He picked his way through the brush to the base of the tower, scanning for any sign that the tower was occupied or protected. Nothing. The ground was undisturbed and wild around the base. As Alexander circled around the tower, he realized it didn’t even have a door. At all. Just smooth stone disappearing upward into shadow.

His gaze tracked upward, up and up, until it caught on a narrow window at the very top, half-concealed by tangled vines. Far from ideal, but at least it was something. He hissed a curse under his breath and glared at the solid stone in front of him. “Of course. Of course it has no stairs.”

With a resigned sigh, he set his fingers to rough stone and began to climb—boots scraping, ivy shifting under his grip, muscles trembling with every pull. He grit his teeth as the forest seemed to fall away beneath him. Heights didn’t bother him, but sudden impacts with the ground certainly did, and he was eager to avoid one. Wind tugged at his shirt, billowing his sleeves and leeching warmth from his sweat-damp skin.

The climb was grueling. Ivy slicked loose under his boots, forcing him to constantly readjust. Dust and grit rained into his eyes when he reached too high, and a few stubborn stones threatened to break loose entirely under his weight. More than once, he hung suspended by his fingertips, cursing softly as he searched for the next handhold as he resolutely refused to look down.

Finally, his fingers hooked over the window ledge. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up, braced a boot against the sill, and slipped inside at last. His landing was silent and light, instinctive and controlled from countless experiences crawling through windows. He straightened slowly, eyes adjusting to dimness.

A room lay before him—spartan but undeniably lived-in. Dust motes drifted through the fading light. The air smelled faintly of flowers and book dust. Sunlight filtered in soft gold beams across the floor, catching on loose papers pinned beneath stacks of books.

Not abandoned, then.

Alexander tensed, hand drifting toward the knife at his belt. No footsteps. No shout of alarm. Just the soft tick of a clock somewhere deeper in the room and the hush of wind against the stone.

He exhaled, allowing himself a single heartbeat of relief before he swept his gaze across the shadows, searching for doors to other rooms, exits, signs of life—or the person who called this hidden tower home.