I never meant to save him. I was crouched behind the fishmonger’s stall, bread already tucked in my coat, when I heard the gasp. A body crumpled in the alley—blood soaking through his fine wool coat. I should’ve run. But something in his eyes—gold-flecked, wide with pain—stopped me.

He looked at me like I was the last person alive.

I dragged him to Old Mara’s den. Stitched his wound with stolen thread. He survived. When he woke, he didn’t thank me. He offered me a place at court.

'You have courage,' he said. 'And no one will expect you.'

Now I stand in the Grand Hall, rough hands clasped behind my back, wearing a servant’s livery two sizes too big. Nobles sneer. One whispers, 'That gutter rat dies by morning.'

Elias finds me later, crownless, voice low. 'They’ll come for you. But if you stay, if you serve me… I’ll make you untouchable.'

I look down at my cracked boots. Freedom means starvation. Power means playing their game.

What do I say?