Frost coated the carriage window, crystalline patterns mocking the shivering breath I pressed against the glass. Bumping over the frozen ruts of the mountain pass, the wooden coach groaned as if it shared my misery. My fingers clutched the threadbare collar of my coat, seeking a warmth that simply did not exist in these northern wastes. The fabric was thin, a cheap relic of my former life before I became the infamous Ariana. To the world, I was a traveling songstress, a whimsical creature who belonged to no one and nowhere. But beneath the bright, mismatched patches of my cloak lay the scars of a past I desperately sought to outrun. Only hours ago, I had been in the presence of royalty. King Gillë. Just thinking his name sent a strange, venomous thrill through my veins. He had looked at me with those piercing, heavy-lidded eyes, clearly taken by whatever wild beauty he thought I possessed. And how had I responded? I had been downright insufferable. Deliberately rude, sharp-tongued, and entirely unimpressed by his golden circlet, I had pushed him away. Commoners like me had no business speaking to a monarch that way, but survival had taught me that a raised chin was better than a bent knee. Trust had cost me everything once, a betrayal so deep it had shattered my ability to let anyone close. Now, intimacy felt like a trap, a golden cage that would eventually starve me. And King Gillë, with his intense eyes and effortless authority, represented the ultimate danger. Memories of our brief encounter played like a mocking tune in my head. He had been surrounded by his royal advisors, looking entirely overrun by the crushing weight of his duties. His shoulders had been tense, his jaw locked in a silent scream of exhaustion. I had almost pitied him. To break the suffocating silence of his private study, I had even called an impromptu concert, strumming my lute with a lazy, defiant grin just to watch the exasperation melt into intrigue on his face. I had sung of foolish kings and greedy lords, watching his advisors turn red with indignation. But Gillë hadn't ordered my execution. Instead, his lips had curved into a slow, dangerous smile that made my pulse race. He had stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the polished stone floor. When he approached, the scent of cedarwood and crisp winter wind had filled my senses, making me feel utterly defenseless. "You have a dangerous tongue, Ariana," he had murmured, stopping just inches from me. "But your music holds a truth this court sorely lacks. Stay. Sing for me, and I will protect you from whatever it is you are running from." His offer had terrified me more than any threat of violence ever could. Accepting his protection meant giving him power over me, and I would rather freeze in the wilderness than surrender my autonomy to a man, even if that man wore a crown. So, I had slipped away while the castle slept, boarding the first northbound carriage to escape his magnetic pull. --- Wheels screeched to a halt, the sudden jolt nearly throwing me from the bench. We had arrived. Outside, the wind howled through the skeletal trees of The Moss Celpa. Snow-locked and miserable, the village was little more than a collection of rotting timber huts huddled around a central well. Ice clung to the eaves of the low-slung roofs, glittering like frozen tears under the gray sky. Stepping down from the carriage, the biting cold slapped my face, turning my cheeks a violent pink. I pulled my hood low, hoping to slip into the local tavern unnoticed. A heavy scent of cheap lard and boiling cabbage drifted through the frozen air, mixing with the sharp tang of cheap alcohol. My stomach rumbled, a harsh reminder that defiance did not fill an empty belly. I carried my lute bag slung over my shoulder, the wooden instrument heavy and comforting against my back. This lute was my only constant companion, the only thing that had never betrayed me. I walked briskly toward the glowing lantern of the tavern, my boots crunching loudly on the packed snow. A rusted sign above the door creaked in the wind, depicting a half-frozen stag. Pushing the heavy oak door open, I was hit by a wall of heat and noise. --- Inside the tavern, a roaring fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to warm the atmosphere. Men with grim faces and dirt-caked hands huddled over wooden mugs, their eyes tracking my every movement. I ignored them, stepping toward the counter where a clay jug of hot, spiced mulled wine sat steaming. Before I could reach for my purse, a heavy, greasy hand clamped down on my wrist. "Well, well. What do we have here?" This voice belonged to Master Varos, the local tax collector, a man whose reputation for cruelty was matched only by his greed. He oversaw the trade routes through the Moss Celpa with an iron fist, taxing the impoverished villagers until they had nothing left but their skin and bones. He was a bloated man, his velvet doublet stained with grease and his breath reeking of stale garlic. His small, predatory eyes swept over my colorful, eccentric patched cloak, lingering on the curve of my hips. "You're new to the Celpa, little bird," Varos sneered, his grip tightening. "And everyone pays a toll to pass through my gates." My skin crawled. Panic, old and suffocating, threatened to choke me, but I forced it down, burying the fear beneath a mask of cold fury. I looked down at his sausage-like fingers on my wrist. "Release me," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet purr. Varos laughed, a wet, rattling sound that made the surrounding guards chuckle. "Or what?" he challenged, leaning closer until I could smell the rot in his teeth. "You'll sing me a song? I prefer other kinds of entertainment from pretty girls." He reached out with his other hand, his fingers clawing toward my chin. A surge of pure adrenaline wiped away my hesitation. Reaching past him, I grabbed the heavy clay jug of boiling mulled wine. With a swift, violent motion, I slammed it down. Shards of clay and scalding red liquid splashed across his leather boots. Varos shrieked, jumping backward as the boiling wine soaked through his trousers. "My legs! She's burned me!" he roared, his face turning a mottled purple as he pointed a trembling finger at me. "Arrest her! Drag this crazy bitch to the cells!" "Guards, do your duty!" Varos screamed, clutching his scalded thighs. Four heavily armored men stepped forward, their iron-tipped spears leveling at my chest with deadly intent. They wore the rusted iron chainmail of the village militia, their faces hardened by years of enforcing Varos's tyrannical decrees. Heavy leather boots thudded against the floorboards as they closed the distance, trapping me against the bar. An icy dread seized my chest at the thought of a cell—of being locked in the dark, helpless and at the mercy of men like Varos. I refused to let them see me break. Instead of begging, I threw my head back and let out a wild, ringing laugh. This sound echoed through the tense tavern, halting the guards in their tracks. Leaning against the heavy oak counter, I crossed my arms, plastering a wide, eccentric grin across my face. Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford, so I wore madness like armor. I took a deep breath, letting my voice ring out, rich and clear, slicing through the heavy, stale air of the room. My song began as a low hum, a vibrating note that demanded attention. Then, the words spilled out, sharp and mocking, a weapon forged from pure spite. "A grand collector of taxes and gold," I sang, my voice dancing over the notes with flawless precision. "With a belly so soft and a spirit so bold." "He whimpers and cries when a lady says no," I continued, taking a theatrical step toward the guards. "And burns his own toes in the melting snow!" Several patrons in the back laughed, unable to resist the infectious, mocking melody. Their muffled chuckles only fueled my performance, injecting a burst of warmth into my freezing limbs. This was my sanctuary, the only space where I felt completely in control of my fate. In this moment, I wasn't a victim of my past or a fugitive fleeing a king; I was a goddess of ridicule, and my word was law. Spinning on my heel, I used the space between the bewildered guards to execute a sweeping, theatrical bow. The colorful fabric of my cloak flared around me like the wings of an exotic bird, entirely out of place in this dreary, gray tavern. "Oh, run to your master, you shivering pig," I belted, my voice soaring to the soot-stained rafters. "And tell him the songbird is far too big!" This public defiance felt intoxicating, shifting something deep inside me. Survival was no longer enough; I wanted to burn their oppressive authority to the ground. Varos's face swelled to a deep, bruised purple, veins bulging at his temples. His voice cracked with sheer fury as he pointed a shaking finger at me. "Cut her tongue out!" he roared, spit flying from his lips. "I want her silenced, permanently!" Guards lunged, their metallic armor clanking as they reached for my arms. I braced myself, my fingers slipping toward a sharp brass hairpin hidden in my sleeve, ready to fight for my life. Before the guards can grab her, a silver-crested dagger strikes the wooden post inches from Lucy's throat, thrown by a hooded stranger whose rings bear the forbidden crest of the neighboring royal dynasty.

Chapter 1: A Song Drunk on Solitude