The wind gnashed at Eldeholt castle's broken stone, a howl that had haunted Gloria since she was six. It was her first memory of the dark—fleeing her father's rage down the dungeon stairs, his bellow chasing her like a hound. She'd been small then, thin enough to squeeze through a crack in a bricked-up wall, a jagged scar in the stone she'd later learn was older than her family's name. The tunnels beyond had swallowed her, cold and quiet, and she'd stayed until the shouting faded. Eight winters later, at fourteen, she pressed her back to that same damp wall, the chill a steady ache against her spine. The shadows were her realm now, carved out over years, and the rats her only kin.
She eased onto a ledge she'd claimed at ten, a flat slab of rock worn smooth by her hands. Her patched dress—gray wool, frayed at the hem—brushed a floor she'd swept bare with a pine bough three summers back. A plank rested against the wall, scavenged from a forest village cart that had tipped near the castle gates. She'd dragged it down in pieces, her arms trembling under its weight, and now it held her treasures: a chipped clay mug from the kitchens, a flint she'd nicked from a guard, and a sapphire, small and cloudy, pried from the tunnel stone last spring. The air hung thick with damp earth, laced with the faint bite of iron from the mountain village's mines—a scent that clung to her like a second skin. Above, the great hall thrummed with her father's voice, Count Edgar Eldeholt, slurring over tables hewn from forest pine. His laughter was a blade, sloppy and sharp, cutting through the night. Down here, she was beyond his reach.
Her rats stirred in the gloom, their claws tapping the stone—four she'd named for their flaws, fed from scraps she'd stolen since she was seven. Nubs, his tail a blunt stump from some old fight, nosed her ankle, his whiskers brushing her skin. Scratch, with claws long and hooked like tiny daggers, pawed at a pebble, his gray fur bristling. Laura, smaller, her teeth worn from gnawing the lace off Gloria's old doll—a gift from Helga she'd never wanted—huddled near the plank, her black eyes glinting. And Victor, the biggest, the alpha, sprawled across the ledge's end, his bulk a shadow of its own. His fur was sleek despite a limp in his hind leg, a mark of battles won in the tunnels' depths. His broad head tilted now, ears flicking toward the hall's noise, guarding her as he always had.
It had started small—crumbs dropped at six, when she'd first hidden here, a crust at seven when she'd returned after a beating. She'd been eight when Victor found her, bold even then, snatching bread from her trembling fingers. The others followed, drawn by the food and her stillness, and she'd named them as they stayed. Now, she fished a stale heel from her sleeve, torn from Edgar's supper table when the servants weren't looking. She broke it into four, her fingers steady despite the cold. Nubs darted forward, snagging his piece with a twitch of his nub. Scratch took his next, claws clicking as he retreated. Laura hesitated, then nibbled hers by the plank, her chewing soft and quick. Victor waited, yellow eyes fixed on her, until she tossed his share—he caught it mid-air, jaws snapping, and settled back, crunching with slow authority. She watched them, her chest loosening for the first time all day. They were hers—flawed, scrappy, unseen by the world above.
A shout rolled down from the hall—"Where's the girl?"—Edgar's voice, thick with wine and venom. The rats froze, Victor's ears flattening, Scratch's claws stilling. Gloria's breath caught, her fingers curling around the sapphire. She knew that tone—his temper was a wildfire, fed by the Poison magic he wielded like a whip and the Fire that flared when he raged. Last month, he'd tainted a miner's supper for a short iron haul—the man's gasps still echoed from the village below, a wet, broken sound that woke her at night. His greed bled the mountain dry—lumber and iron shipped to House Filmore, taxes leaving the villages gaunt. His coin went elsewhere: barrels of sour ale, women in the forest market, bastards he barely tracked. She'd seen them—half a dozen at least, maybe more—chopping wood or trailing mothers, some older than her, some younger than Julius. He didn't know if she was his, not for certain, and the doubt gnawed at her like a splinter she couldn't pull.
Her mother, Countess Helga, wouldn't rein him in. Her Water and Air wove a calm so cold it burned, a stillness that smothered rather than soothed. Gloria remembered her eyes at six—pale, unblinking, pinning her after she'd fled to the tunnels. Helga had found her once, standing at the dungeon stair, her voice a blade: "Get up." No questions, no warmth—just that gaze, stripping her bare. It had driven her deeper, through the crack, and she'd stayed until dawn. Now, at fourteen, she knew that look—Helga saw her as a flaw, a shadow in Julius's light.
The tunnel quivered—a faint hum, a spark overhead. Julius, nine and golden, soaring in the nursery again. She'd watched him yesterday from the courtyard's edge, Air lifting his small frame, Fire trailing in bright curls as he torched a twig mid-flight. He'd giggled, hovering over the stones, and Helga's thin smile had warmed for him, a rare crack in her ice. Edgar had roared approval, clapping a hand on his shoulder— "The kingdom'll bow to you, boy!" Gloria had slipped away, unseen, her patched dress blending with the ramparts' gloom. Most noble children sparked magic by six—she hadn't, not then, not now. Weak, they sneered. Lesser. The words clung like damp, heavier each year.
She rolled the sapphire between her fingers, its edges biting her skin. The shadows shifted, curling toward her—not the wind's draft, not the rats' scurry. She'd felt it before, in this crack she'd widened over years, prying stones loose with a stick until it fit her growing frame. The wall was old, bricked in a haste she didn't understand—mortar flaked where she'd scraped it, revealing a seam sealed long before her birth. The miners spoke of ghosts down here, gem-cursed spirits haunting the mountain's gut. She'd heard the tales at seven, crouched by the village well—a woman lost to the dark, her screams swallowed by stone. Foolish, she'd told herself, but the black seemed to breathe tonight, brushing her arm with a cold that wasn't there.
Her breath hitched, and she tucked the sapphire under the plank, next to the mug. Victor's head lifted, his limp leg shifting as he growled low—a warning. Glass shattered above, the sound sharp and sudden, followed by Edgar's bellow. "Fetch her, Helga! The trader's waiting!" Her stomach knotted, a familiar twist. Another House Filmore envoy—blue and purple silks, a serpent coiled around a boat on their banners. They came monthly, bartering forest lumber and mountain iron for river wealth—fish, dye, things Edgar squandered. Helga would drag her up soon, a doll for their schemes. The Filmores ruled three villages and a trade city—merge them with Eldeholt's two, and Edgar's grasping hands would grip five and one. Marriage, they'd whispered for years, her fate sealed in their cold voices.
She crumbled the last of the bread, tossing bits to Laura and Scratch. Nubs pressed closer, his warmth a small anchor. Victor chewed his share, eyes on the tunnel's mouth, alpha to the end. The trader could wait—Edgar would drink himself blind, Helga would glare like ice, and Julius would soar. Gloria leaned into the wall, the shadows pooling at her feet, alive in a way she couldn't name. Here, with her rats, she was hidden—safe, for now, in the dark that had claimed her since six.