Chapter Five

Everyone in Oclen knew about the three best ways to get rid of one’s daughter.

1. Murder.

2. A vacant cottage deep in the woods, where she can make good soup.

3. Marriage.

She knew her parents didn’t really want to get rid of her, but they needed money. And needed it fast. Since her twin brothers were way too young to be obtaining brides, they chose to sell Dahrian.

And since the future son-in-law was known for attempting to sabotage any betrothals, she was to be locked in her house for the next few months, to prevent any form of harm from the ornery groom. A rattle of keys outside her door, and she was practically dead to the world.

No more gossiping. No more early walks in the morning. And certainly no more fencing until she was married.

No more freedom.

Dahrian threw a book at her bedroom door, promptly picked up a pillow, and screamed into it.

This. Is. Bloody. Poppycock.

She laid down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Stale golden light filtered through her barred window, gliding over her face with a warm glow. She wondered for a brief moment if this was what it was like to be insane. She turned her head towards the lazy sunlight. The window scattered diamond-shaped shadows throughout her room. One of the shadows was off slightly. It was ever so very too long on one edge. She sat up and peered at the window intensely, looking for imperfections. Near the bottom held a near-imperceptible crooked bar. She hastened to it, rattling the bar to see if it was loose. It clattered in its nook, easily able to remove. Dahrian silently cheered. She couldn’t use it yet, but at least she had an extra option. She smiled to herself, wishing how she could tell Tessa.

Her mind wandered on to how she couldn’t see her friend in the next few weeks and her smile faded.

She gazed forlornly at the outside world for a moment. For some strange reason, the drifting snow reminded her of that quiet morning on the road. His hand, rough and calloused but surprisingly gentle, pulling her out of the snowbank. His eyes, large and expressive, full of sadness — he didn’t want to be married either.

She absent-mindedly picked up her trusty practice sword.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad as a husband. He was quite good–looking at least. Maybe he’d still let her roam the city as she pleased. Now that would be nice. If she didn't have to reproduce rambunctious little Dahrian's and Cyrus's, perhaps this marriage thing wouldn't be so bad. And maybe she could even grow to love him.

But that was only a first impression.

Lord Cyrus Grenwood could be the worst, most despicable man to ever exist, and Dahrian would never know until months or even years later. Then what would she do? Escape? Murder her husband?

None of this would be happening if her damn parents just invested their ships properly.

Just as Dahrian began to reminisce about different ways she could potentially kill her betrothed, there was a sudden knock at her door. She dropped the sword with a loud clatter.

“Lady Dahrian?” Claire asked, concern very much apparent on her voice.

“Hmmmm?” Dahrian responded in a pitch that was a little too high.

“Your parents are taking you into town today,” the maid said.

A smile blossomed on Dahrian’s face. She silently cheered.

“Do you jest?"

“Of course not, milady. Wear something nice. It’s a public trial. Some sort of criminal.”

Dahrian took in one last breath of fresh air before stepping back into the Brown’s manor. As she returned to her room, an answer to her problem formed in her mind. A real plan. Her father locked the door behind her, but the sound of the keys no longer felt as entrapping.

She had found someone crazy enough to help her flee.

And it involved the strange red-haired man she saw today in the square.

He was tall—taller than Tessa. He wore strange, mismatched clothes as though he was not ready for the cold of the northern hold. He was quite pale and shaky from blood loss, but the guards couldn’t wipe that stupid smirk off his face. In fact, they even struck him at one point. His cracked lips didn’t twitch downwards for a second. It was as if he had a mask of utter joy plastered onto his face. Although, Dahrian figured joy wasn’t the right word. No, it was the sort of feeling when you knew that you were right when everyone was wrong.

Smug. That was the word.

Alden Black was smug—and a smuggler.

This illegal occupation of his made him useful.

Dahrian figured out why there was a strange uptick in commotion over a simple public trial. He apparently was responsible for the mass export of hundreds of stolen goods. From pirates to noblemen, he had partnered with all people of ill-repute. Which was why he was wanted in all the holds of Oclen.

He definitely had Dahrian’s respect, at least for now.

The hearing was quite lengthy due to the vast amount of crimes, and the crowd was obviously bored. They threw a couple of rotten vegetables at him and jeered, but no one called for death or further violence.

He was put in the stocks that evening, and she unfortunately couldn’t sneak away from the watchful eyes of her parents to have a little chat with him, but she knew the exact location he would be at tonight, in the guards’ jail, lounging in a cell. And she knew how to sneak out of the Manor.

Now the real question was how in Amoria she could possibly get him out.