Running to the Army to Escape my Bride-to-be - 4

The great house of Santo was never truly silent, not even in the late hours when the lamps were lit and supper had been cleared away. Its stones carried a life of their own: the creak of beams that had stood for centuries, the distant rush of wind through chimneys, the shuffle of servants whose work never ended. To a child, it had always seemed like a cradle; to a youth, a fortress. But that evening, as I left the dining hall under the weight of my mother’s indulgent smile and my betrothed’s watchful eyes, it felt more like a labyrinth, each corridor a passage toward confinement.

Supper itself had been a trial. My mother had fussed over every bite I took, insisting I favor the duck over the carp, the bread over the greens, her hand flying each time my plate emptied as though the very sight of an unfinished dish were a threat to my health. She dabbed wine from my lip with a napkin as though I were still a boy. Her gaze, sharp and luminous, followed every small movement I made.

Beside her, Lady Mária-Lujza had played her part with unnerving perfection. She spoke softly when addressed, laughed lightly at my mother’s stories, and claimed she ate little because the richness of Kaeczoan fare was still unfamiliar to her delicate palate. Her eyes, green and unyielding, never left me for long. To anyone else, she would have appeared the model of a devoted bride-to-be — modest, attentive, and gracious. Yet I remembered her grip on my wrist in the courtyard, and the look, that damned look.

When at last I excused myself — “for weariness, mother, nothing more” — my mother kissed my brow and cooed about how her darling son worked himself too hard in study and travel. Lady Mária-Lujza lowered her gaze, folded her hands like a cloistered nun, and said she would pray for my peaceful rest.

With those words still burning in my ears, I made my way from the hall.

The corridors of Santo were wide and high, lined with carved beams darkened by centuries of smoke. Icons of saints stood in niches, their golden halos gleaming in candlelight, their eyes painted with a sternness that seemed to watch my every step. Family portraits hung in ordered ranks: stern-faced women in armor, proud countesses in gowns of state, my forebears stretching back into memory. Few men appeared among them, and those who did were painted delicately, soft-featured, presented more as cherished relics than warriors. It was frustrating. I had been to the military academy, why couldn’t I bring honor like my ancestors?

The smell of beeswax polish lingered on the air, mingling with faint traces of supper — roasted meat, spiced wine, warm bread. My boots struck the stone with an echo that seemed too loud, a sound out of place in halls that belonged not to me but to the women who had ruled here before me and would, in truth, rule after.

I turned down a side passage, meaning to take the long way back to the family wing. The servants’ stair lay nearby, and from behind its half-open door I heard voices — women’s voices, hushed but animated.

“…he looked pale at supper. Did you see how Lady Mária-Lujza watched him?”

“As though she meant to drink him in whole.”

“Hush! If the countess hears you—”

“She wouldn’t mind. She dotes on him too much to care what’s said. He’s her treasure. And no wonder — so few men, and hers is handsome besides. I swear, if he so much as looked at me, I’d—”

Laughter from vulgar jokes, stifled but sharp, followed, until a sterner voice cut through. “Mind your tongues, damn your eyes, a man’s honor is dear. He belongs to his lady, and to the house. Don’t shame yourselves with foolish talk.”

There was a pause, then a softer murmur: “Still… he smiled at the stewardess this morning. Did you see? Just a smile, but enough to make her glow all day. Such a smile could undo anyone. I wish he’d smile at me, I’d do this and that~”

Their words pressed against me like hellfire. I moved on before they could tumble from the stairwell and see me listening. Yet the weight of their whispers clung to me, as did the memory of their giggles when I was younger — how they would sigh if I passed in the corridor, how they would treat a word of kindness from me as though it were a gift beyond price.

This was the shape of the world: men too few, so that every breath I took seemed to echo. I was not a son but a relic; not a youth but a treasure. And treasures are never free.

I walked on. The torches flickered, their smoke coiling upward to vanish into the beams. From the kitchens came the clatter of pans and the smell of herbs, as women scrubbed the last pots of the night. They glanced up when I passed — some bowed their heads, some smiled faintly, some simply stared as though caught. One even whispered, just loud enough for her companion:

“God keep him, he grows taller each year. Like a prince out of the old tales.”

Her friend shushed her, but I heard it. I damn well always heard it.

The grand staircase loomed ahead, its banisters carved with vines and roses, its steps polished by centuries of feet. I placed my hand upon the rail as I ascended, each creak of wood loud in the stillness. My reflection wavered faintly in the tall windows — a pale young man in fine clothes, his shoulders tense, his eyes dark with thoughts he dared not speak.

At the landing I paused. The corridor to the family wing stretched long and shadowed, lined with tall windows on one side and doors on the other. Through the glass I saw the vineyards, silvered by moonlight, stretching toward the dark hills. The river shimmered faintly in the distance, its voice a murmur just beyond hearing.

And at the far end of the hall, waiting in silence, stood Lady Mária-Lujza.

She was framed by the glow of a single candelabrum, its light soft upon her pale gown. Her hair, black as ink, was bound with a single ribbon. Her hands were folded demurely before her. To anyone else she would have seemed a vision of meekness, almost angelic.

But I saw how she had been waiting — how still she stood, how unwavering her gaze. Those green eyes fixed on me as though she had known precisely when I would appear.

“My lord Francisco,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “You left the hall so swiftly. I worried you were unwell.”

I inclined my head, forcing my voice steady. “I am only weary, my lady. The day’s journey caught me harder than I expected.”

Her lips curved in a gentle smile. “Then may you find your rest quickly. If you have need of anything — a draught of wine, food, even the comfort of company — I would be honored to provide it.”

She lowered her eyes then, as though shy, though I caught the faintest flicker of her lashes, the glint of satisfaction hidden beneath humility. To anyone else, it was the gesture of a saintly woman offering only kindness. To me, it was the tightening of a snare. Everything here in my home seemed to be some kind of damned snare meant to keep me cloistered away.

“You are kind,” I said curtly. “But rest is all I need.”

Her voice softened further, so low it might not have been meant for me: “I only wish to see you happy.”

The words should have comforted. Instead they chilled me. For I recalled again the pressure of her hand on my wrist and the whisper that had burned against my ear.

I bowed quickly, saying, quite curtly. “Good night, my lady.”

Her head dipped in return, the perfect picture of chastened obedience. “Good night, Francisco.”

Yet as I walked by, her gaze clung to me, and I felt it on my back until I reached my chamber door.

I closed it more forcefully than I intended. The latch struck with a metallic crack, echoing into the chamber. I leaned against it a moment, heart racing, as though I had escaped some unseen demon.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the carved beams of the ceiling. My books lined the shelves in neat ranks; my coat of arms hung polished above the mantel. My coat slid from my shoulders to the chair, my boots left by the flames. I sat heavily upon the bed, pressing my hands to my eyes.

The whispers of the servants, my mother’s doting, the lady’s too-perfect devotion — all of it pressed upon me at once, tightening around me like a cage. I was no longer a boy, yet I was not free. I was not a man of choice, but of expectation.

I had thought myself weary from travel. But it was not the road that had exhausted me. It was this hell.

I could not endure a lifetime of this. To live as ornament, to be passed from mother’s keeping to wife’s, never to taste the world with my own lips — it would kill me more surely than illness.

Freedom. The word struck through me like a bell.

But freedom demanded courage.

I sank into the chair by the fire, staring into its heart as though it might answer me. Flames licked the logs, collapsing them into coals. Sparks rose, danced, vanished. Such was life — brief, bright, consumed. But sparks also leapt beyond the hearth. Sparks became flames when they fell upon dry kindling.

I needed such a spark. A chance, a distraction, something to cover my escape.

Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day. There must be a way.

I sat there long into the night, listening to the house settle into its bones. Now and then a footstep passed in the hall — a servant, no doubt, or my mother’s guard checking the doors. Each sound reminded me how closely watched I was. Each sound sharpened my longing.

When at last I lay upon the bed, sleep would not come. My mind turned over and over the same thoughts — my mother’s suffocating love, the servants’ whispers, the lady’s silken trap. And against them, always, the vision of the hills beneath the moon, the roads unwinding into shadow.

I whispered to myself, though no one heard:

“I must be free. Somehow… I must.”

And in that whisper I swore it.