The tunnel

I sighed and stared at the ceiling until the plaster blurred into a map of my fears. The day’s jeers still clung to me like damp cloth; even now, in the thin quiet of my little room, the palace hummed with their voices. Destiny felt like a chain I had been born wearing—heavy, unchosen, and cold. I had learned to fold my life into its links.

A knock broke the dullness. Sharp, urgent. My heart flinched as if the sound had pinched my skin.

I hurried to the door and opened it. Luke stood there, cheeks flushed, breath quick—worry etched into every line of his face. He looked around like someone who’d escaped a storm only to find more lightning waiting.

“Oh, Luke—what brings you here?” I tried for lightness, but his expression stole the joke from my lips.

“Can we talk inside?” he asked, voice small and ragged.

“Of course.” I stepped aside, and he brushed past, closing the door with hands that did not stop trembling until they found mine. We sat on the narrow bed, knees nearly touching, and for a moment the room felt too small for the weight between us.

“What’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I said, though the word felt feeble.

He swallowed as if to steady himself. “Selene, the guards have been muttering. With the blood moon coming, the palace and the priest are ready. They’re preparing—rituals, offerings. They say it will please the gods.” His words came in a rush. “They mean you.”

A chill unfurled through me despite the thin heat of the room. The mark on my shoulder prickled as if listening. I inhaled and held the breath like a secret.

“That’s nothing new,” I lied before I could stop myself. “I’ve known this was coming.” I tried to fold my fear into a calm face; Luke saw through it.

“Do you call that ‘nothing’?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Selene, you can’t just accept this—your death—because some prophecy sits dusty in a temple. We can—” He stopped, fingers clenching the hem of his sleeve.

“Can we?” I asked, though I already knew the answer he would offer. “The king’s men watch every gate. Soldiers circle the palace like hounds.” My words were a small stone dropped into a deep well; the ripple died fast.

Luke’s jaw set. “There’s an old tunnel by the stream north of the eastern wall,” he blurted. “It’s been unused for years—collapsed in parts, but if we hurry we can slip through before the blood moon. It’ll take us away from the city, out of the palace’s sight. Please, Selene, we can go. I’ll find a place for you. Anywhere—just not here.”

His hand found mine and held it as though to anchor me. The warmth of him was both comfort and a new kind of ache. I remembered the way his eyes shone when he promised, the small courage in his face when he spoke of impossible things. He believed in hope the way I believed in shadows: enough to shape a plan, not enough to ensure its safety.

“You would risk your life for me?” I asked, searching his face for the flicker of jest, the lie—but there was only earnestness, a stubbornness that made my throat ache.

“I already have,” he said. “Every time I’ve kept quiet when I should’ve spoken up. Every time I’ve stayed on duty instead of running for rumors. This…this is another thing I’m willing to risk.” His words trembled; his gaze held mine with a kind of desperate dignity.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and let him pull me away from the priests and their braided lies. But the palace had taught me other things—how hope could be used by whispering men to craft obedience. I had seen men promise the moon and hand over body and soul when the moon rose red.

“Listen to me,” I said slowly, pulling my hand free. “I don’t want you to get hurt. If the soldiers have tightened their watch…if they spy your absence—” The rest of the sentence drowned in the image of Luke dragged away, shackled for my sake.

“I’ve seen the patrols,” he replied, quiet but resolute. “I know the risks. The tunnel is obscured behind the reeds by the stream. The entrance is small; they won’t expect someone to slip out that way. Once you’re out, you’ll be faster than anyone here. You have to trust me.”

Silence settled between us, filled only by the distant clatter of the palace and the little sounds that belonged to a place that had never been mine. In that silence, he did something I had not expected—he reached into his pocket and drew out a small bundle wrapped in black cloth. The motion seemed to carry all the sacred hush of a confession.

“Take this,” he said, pressing the bundle into my palms. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

My fingers trembled as I untied the cloth. Tucked inside lay a short, sharp blade—simple, well-kept, its edge honed to a fine line. It was the kind of knife a gardener might keep, or a shepherd by a campfire. But in my hand it became a compass, a small promise of agency.

“W-why?” I stammered, the cold sweep of panic and gratitude mingling. “If they find you with this—”

“Hide it,” he said, his voice soft. “Keep it close. If things get worse, you use it. If you run, it will be your shield.” He met my eyes and for a moment the room compressed to that look—urgent, fearful, full of everything he could not say.

I wrapped the cloth back and tucked it inside my tunic, the knife nesting against my ribs like a hidden heartbeat. It felt wrong and right in the same breath: a small rebellion sewn beneath the fabric that marked me out.

“Think carefully,” Luke added as he stood, the motion urgent now, as if time itself had decided to hold its breath.

He left as suddenly as he had come, the door closing on the sound of hurried footsteps. The room felt emptier for his absence, as if the warmth of his presence had drawn the chill out of the stones. I sat on the bed with the knife pressed against my heart and tried to imagine a night where I did not wake to the taste of copper fear.