The morning fog had barely lifted, but the village was already a teeming hive of bodies, carts, and shouting merchants. Madeline kept her chin tucked tightly to her chest, her eyes fixed on the muddy tips of her oversized boots. Every shout from a vendor sounded like an accusation; every clatter of a carriage wheel felt like Woodsman's men closing in.
"Do you think anyone will recognize me like this?" Madeline whispered, her voice trembling beneath the thick leather of her mask.
"They will if you keep twitching like a trapped rabbit," Charlene muttered, walking a half-step ahead to break the crowd. "Just calm down, Maddy. Keep your shoulders broad. Stride, don't scurry."
Calming down was a luxury Madeline didn't possess. She was drowning in Miguel's clothes. The blacksmith's heavy black trousers had to be rolled up three times at the ankle just to keep her from tripping, and the coarse black shirt hung off her slender frame like a sail on a broken mast. But it was the headgear that completed the illusion: Miguel's wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, and his thick leather forge mask, which covered the lower half of her face. It smelled sharply of iron, ash, and old sweat, making every breath a chore.
"You know," Charlene said, glancing sideways with a strained smirk, "you actually make a rather convincing boy. Though, a bit too pretty. Miguel might finally have some competition."
"Then I guess I'm the prettiest blacksmith in the market," Madeline shot back, her voice muffled. It was a weak attempt at banter, but it worked. Charlene let out a short, sudden burst of laughter that cut through the morning gloom.
"I wish he were here to see you right now," Charlene sighed, her smile faltering as she stared at Madeline's ridiculous, worn-out boots.
"Then let's take a picture," Madeline blurted out, driven by a sudden, desperate need to capture a single moment of normalcy before she descended back into hell. "We can show him when he returns. Assuming... assuming I'm still here."
Charlene's eyes softened. She grabbed Madeline's sleeve. "Don't talk like that. Come on."
They ducked into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway where an old, brass-fitted photo booth sat wedged between a bakery and a cobbler. It was a relic, smelling of sulfur and flash powder. For three agonizingly bright flashes of light, they pretended the world wasn't ending. They made faces, they leaned into each other, and for a few fleeting seconds, the heavy leather mask felt like a prop in a play rather than a shield against a monster.
But reality rushed back in the moment they stepped out. The village clock tolled, a heavy, mournful sound.
"I have to get to the washhouse for my shift," Charlene said, the dread creeping back into her voice. She gripped Madeline's shoulders. "Are you absolutely sure you'll be okay, Maddy?"
"Don't worry about me, Char," Madeline lied, forcing her eyes to crinkle in a fake smile behind the mask. "I'll head straight back to your cottage and lock the door. And like you said—I'm completely unrecognizable. Woodsman doesn't stand a chance."
The words tasted like ash. She was terrified. Her knees felt like water. But she couldn't let Charlene carry her fear on top of her own bruises.
With one last, crushing hug, Charlene turned and disappeared into the sea of grey wool and linen. Madeline was truly alone.
Everything is going to be alright. No one will notice you. You are a shadow. She repeated the mantra with every step, navigating the labyrinth of the market.
But people were staring.
She could feel the weight of their gazes sliding over her. Was it the oversized clothes? The fact that she was wearing a forge mask outside of the smithy? Whispers followed in her wake, hissing like snakes in the grass.
She turned down the cobbled street that led toward Charlene's neighborhood, and her blood turned to ice.
Fifty yards ahead, a blockade of heavy-set men in dark coats were tearing the street apart. Woodsman's thugs.
Madeline froze, pressing her back against a damp brick wall. Up ahead, a brutal scene was unfolding. Two of the men had cornered a young woman wearing a heavy grey cloak and a mourning veil. One of the thugs grabbed her by the arm, dragging her roughly into the center of the street, while the other violently ripped the veil from her face. tearing the pins from her hair.
"Are you Madeline?" the man spat, examining her face like a piece of meat.
"No! Please, my name is Romana! Let me go!" the girl shrieked, tears streaming down her terrified face.
Madeline stopped breathing. The bitter irony hit her like a physical blow. The things designed to shield her had become a death sentence. To wear a veil today was to wear a target.
"Make sure you find her!" the leader of the thugs shouted, shoving the weeping Romana aside. "The boss is bleeding, and his patience is gone. Tear the veil off every girl you see until we find the rat!"
Madeline slowly began to back away, her oversized boots scraping loudly against the stone.
Suddenly, the leader stopped. He turned his head. Across the sea of shifting bodies and market stalls, his cold, dead eyes locked directly onto Madeline's bright blue ones peering over the rim of the leather mask.
A jolt of pure adrenaline electrocuted her spine. He didn't know it was her—he couldn't possibly know. But the suspicious clothing, the frozen posture... it was enough. The man shoved a fruit cart out of his way and started marching directly toward her.
Madeline didn't think. She spun on her heel and walked fast, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fastened her pace, turning sharply down a narrow alley smelling of fish and brine. But with every turn she made, the heavy, rhythmic thud of the man's boots echoed right behind her.
Why is he following me? He couldn't possibly know it's me
"Hey! You there! Stop!" the man bellowed over the crowd.
The command snapped the last thread of Madeline's restraint. She broke into a dead sprint. The oversized boots made her stumble, and the leather mask severely limited her oxygen, making every breath feel like drawing fire into her lungs. She rounded a corner, her boots sliding wildly on the damp stones, and saw a heavy oak door propped open beneath a crest she didn't recognize
Desperation seized her. A long line of burly, rough-looking men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to approach a large mahogany desk at the front. Without hesitating, Madeline threw herself through the doorway and slammed her body into the back of the queue, tucking her head down so the wide brim of the hat hid her face.
A mountain of a man smelling of cheap ale and wet dog stepped in behind her, his massive frame effectively shielding her from the street.
"Move it along, boy," the large man grunted, nudging her forward.
Madeline stumbled up to a polished wooden desk. Behind it sat a middle-aged man in a crisp, intimidating guard's uniform. His uniform was adorned with gleaming silver buttons and a harsh, no-nonsense scowl.
"I need your name, and I need you to sign on the bottom line," the officer said, his voice flat and bored as he shoved a thick piece of parchment across the desk.
Madeline didn't hear him. Her wide, terrified eyes were fixed on the transparent glass of the front door. Outside, Woodsman's thug was pacing the street, peering into the shop windows, his face red with rage. If she caused a scene in here, he would look. He would find her.
"Sir," the officer snapped, slamming a heavy hand on the desk, startling Madeline so badly she jumped. "If you've changed your mind, stop wasting the Crown's time and make way for the men behind you."
"Yeah, hurry it up, lad!" someone shouted from the back of the line.
He's looking at the door, Madeline thought. A commotion was starting. A commotion that would draw the thug inside. If the thug stepped through that door, Madeline was dead. Seeing him outside stop and turn his head toward the building, Panic overrode all logic. She needed to blend in. She needed to be invisible.
She snatched the quill from the inkwell. Her hand shook violently as she scribbled a messy, illegible abbreviation of her name Madel—making it look like a sloppy signature—on the bottom of the parchment. She didn't read a single word of the elegant, looping calligraphy above it. She didn't care if she was selling her soul to the devil. All that mattered was survival.
The officer snatched the paper back, blew on the ink, and stamped it with a heavy wax seal.
"Make sure you keep time," the officer grunted, shoving a thick, wax-sealed envelope into her chest.
Madeline grabbed the envelope, her eyes still locked on the window. The thug outside, finally frustrated, spat on the cobblestones and turned down a different alleyway.
He was gone.
Madeline didn't remember the walk back to Charlene's cottage. Her body moved on autopilot, navigating the back streets until she finally slipped through the broken door and locked it tight behind her.
She collapsed against the wood, ripping the suffocating forge mask from her face and gasping for sweet, unhindered air. The silence of the empty cottage was a blessing. She had survived.
Her hands, still trembling slightly, brushed against the stiff parchment of the envelope tucked into her shirt.
She pulled it out. It bore an intricate seal of a rampant lion pressed in gold wax. Frowning in utter confusion, she broke the seal and pulled out the neatly folded document inside.
As her eyes scanned the elegant lettering, the remaining air in her lungs vanished. Her mouth dropped open in silent horror.
To The Newly Conscripted:
Congratulations on taking the oath. By the signature provided, you are hereby bound to the service of His Majesty.
You are officially enrolled as a recruit in the Palace Royal Guard. Desertion is punishable by death.
She had escaped the devil, only to sell her soul to the King.