Lumen. Dead of night.

The rain came down in sheets.

It hammered against the bluestone pavement, splashing up muddy water.

Clara Whitmore stumbled forward and went down hard, her knees smashing against the stone steps until skin tore open.

She didn’t care about the pain. She dragged herself on with both hands and knees.

The whip marks from the High Dungeon were still bleeding. The rough prison garb stuck to her back, and every tiny movement yanked at torn flesh.

The wounds had been soaked pale by the rain, the curled skin packed with grime from the dungeon floor.

The vermilion gates of the Chancellery were right there, barely a dozen steps away.

Two stone lions stood in the stormy dark, silent and cold, looking down at the blood on the ground.

She had to knock on that door. She had to see Father and Mother, see her brothers, tell them the truth.

She had been framed.

She had not tried to crawl into the bed of the Vice Minister of War. Percival Dunmore had done this to her.

She fought back to save herself. It was not because seduction had failed and she flew into shame and rage. She truly was not that filthy.

Swallowing the metallic taste rising in her throat, Clara dug her fingers into the edge of the step and forced half her body upright.

Behind her came a mess of hurried footsteps.

The sound of boots crushing through puddles drew closer and closer.

"Over there! Don’t let that bitch get away!"

A rough voice cut through the curtain of rain, thick with killing intent.

Clara bit through the tip of her tongue, forced herself to straighten, and reached for the gate.

Her fingertips had only just brushed the freezing bronze ring—

A rush of wind hit from behind.

A heavy club, swung with brutal force, smashed into her lower back.

The crisp crack of bone breaking was swallowed by thunder.

Clara’s mouth opened, and a great mouthful of blood sprayed across the red gate, running down along the bronze studs.

Her whole body flew like a torn sack and crashed into the mud.

At once, both legs lost all feeling.

Her lower body went limp, completely useless. Only her upper body still twisted and struggled in vain.

"Run, then. Why’d you stop?"

A burly man with a fleshy face strode up, planted his foot on the back of her hand, and ground down hard.

Her finger bones shifted out of place.

Clara convulsed in agony. Not even a scream could come out. All she could manage was ragged wheezing, like a broken bellows.

"This woman’s tougher than she looks. Took that much torture in the High Dungeon and still made it this far."

Another man spat on the ground. "If the client hadn’t paid so damn much, I wouldn’t be out in this storm doing dirty work like this."

Her sight was blurred by blood and rain.

Clara struggled to lift her head and stared fixedly at that shut gate.

Why was no one opening it?

With all this noise outside, there was no way the guards inside hadn’t heard.

She was the true daughter of the Chancellery. The flesh-and-blood child of her parents.

Even if she truly had done wrong, were they not even going to give her a chance to beg for help?

Then came the sound of hinges turning.

A weak light flickered in Clara’s eyes.

Her lips parted, wanting to call out Father, or Mother.

The gate opened a narrow crack.

A pair of red embroidered shoes stepped over the threshold, gold-thread peonies stitched across them. They landed on the clean stone step, carefully avoiding the puddles below.

An oil-paper umbrella painted with peach blossoms opened overhead, shutting out the savage rain.

Vivienne Whitmore stood there in a dazzling soft gauze dress, the hem spotless.

A white fox-fur cloak draped over her shoulders, making her look delicate and precious beyond touch.

At her side, a maid held up a glass lantern, its warm yellow glow lighting her fine makeup.

The men at once lowered their clubs and retreated to either side, heads bowed in respect, barely daring to breathe.

Vivienne lowered her eyes and looked at Clara writhing in the mud. A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Little sister, why are you in such a miserable state in the middle of the night?"

Clara’s pupils widened. She stared at that face, so familiar and yet so strange.

She desperately crawled forward, elbows scraping bloody tracks across the ground, reaching for Vivienne’s skirt.

"Vivienne... save me... go call Father and Mother... I was set up..."