FROM PITS TO THRONE: A Crown Forged In Chains

Chapter 14. Defiance

The spring fair in Preliand arrived like a storm of color and noise, transforming Lord Varyn’s estate from quiet oppression into controlled chaos. Traders poured through the gates, caravans of spices from the east, bolts of silk from across the sea, jugglers and musicians hired for entertainment. Guards drank freely causing their watches to lax. Slaves worked double shifts, cooking, cleaning, serving but whispers of opportunity ran like wildfire through the barracks.

Tamira’s heart beats a constant rhythm of now or never. Four years in slavery and for two years she had planned with Elara, old Jorin the blacksmith, and Marta the cook. They had hoarded coins scraped from forgotten corners, fashioned tools from scrap and mapped every shadow on the estate. The drainage grate behind the pigsty had loose bars, wide enough for a determined body and it led to a culvert that emptied into the vineyards beyond the walls.

The plan was simple in outline, but brutal in risk.

On the fair’s final night, when fireworks lit the sky and guards gathered to watch, Tamira would slip through the grate. Elara would cover her absence in the women’s quarters. Jorin had forged a crude key for the outer stable padlock, where Tamira would steal a horse and ride north to the Drayce yards. There, with information bought from a sympathetic carter, she would find Silas and free him during the confusion of Drayce’s own fair celebrations.

They would flee west to the border towns, lose themselves among free folk, and one day if the gods willing, they would find a way back to whatever remained of their family.

But plans remain plans until they are executed, but this one was bound to fracture.

The day before the fair’s climax, Lord Varyn summoned Tamira to his private chambers.

She carried a tray of wine and figs with her head bowed as always. Varyn lounged on a cushioned divan, flushed from an afternoon’s drinking, his wife was away visiting relatives. Goran, the overseer, has his leg still stiff from Tamira’s bottle-slash years ago, yet he stood at the door with his eyes gleaming with old hatred.

“Set it down,” Varyn ordered, voice thick. He was heavyset, fiftyish, with the soft cruelty of a man who had never known denial.

Tamira placed the tray, stepping back quickly.

Varyn’s gaze lingered. “You’ve filled out nicely these years. Strong. Pretty still, despite the scars.”

Her stomach turned at the sound of those words, but she kept her face blank.

He rose, circling her. “Goran says you’ve been quiet lately. No more trouble which is good. But I wonder…do you ever think of home?”

She froze.

Varyn smiled. “Oh yes. I know who you were. Princess Tamira of Miraolden. Hawks himself sent word years ago, a generous bounty if you met an accident that would rid you of life. But I kept you alive because you work well. And because a royal slave in my bed amused me.”

Rage flared hot, but she held it.

He stepped closer. “Tonight, you will amuse me properly. Goran will bring you after the fireworks. Refuse, and your boy dies tomorrow quietly, in the Drayce yards. I still have friends there.”

Goran grinned from the doorway.

Tamira’s mind raced as she now realised that everything she's planned hung on tonight.

She bowed low. “As my lord commands.”

Varyn laughed, satisfied, and waved her out.

Back in the kitchens, she found Elara.

“They know,” she whispered, voice shaking with fury more than fear. “Varyn knows who I am. He…wants me tonight and threatens Silas if I refuse.”

Elara’s face paled. “Gods! The escape…”

“It’ll still happen,” Tamira said fiercely. “But I handle Varyn first.”

Elara gripped her arm. “How?”

Tamira’s eyes were steel. “The way he deserves.”

The evening unfolded in a blur of preparation.

Tamira helped serve the fair’s grand feast, with roast boar, honeyed fruits and wine flowing like rivers. Lords and ladies laughed under lantern light; musicians played and slaves moved like ghosts among them.

She slipped into the kitchens when no one watched, taking Jorin’s gift from its hiding place, a thin, sharp knife meant for cutting purse strings or throats and hid it in her sleeve.

Fireworks began as darkness fell, great bursts of green and gold over the vineyards. Guards crowded the walls to watch. Slaves were ordered to their quarters early, but confusion reigned.

Tamira waited in the women’s barracks, her heart was pounding.

Then Goran came for her near midnight, drunk and leering.

“It’s time, princess,” he slurred, grabbing her arm hard enough to bruise.

She let him lead her through dim corridors to Varyn’s chambers. The lord waited in a silk robe, goblet in hand, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Leave us,” he told Goran.

The overseer hesitated, jealous perhaps, but he obeyed, closing the door behind him.

Varyn set down his cup and began advancing.

“On your knees, princess. Show me how royal blood submits.”

Tamira sank slowly with her head still bowed. Then she surged up with the knife flashing as its blade took him under the chin, driving upward. His eyes widened in shock, hands clutching at her wrist but he was too late and blood poured rapidly over her hands.

He gurgled, staggering backwards and She followed, twisting the knife deeper.

Varyn collapsed against the divan, twitching once, then still.

Tamira stood breathing hard as she stared at the body with no atom of regret, rather she felt cold purposes.

She wiped the knife on his robe, then searched quickly, taking the keys on his belt, a purse of gold and papers in a drawer, the one sealed with Robert Hawks’ red hawk sigil, confirming the bounty.

Then she slipped out through a side door into the garden shadows, knowing that Goran or a servant would check on Varyn soon and the alarm would rise as soon as he was found dead.

Elara waited at the pigsty as planned wearing a pale look.

“You’re covered in blood,” she whispered.

“Varyn’s,” Tamira said, trying to catch her breath. “He’s dead.”

Elara’s eyes widened in shock, but she nodded. “Then go. Now.”

They pried the grate loose together, then Tamira embraced her fiercely.

“Come with me.”

Elara shook her head. “Someone must cover your absence in order to give you time to get away. I’ll say you fell ill. So go. Find your boy.”

Tears stung Tamira’s eyes, but there was no time.

She crawled through the culvert, mud soaking her clothes as she emerged in the vineyards beyond the wall.

She ran to the outer stables, using Varyn’s key. A bay mare waited, saddled for the morning, so she mounted it bareback, with purse and papers tucked inside her tunic and the knife at her belt.

The guards at the main gate were drunk, watching dying fireworks. So she rode the back trails Jorin had mapped, yet her heart kept hammering.

By dawn, she was miles away, pushing north.

Back at the estate, alarms finally rose when Varyn was found dead with blood on the sheets and it was obvious a slave did it would be missing.

Goran raged as he organized search parties. Lord Varyn’s death would bring chaos, accompanied by claims from heirs and investigations from neighbors.

But Tamira was gone.

For two weeks she rode carefully, avoiding roads by day, sleeping in barns or under trees and stealing food where she could. The gold she took off Varyn’s corpse bought bread and information in villages.

She reached the Drayce lands near midsummer and the yards were as brutal as rumored, high walls, barking dogs and children laboring under whips.

So she watched from hiding with a heart aching to see Silas once more. Even though he'd be taller now ‘cause of the years that had gone by, she'd still recognise her son from whatever distance.

But whispers in a tavern confirmed the worst, Silas had escaped two months ago with two others. One died, one was recaptured. But Silas vanished into the wilds.

Tamira’s world cracked. She had killed Varyn, risked everything only to come too late.

Grief nearly broke her. But the Walton blood endured.

If Silas lived free, even in hiding, he was safer than in chains. And he was clever, she had taught him that in memories he carried.

Thus, she left messages in places a clever boy might find, carved symbols from their days in Miraolden, a ribbon like the one she once tied in his hair, hidden in riverbanks and old barns along routes west.

Then she turned her own path west, toward the border towns, carrying Varyn’s papers and gold with the resolve that one day, she would find Liam and Calista. One day, they would ret

urn together.

But for now, she rode alone, free, hunted and alive.