Chapter 1 - Run!
Everything changed the moment Belmont chose to run.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The forest fought him every step of the way—roots clawing at his boots, branches snapping back to tear at his skin. He was used to being chased. Used to watching his back. But this was different. This time, the fear sat too deep, too sharp, like it had teeth.
Seven men were behind him.
He didn’t need to look to know it. He could hear them—boots striking stone, low voices cutting through the dark with practiced calm. Hunters. Not amateurs. The kind that didn’t miss.
Belmont stumbled, caught himself, kept going. Pain flared hot and immediate in his ankle, but adrenaline shoved it aside. Stopping meant hands on him. Stopping meant Gaston.
That alone was enough to keep him moving.
A gunshot cracked through the trees. Something hissed past his ear. Belmont ducked instinctively, heart hammering so hard it left his mouth tasting of iron. He didn’t scream. Screaming wasted air.
Another misstep sent him crashing to the ground. Moss soaked his palms as he scrambled, breath coming in ragged pulls. When he tried to stand, his ankle betrayed him completely.
“Fuck,” he hissed, gripping it hard.
Not broken. Just ruined enough to matter.
The forest had gone quiet in the way only predators could manage. Too quiet. Belmont dragged himself toward a fallen log, then froze.
Something was pulling at him.
The sensation was subtle—no voice, no command. Just a pressure behind his eyes, a tug in his chest. His gaze slid, unbidden, toward a break in the trees ahead. Moonlight spilled into a clearing, pale and deliberate, as if it had been waiting.
Belmont swallowed.
Running there felt wrong. And inevitable.
He pushed himself up and limped forward, each step loud in the silence. Behind him, the hunters surged. Footsteps. A shout.
“Gaston wants him alive.”
LeFou’s voice. Of course it was.
Belmont backed away, heart pounding, until the clearing opened fully around him. Then the airshifted.
The ground screamed.
Iron speared upward without warning, a massive fence erupting from the earth. Two men didn’t even have time to shout before it impaled them, blood sliding down black metal in slow, obscene rivulets.
The others staggered back, swearing.
Belmont didn’t wait to see more.
Mist curled thick around his legs as he ran again—if limping could be called running—toward stone steps that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Dragon statues flanked them, their twisted faces caught mid-snarl, as if frozen in the act of warning him away.
He ignored them.
The stairs led to a courtyard strangled by neglect. Dead roses. A fountain choked with rot. And beyond it—
A castle.
Impossible in scale. Dark, towering, watching.
Belmont stopped, breath caught painfully in his chest.
A castle in these woods made no sense. But Gaston made less.
The iron gate loomed ahead, seamless, unbroken. No lock. No chain. Belmont reached for the handle, half expecting it to burn him.
It didn’t.
The door creaked open at his touch.
“Figures,” he muttered. “Creepy places never lock their doors.”
Inside, warmth swallowed him whole.
The hall was lined with portraits—men in old suits, eyes sharp enough to follow his every step. A pristine carpet softened the marble beneath his feet. Someone lived here. Recently.
Before he could reconsider, a voice drifted out of the shadows.
“I’d turn around if I were you.”
Belmont spun.
A tall, pale man stepped into the light, blond hair catching the fire’s glow, eyes bright with amusement.
“My master doesn’t care for guests,” the man continued lightly. “But you look like you’re about to collapse. Two choices. Leave now. Or follow me.”
Belmont hesitated.
“Warmth,” the stranger added. “And bandages.”
That settled it.
Belmont followed.
The fire-lit room beyond was too warm, too intact. Heavy curtains in deep red velvet hung from the ceiling like they were meant to keep something in rather than out. The walls were dressed in ornate wallpaper, dark patterns curling in on themselves if you stared too long. Everything smelled faintly of dust and old smoke—age, not abandonment.
He lowered himself into a chair before his legs could give out. Thick rugs cushioned the floor beneath him, layered one atop another, swallowing sound. For the first time since he’d started running, the shaking in his hands became noticeable.
The blond man disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a tray. Steam curled from a cup of tea. Clean bandages rested beside it.
“You’re safe here,” he said casually, kneeling in front of Belmont’s injured ankle as if this were an everyday inconvenience. “For now.”
Belmont didn’t miss the qualifier.
“Belmont,” he said, mostly to fill the silence. “Bel. If you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t,” the man replied, already reaching for his boot. “But thank you.”
The touch was careful, almost gentle. Pale fingers slid over swollen skin, cool enough to make Belmont flinch.
“You live here?” Belmont asked, eyes flicking to the portraits lining the walls. Every painted gaze seemed fixed on him, appraising.
“Yes.”
“I’ve walked these woods my whole life,” Belmont went on. “Never saw a castle.”
The man smiled without looking up. “Very few do.”
Belmont swallowed.
“Do you work for him?” he pressed. “Your master.”
A soft click of tongue against teeth. “So many questions.”
“Occupational hazard,” Belmont muttered. “Staying alive.”
The man finished wrapping the ankle and straightened. “You’ve sprained it. You won’t be running for a while.”
That landed harder than it should have.
“And your master?” Belmont asked. “Is he the type who shoots trespassers?”
The smile returned—pleasant, unreadable. “No. He’s far more creative.”
Belmont sank back into the chair, fingers tightening around the warm cup. Tea steadied him in ways he hated needing. He had almost convinced himself to breathe when the door flew open.
“Lu—what the hell are you doing?”
The voice was sharp, furious. Heavy footsteps crossed the room.
Belmont turned just enough to see a broad-shouldered man storm in, dark curls falling into his eyes. A tattoo—an old-fashioned clock—wrapped around his forearm, stark against tanned skin.
“He hates guests,” the man continued. “And we’re both going to regret this.”
Lu sighed. “Calm down, Clocksworth.”
Clocksworth’s jaw tightened. “You brought a stranger into the house.”
“He was being hunted.”
“That’s not our problem.”
Belmont stared at the clock tattoo, the precise lines of it. Something about it felt deliberate. Measured.
“I know what I’m doing,” Lu said evenly.
Clocksworth scoffed and dragged him aside, lowering his voice. They argued in sharp whispers, gestures clipped, controlled. Lu remained infuriatingly calm. Clocksworth did not.
Belmont leaned back, suddenly very tired. This place wasn’t salvation. It was a pause. And pauses ended.
If Gaston hadn’t sent men after him, someone else would have. He always did. There was no such thing as escape—only better cages.
Belmont dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging dirt and pine needles. He didn’t bother looking for hope. He’d learned what that cost.
Eventually, Clocksworth turned.
His gaze hit Belmont like a physical thing—assessing, stripping him down to something manageable. There was no warmth there. No curiosity. Just calculation.
Lu clapped his hands once, breaking the tension. “I’ll inform the master.”
Belmont stiffened.
Clocksworth’s expression darkened. “You’ll do no such—”
Too late.
Lu was already moving toward the door, humming softly.
Silence settled in his wake.
Belmont met Clocksworth’s stare and forced himself not to flinch. Whatever lived in this castle, this man was its gatekeeper.
“I won’t cause trouble,” Belmont said quietly. “I just needed somewhere to stop running.”
Clocksworth studied him for a long moment.
“No one comes here by accident,” he said finally. “And no one stays without paying for it.”
Belmont exhaled slowly.
Figures.
