Chapter 25 — Through the City of Crowns
The cold metal of the chains clinked faintly as Lucien was led from the rear hallway, his steps dragging, unsteady. His shoulders ached, wrists raw, but he didn't resist. There was no point.
Behind him, she followed.
Her presence was quiet—silent, even—but undeniable. Like the hum of something dangerous in the air. She wore no armor, carried no weapon, and yet every step she took struck like the beat of a war drum.
Her cloak was dark velvet, trailing behind her over the stone floor. In the flickering torchlight, its edges shimmered faintly, as if threads of gold had been woven into the seams. Her boots made no sound, but her eyes spoke volumes—cold, assessing, sharp. She walked as though nothing in this place could touch her. As though it all already belonged to her.
Lucien wasn't alone.
Three other men—older, taller, broad-shouldered—walked beside him, each bound in the same way. Shackles around their wrists, chains linking them to the handlers that led the procession forward. One bore a split lip and a swollen eye, another limped slightly, and the last had blood crusted on his collarbone. But all of them shared the same quiet stare—that of men who had learned to wait in silence.
None of them spoke.
The air outside was crisp, touched by the faint scent of smoke and flowers. The roar of the crowd had faded behind them, replaced by the quieter murmur of the city—hushed voices in alleyways, distant hooves clattering against cobblestone, the rustling of banners caught in the breeze.
They were led to a waiting carriage—four, actually.
The grandest among them gleamed beneath the gaslight, a masterpiece of polished brass and lacquered wood, its sides painted with a sigil Lucien didn't recognize: a circle of flame surrounding a tower crowned by thorns. Thick velvet curtains hid the interior from view.
But it was the carriage behind that caught his attention. Smaller, plainer, built like a servant's echo of royalty. That was where they were led.
One by one, they were loaded inside.
Lucien was the last.
The door shut with a soft, final thud.
Inside, the space was tight. Opposite him sat the other three men, their faces shadowed in the dim light from a small, barred window near the ceiling. No one spoke. There was only the sound of the wheels beginning to turn, the groan of wood, and the faint rattle of chains as they shifted slightly with each bump in the road.
Lucien leaned slightly toward the window.
The city drifted past in fragments—twisting alleyways where children darted between shadows, old lanterns hanging from wooden posts, cracked windows, overflowing gutters. People stared as the carriages passed, but none dared approach. Guards rode ahead and behind, their eyes alert.
The buildings rose taller as they moved deeper into the city. Stone gave way to marble. Cracked paint gave way to gilded walls and archways lit with flameglass lanterns. Banners draped from upper balconies, bearing colors and symbols Lucien didn't understand. Music drifted from the upper quarters—strings and soft drums, blending with the chatter of nobles dining behind stained-glass windows.
At one corner, a market was still closing—merchants haggling last-minute deals, children chasing each other with stolen fruit. Past that, a fountain carved in the likeness of a long-dead warrior spouted crimson-tinted water beneath a stone arch inscribed with foreign words.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became.
They entered the palace district as the sun dipped below the skyline, staining the horizon in hues of gold and violet.
Here, the streets were wide and clean, lined with trees wrapped in silver wire. Soldiers in black armor stood at every corner, their weapons sheathed but their posture rigid. The buildings soared upward—cathedrals of authority, covered in carvings so detailed they seemed to shift when looked at too long.
It was another world.
A place of crowns and whispers.
The carriages rolled to a slow stop at the edge of an enormous gate crowned with curling golden dragons. Each fang glinted like a jewel, each wing etched with runes too small to read. Beyond the gate stretched a causeway lined with braziers and torches, leading to a palace so vast it looked like a city unto itself.
Towers pierced the darkening sky, windows glittering like stars. There were bridges strung between rooftops, hanging gardens, and balconies that vanished into the clouds.
Lucien stared.
His throat was dry.
This wasn't just a noble's home. This was power—real, ancient, absolute.
The carriage door opened.
She stepped down first, her cloak catching the wind. The guards at the gate saluted in perfect unison, their fists striking their chests with practiced force. She didn't acknowledge them with more than a glance. She didn't need to.
One by one, the captives were ushered out. Lucien stepped down last, the cold stone biting through the thin soles of his shoes.
He stood still as the woman turned to look at them.
Her eyes flicked from face to face—measuring, evaluating, deciding. There was no warmth in them. Only intention.
She said a single word to the nearest guard, who nodded and stepped aside. The gate began to open.
Lucien looked up at the towers again.
He didn't know what waited for him inside.
But as he felt the pull of the chain and the weight of her gaze on his back, he understood one thing clearly:
She had not bought them for pity.
She had claimed them for purpose.