Chapter 24 — Behind the Curtain
The heavy cell door groaned as it closed behind him, sealing off the blinding heat of the spotlight and the thunder of the crowd.
Lucien stood in the center of his prison once more, the stone floor beneath him colder than before, the silence far too thick. The flickering gaslight above cast long shadows across the walls, dancing like ghosts. Everything felt the same—but nothing was.
His wrists throbbed where the chains had cut into him. The metal cuffs remained locked, the links dragging as he moved to sit on the edge of the cot. Wood creaked under his weight.
It hadn't been a performance.
He had been sold.
Lucien stared at the floor, the echo of the announcer's voice still ringing faintly in his skull. That glowing stage, the thousand faceless stares, the fierce rising storm of bids—all of it felt distant now. A fever dream. But the ache in his chest proved otherwise.
He leaned back against the wall, breathing slow and shallow. The silence that had once comforted him now pressed inward, a heavy blanket wrapping tight around his thoughts.
The key turned in the lock.
He sat up straight, the cot creaking again beneath him.
The door opened.
She stepped inside.
The same woman who had claimed him from the crowd.
No longer distant, no longer a silhouette behind gold railings—she was here now, her heels tapping softly against the stone, her long coat sweeping the floor like silk brushing bone. Her posture was perfect. Unyielding. Like a blade upright in the dirt.
Behind her followed a younger woman with wide, uncertain eyes and a leather satchel clutched tightly in both hands. The bag jingled with the weight of coin, but no words were spoken.
Lucien met her gaze.
Up close, the woman's presence was colder than he remembered. Beautiful in a harsh, clean way. Black hair twisted into an elegant braid. Eyes like polished obsidian—flat, sharp, without warmth. She studied him without hesitation, as one might a horse before purchase, or a sword being considered for war.
She said something.
Lucien didn't understand.
The words slid past him, fluid and harsh. Her voice was calm but carried weight—expectation, annoyance.
Lucien opened his mouth. Nothing came. Not because of fear.
Because he couldn't.
He hadn't spoken. Not once. Not since the desert. Not since the Trial began.
She frowned, just slightly. Then turned her head toward the door.
The announcer stepped through.
Lucien recognized the shape of him—the well-fitted coat, the smooth voice now laced with something thinner, more strained. He bowed the moment he entered, spine curving with precision.
The woman spoke again, sharper this time. The announcer answered quickly, flustered, almost apologetic. He glanced at Lucien, then back to her, nodding, smiling in a way that didn't reach his eyes.
Lucien watched the interaction unfold like a play he couldn't follow. The announcer, once the master of a room full of kings and warlords, now bent and fidgeted under this woman's gaze like a servant too slow to light a torch.
Power.
Whatever rank she held, it was high enough to command obedience with a glance.
The announcer gestured once, nervously, and the younger woman stepped forward, placing the coin-filled satchel on the floor. The clink of gold echoed in the stone chamber like the tolling of bells.
A transaction sealed.
The woman in the coat looked at Lucien once more. And this time, he saw the verdict in her eyes:
He would serve.
Whether as a tool, a weapon, or something else entirely—he wasn't sure. But she had bought him with more than coin.
She had claimed him with intent.
She didn't speak again. Just turned, coat sweeping behind her, and stepped out of the cell. The younger woman followed. The announcer bowed low once more and shut the door.
Click.
The lock turned.
Lucien sat alone again.
But the silence had changed.
There was no freedom in it now.
Only the hollow echo of being owned.