Two soldiers flanked her—silent, unflinching—each gripping the length of the chain bound to her wrists. The polished limestone floor beneath Chiaki's bruised knees had long lost its chill, but the fire behind her eyes hadn't dimmed. Not even as the Empress turned her back and the chamber's oppressive stillness broke with orders issued and footsteps echoing into the vaulted ceiling.
"Get her ready," came the curt command from one of the officials near the throne.
The guards obeyed without a word. One yanked her upright while the other pressed the flat of a gauntlet between her shoulders, forcing her forward. Chiaki stumbled, pain lancing through her side where blood still seeped beneath the bandages. Her legs struggled to keep pace, but her jaw was set, her eyes fixed ahead. Not defiant now—focused.
They led her through an arched passage flanked by statues of past emperors—stern, cold, all carved from pale marble. The corridor narrowed and sloped downward, lit only by oil sconces set into the ancient stone walls. Their flames danced across her features, casting flickering shadows over the fatigue clouding her gaze.
Eventually, they reached a tall brass door carved with imperial glyphs—symbols of birthright, flame, and control. The guards pulled it open, revealing a private chamber beyond.
The room was round, small, and dim. Rich crimson curtains hung along the stone walls, muffling sound and cloaking the space in artificial warmth. A bed sat in the center—simple but meticulously made. A wooden desk stood by the far wall, its surface littered with scrolls, glass vials, and quills. Above, a domed ceiling framed with bronze beams gave the illusion of containment—as if the room were a pressure vessel sealed by legacy.
The guards guided her inside. No words, no threats. One stepped back. The other removed a key from his belt and knelt beside her wrists, clicking open the shackles without meeting her eyes.
They left her alone.
The heavy door shut with a resonant thud.
Chiaki stood still for a moment, wrists red and raw, arms limp at her sides. The scent of oil, parchment, and metal lingered faintly in the air. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. Instead, she limped slowly to the edge of the bed and sat, exhaling as if her soul were trying to escape through breath alone.
Her hand drifted to her bandaged waist. The blood had slowed, but not stopped. And yet the pain there was easier to bear than the fire curling behind her sternum—the slow ignition of something more dangerous than anger.
Resolve.
She looked around the chamber, already searching for exits, weaknesses, plans.
"Comfort," the Empress had said.
Chiaki looked at the smooth walls, the tightly drawn curtains, the desk too neat to have ever been used in desperation.
This wasn't comfort. This was containment.
Chiaki scanned the room again—walls too quiet, furniture too pristine, everything too deliberate. The polished bedframe. The drawn curtains. The lack of chains, yet not a hint of freedom.
Her lip curled.
"…What is this supposed to be?" she muttered, voice dry and sharp. "A royal suite? Or some twisted idea of hospitality?"
She paced slowly, ignoring the soreness biting into her legs. Her fingers skimmed along the desk's edge, pausing at the sealed scrolls and untouched ink pots. Everything in the chamber was too perfect. Too quiet. Too intentional. It wasn't comfort—it was theater.
"No guards inside. No bars. Just velvet silence and breathing space. You want me to pretend I'm not a prisoner?"
Her jaw tightened as she faced the arched ceiling, eyes narrowing.
"This how you dress up a cage now? Curtains and carved stone? Is this supposed to make me forget what you're planning?"
Her voice cut lower, bitter and steady.
"If you think this room's gonna soften me—make me compliant—you're more delusional than I thought."
She stepped to the window, but the lattice was sealed, the view carefully trimmed by towering walls of white stone and gilded vines. Her reflection in the glass stared back—bloodied bandages, fire in her eyes.
She turned, fists clenched.
"Try all the silk and gold you want. I'm not breaking here. I'm not breaking for you."
Her voice lingered in the chamber's hush like a promise carved into stone. She didn't sit. She didn't rest. She stood, spine straight despite the pain, like a flame refusing to bow to wind.
A faint rustling tickled Chiaki's ears. At first, she thought it was the wind catching on the vines outside the barred window. But then—
"Psssst."
She froze.
"PSSSSST! Oi. Busted ribs and rage issues. You alive in there or just standing around, looking majestic and pissed?"
Chiaki blinked, slowly turning toward the window.
Another whisper. "Hey. Hey, I'm talkin' to you, prisoner princess. Look up. Higher. No, higher—gods, do I need to throw a rock?!"
A tuft of wild, uneven hair and manic eyes popped up upside-down in the window frame, grinning like a wolf who'd chewed through her leash. Razor hung from above, somehow clinging to the marble arch like a deranged spider with zero concern for gravity or etiquette.
"There you are!" Razor beamed. "Been scoutin' this whole flaming palace lookin' for you. Place smells like incense, sweat, and disappointment."
Chiaki blinked again. "…Razor?"
"The one and only, sugar-cube!" Razor said way too loudly, slapping her palm against the outer wall—thud!—before immediately recoiling. "Ow. Okay. Bad echo spot. Remind me not to yell next to limestone."
Chiaki stepped closer, wary but speechless.
Razor squinted, upside-down fangs grinning through the bars. "Damn, you look awful. In a heroic, 'I'm-still-standing-even-though-my-soul's-holding-on-with-chewing-gum' way. Very aesthetic. Very screw-the-system."
"What are you doing here?" Chiaki hissed, glancing toward the door.
"Oh, I dunno," Razor said, waving a hand. "Bored. Thought I'd break into a royal prison, crawl along a fifty-foot ivy wall, nearly get eaten by a golden falcon, and peek in on a friend about to be used like an incubator for empire babies." Her smile dropped into a deadpan. "What the hell do you think I'm doing?"
Chiaki nearly laughed. Nearly.
"Okay, listen up," Razor continued, flicking her fingers with all the seriousness of a lunatic on a mission. "I've got a plan. A real one. Not like last time with the horse cart full of stolen pineapples. That was mostly improv."
Chiaki raised a brow. "How did you even—"
"Focus!" Razor snapped. "I'll be back tonight, right after their ceremonial fart-fest ends. Don't eat anything they give you. Especially the soup. I saw it moving."
"…Moving?"
"Don't ask." Razor vanished from view for a second, then popped back up. "Also! If they try and pair you with anyone wearing more than two brooches, punch 'em in the throat. That's how you spot the council's weirdos. All brooch, no brain."
Chiaki pinched the bridge of her nose, halfway between relief and secondhand insanity. "Razor, this place is crawling with guards. You'll get caught."
"Correction. They'll try to catch me." Razor grinned, eyes gleaming with utter chaos. "But I'm slipperier than a greased eel on wine night."
Then her head disappeared, and her voice drifted upward. "Stay sharp, Chiaki. And don't let 'em tame ya. You're a wild thing, not their pretty little blueprint."
Silence.
Chiaki stared at the window for a long moment, stunned.
Then, with a slow breath, she allowed herself the smallest smirk.
"…Idiot."
But gods, was she glad Razor was here.
Meanwhile, across the rooftops of Lyvoria Crest, Razor darted like a manic shadow with way too much energy and not nearly enough impulse control. She leapt across an alleyway gap, skidded down a steep ceramic-tiled roof like it owed her money, then catapulted off a chimney ledge and into a hanging tapestry just because it was there.
"Fioren! Yuka!" she hissed through clenched teeth, halfway tangled in silk embroidery and indignation.
No answer.
She tumbled out of the fabric—feet first—directly into a fruit cart.
Apples exploded across the cobblestone like shrapnel. A merchant screamed something unintelligible. Razor threw a pomegranate at his sign and took off again.
"Empire business!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Complain to someone who cares, old man!"
She bolted. Down a set of stairs, over a sleepy alley cat, around a linen vendor who shrieked as his scarves were drafted into Razor's personal wind tunnel. After vaulting a goat, sliding under an arch, and scaling a wall with the grace of an angry squirrel, she reached the side gate.
Three knocks.
The wooden panel opened a crack.
"By the stars, Razor," Fioren muttered, clearly on her last thread of patience. "What did you crash this time?"
Razor's eyes gleamed. "Only the palace, your expectations, and the entire concept of stealth. But hold that thought—Chiaki's—"
SMACK!
Fioren's hand struck Razor's forehead with divine precision.
"—OW! Okay, what the actual hell was that for?!"
"For being so loud I thought a brick was screaming at me," Fioren snapped. "Keep your voice down before you drag the whole bloody empire to our door."
Yuka appeared behind her, arms folded, eyes sharp. "Also, you smell like regret and stolen fruit."
Razor raised her arms like a priest summoning the storm. "I've been BUSY, okay? Hanging off walls, dodging guards, almost got skewered by some dude in feathers! But none of that matters 'cause Chiaki's inside. And they're gonna do something really bad."
"How bad?" Yuka asked, stepping closer.
Razor's grin vanished. Her voice dropped into something quieter—still wild, but serious. "Like… 'let's turn your soul into a blueprint for the empire's next generation' kind of bad. She's shackled. Cornered. They're talkin' about pairing her off like she's cattle. And she's bleeding again."
Fioren stiffened. "They reopened her wounds?"
"I don't think she even got a chance to rest," Razor muttered, fingers twitching. "She was still standing when I saw her, but it wasn't out of strength. It was defiance. The kind that burns even when everything else is fallin' apart."
Yuka's face darkened. "She should've never gone alone."
"She didn't get a choice," Razor snapped, eyes wild now. "They took her. And they're gonna keep takin' until she breaks. We're not gonna let that happen."
Fioren exchanged a glance with Yuka, the tension between them silent but absolute.
Yuka finally nodded. "We go in tonight. Fast. Clean."
"Explosively clean," Razor added with a crazed little smile, pulling out a ceremonial key she'd swiped from a pompous noble. "I might've lifted this from some idiot who thought I was a statue."
Fioren rolled her eyes. "Of course you did."
Yuka's gaze was fire. "Then it's settled. Tonight, we crash the empire's party."
Razor tossed the key in the air and caught it with a sharp grin. "Time to burn their pretty little future plans to ash."
To be continued...