Chapter 6
The North Gate of the Obsidian Palace was a monolith of iron and bone-white stone, looming over the cliffs of Korthus like a silent executioner. On the night of the New Moon, the darkness was absolute, save for the flickering orange glow of torches atop the battlements. High above, the sounds of the Southern Tribute festival—wild music and the rhythmic chanting of drunk soldiers—drifted down, providing a chaotic veil for those moving in the depths.
Leonard stood in the shadow of the gatehouse, his breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. He was no longer dressed in the tattered rags of a groom. He wore a heavy, dark-leather jerkin reinforced with plates of blackened steel he had "borrowed" from the scrap piles of the forge. At his back, he carried a heavy iron mace, its head weighted with lead. He had no magic to throw, so he would have to rely on the brutal physics of momentum.
"The winch-room is clear," a voice hissed.
Garrick, the scarred guard whose conscience had finally cracked, emerged from the stone archway. He handed Leonard a heavy iron key. "The gears are rusted. It will take two men to turn the wheel without the screeching waking the entire barracks. Where is the Princess?"
"Here."
Clara stepped out of the fog, her presence as cold and sharp as a winter frost. She had discarded her indigo gown for the practical leather armor of a Korthusian scout. Her dual blades were sheathed at her lower back, and she carried a small, waterproof satchel containing the scorched Tome and a few vials of siphoned Aether.
"Garrick, get to the stables and ready the horses," Clara commanded, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Leonard not at the treeline in ten minutes, ride without us."
"I don't leave my Princess," Garrick grunted, but he vanished into the shadows nonetheless.
Leonard and Clara slipped into the winch-room. The air inside was thick with grease and the smell of ancient iron. The great horizontal wheel that controlled the portcullis stood in the center, a rusted beast that required the strength of four men.
"Together," Leonard whispered.
They gripped the wooden spokes. Leonard dug his heels into the stone floor, his muscles bulging as he pulled. The gears groaned—a low, metallic growl that felt like a scream in the silence of the gatehouse.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The portcullis began to rise, inch by agonizing inch. Sweat poured down Leonard's face, stinging his eyes. He wasn't just lifting iron; he was lifting the weight of three years of slavery. Beside him, Clara pulled with a feral intensity, her teeth bared in a snarl.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door to the winch-room burst open.
"Traitors!"
A Silver Scout stood in the doorway, his hawk-mask reflecting the dim light of a wall-sconce. He didn't hesitate. He drew a heavy crossbow and leveled it at Leonard's chest.
"Leonard, look out!" Clara screamed.
She let go of the wheel. Leonard felt the full weight of the portcullis snap back onto his shoulders. The wooden spoke nearly shattered his collarbone, but he held on, his feet sliding across the stone. If he let go, the gate would slam shut, and they would be trapped.
Clara moved like a blur of silver and shadow. She didn't draw her blades; she threw a small glass vial Leonard had prepared in the lab. The vial shattered against the Scout's armor, releasing a cloud of pressurized Aetherian gas.
The Scout's Cold Iron armor reacted violently to the concentrated magic. The metal began to glow a sickly green, vibrating with a high-pitched whine. The Scout shrieked, his hands clawing at his helmet as the armor began to contract, crushing him within his own shell.
"The gate is high enough!" Leonard roared, his voice straining against the weight. "Go! Now!"
Clara grabbed Leonard's arm, pulling him away from the wheel. The portcullis crashed down behind them with a thunderous BOOM that shook the very foundations of the palace. They were outside.
They scrambled down the rocky slope toward the treeline, the cold night air hitting their lungs like a tonic. Behind them, the palace bells began to toll—a frantic, clanging alarm that signaled the escape of the High Warden's heir.
Garrick was waiting in the shadows of the Great Oaks, three horses saddled and stamping the ground.
"Mount up!" Garrick yelled. "The Silver Scouts are already at the North bridge!"
Leonard swung onto his horse, his eyes fixed on the Obsidian Palace. High in the Spire, a single window glowed with a violent, unnatural purple light.
"Valerius knows," Clara whispered, her horse dancing nervously beneath her.
"Let him know," Leonard replied, his hand finding the mace at his back. "He thinks he's hunting a rabbit. He doesn't realize he's chasing the storm."
They spurred their horses into the deep, ancient woods of the Oakhaven border. The trees closed in around them, a canopy of green and black that offered the first taste of freedom in a thousand days.
The hunt had begun, but for the first time in three years, Leonard was the one moving forward