8 — Beyond the Gates

  For five long years, my world had been measured in rooms and corridors of this damned mansion. The ceiling was my boredom. The walls, a reminder that I was not home. And the windows — a distant desire I still could not touch.

  Perhaps, for now, they were the stars in my dark sky.

  Now footsteps echoed in urgency from every direction. Servants crossed the corridors with rigid posture and tired breaths, guards adjusted formations as if war itself were about to receive a visit from a superior.

  At that moment, no one breathed outside the schedule — not because they couldn’t.

  The mansion’s own air would suffocate them if they tried.

  The clothes they made me wear were much lighter in adornment than during my last public appearance, when I had still been officially a decorative baby matched with Father.

  The highlight was a small red cape worn diagonally across my chest, covering my shoulders to my elbows. Perfectly within the exaggerated imperial aesthetic.

  I was escorted outside with my small entourage — four guards on each side, impeccable formation, synchronized steps. For a five-year-old child being carried by a maid at the center of that spectacle, it was excessive. Almost comical.

  I had to hold back a laugh.

  At most, I pressed Red to my mouth to hide any trace of amusement. The softness of that dragon was nothing more than a whisper of fabric — only someone very close would notice the slight discrepancy. My small contraband for a possible escape was well hidden inside the fine stitching. The newer maids would never suspect.

  The real problem would be external technology. Outside the mansion’s archaic bubble, the world was less theatrical and more efficient. They might suspect the child’s toy — but they would fear the chief’s son more.

  We were guided to the enormous main doors. In all these years, I had never seen them opened. This place had far too many unnecessary entrances.

  It took eight guards to push them open. The solid wood — absurdly thick, worthy of a medieval castle, designed to contain invaders — groaned as if protesting its own movement.

  Sunlight invaded the interior and blinded me for a moment.

  When my vision adjusted, I saw white staircases leading down to a procession of black cars polished enough to reflect the sky. Soldiers lined up in almost absurd numbers stood motionless.

  Just looking at it made me want to scoff. Instead, I squeezed Red.

  That complicated many plans. Being kidnapped would be practically impossible in that scenario.

  How inconvenient.

  Behind us, the familiar spectacle began.

  The sound of boots.

  It no longer frightened me. Only irritated me. This entrance show every single time was exhausting.

  Thum.

  I rested my chin on the maid’s shoulder and watched him descend the stairs.

  My fingers itched.

  If I used dust to make him slip from that height… it would be a memorable sight.

  Thum.

  It took real effort to restrain myself. I still remembered how strong that old man was. A fall wouldn’t kill him like it would a normal person.

  Thum.

  The cold gaze, accompanied by a faint smile, revealed good humor.

  The devil was pleased.

  Perhaps today we would go to hell together.

  When he reached the last step, he did not hesitate. He walked directly to the maid and took me from her arms.

  The cold hand against my body erased the almost-smile I still carried.

  — Who chose these clothes?

  The maid shrank immediately and bowed low enough that my own back hurt just watching. As a former adult, I could almost hear the imaginary crack of her spine bending so fast.

  That cold gaze already seemed to be skinning her alive. Ryskai’s face remained motionless, as always bathed in its own indifference, but the smell of her nervousness — and the guards’ — made the air bitter.

  — Papa! Let’s go, let’s go!— I blurted out, tugging at his clothes.

  Every childish syllable embarrassed me. Still, it was better to look like a spoiled child than to silently watch another execution over crumbs. The impatient heir’s distraction might be enough.

  For now.

  My hand was removed from his clothing without effort. That cold gaze turned toward me like lightning intending to burn.

  It wouldn’t work.

  My body still reacted as if any gesture from him were shelter. That irritating instinct had not disappeared — not even after all these years growing up here. It was carved into the flesh. Perhaps even into the genes.

  And that disgusted me in ways I hated admitting. The boredom of the cradle had often made me question whether, in this world, these people were truly human — or merely appearance.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  — Very well. Let’s go, Laziel.

  The cold softened slightly. He did not waste energy on what he knew would not work.

  With heavy steps, we finally exited through the doors. For a brief moment, I caught sight of the impeccable garden, partially swallowed by the line of black cars.

  That living green I had lacked for years — the wind touching skin, the scent in the air — barely had time to exist before we were swallowed by the car and its new plastic smell.

  As soon as he sat down, I slipped from his arms and dragged myself to the window with Red, as if the glass were the only thing inside that mattered.

  The trip was monotonous. He did not even pretend I existed. He worked as we advanced, as if I were just another accessory in the seat beside him.

  The flying car crossed the great gates, and the city began to rise around us.

  Through the window, I saw buildings crowded with people on balconies, suspended platforms, drones maintaining calculated distance — all pointed toward us like metallic eyes. Even camera-animals circled in the air.

  It looked like a parade.

  Not an escort.

  I pressed my face almost against the glass. My hands left small, hurried marks on the dark surface.

  The gray tint of the window film muted the city’s colors — and that irritated me more than it should have.

  I slapped the button to open it.

  Once.

  Twice.

  — I want to see! — I let out, my voice higher than intended.

  I grabbed the window and tried to force it open, pushing with my body weight, my feet slipping against the seat. For a second, I acted without calculation — just raw frustration. I nearly punched the glass.

  My hand was caught before I could do anything.

  His gaze fell on me.

  My body reacted before my mind did.

  My shoulders stiffened. My fingers loosened. My breathing shortened.

  I wanted to kick the seat. To scream. To bite.

  Instead, I crossed my arms and turned my face away, huffing like any frustrated child.

  I lost composure for a few seconds. The child truly surfaced. Idiotic of me — but useful for maintaining the image of normalcy.

  When we arrived, the place revealed itself as an old theater — one built in eras before cinema, for opera. It carried the same poor taste for grandeur as the mansion.

  The red carpet was slowly rolled across the ground. Workers rushed everywhere to correct even the smallest imperfection.

  The guards assumed their positions in four perfect lines — two facing the carpet, two facing the public compressed behind waist-high iron barriers. On the other side, reporters held cameras of every imaginable format, some so modified they looked like creatures of their own, artificial eyes blinking and adjusting focus.

  Ryskai adjusted his gloves before the door opened. He stepped out first, impeccable, waving to the crowd. Then he extended his hand to help me out as if I were a lady.

  I squeezed the plush as I accepted the help. I was still small enough that I might actually have fallen if I tried alone.

  As soon as my feet touched the ground — and I overcame the humiliation of nearly slipping — I realized my hand had not been released. His fingers remained wrapped around mine, too firm to be mistaken for kindness.

  My hand hurt slightly. He truly did not want me running.

  I hated every second of it.

  We walked slowly, at the calculated rhythm of someone who must appear close to his son while waving to cameras. He smiled, rotated his wrist slightly in greeting, tilted his head at the exact correct angle.

  Once again, I was merely the accessory at his side.

  The cameras fired relentlessly. Thankfully flashes were controlled — otherwise I would have been blinded. Journalists shouted overlapping questions, a constant, hungry noise.

  Then something drew my attention.

  A large eagle landed on one of the metallic structures above the reporters, though it did not cross the line marked by the soldiers. It did not seem ordinary — it seemed to have followed us since the gates.

  Now it filmed up close.

  Its white feathers were too perfect, and the intense blue symbol marked on its wing contrasted like an official seal.

  Recognizable.

  My step faltered.

  My body leaned forward, distracted, too curious.

  For a second, I lost the rhythm of the parade.

  But the hand holding mine tightened before I could fall.

  Firm.

  He did not even look at me.

  He continued smiling.

  Continued waving.

  As if I had never stumbled.

  We entered the theater and, at first glance, nothing truly seemed new — it was merely the mansion dressed in more technology and an even greater number of guards. The greatest difference hovered above us: suspended structures, translucent screens, and especially the chandeliers, floating like artificial constellations.

  But it was only a brief passage. Ryskai turned toward a luxurious side entrance, and within minutes we were inside a VIP room beside the stage.

  From there, I could see similar platforms — except these floated. I confess I wanted very much to be on one of those suspended in the air. Anything that would move me a few meters off the ground — and perhaps a few centimeters away from him.

  It would have been a good place to jump.

  Unfortunately, they were all protected by glass.

  It didn’t take long for the hall to begin filling. The people entering were not ordinary — it showed in their rehearsed posture, especially in the women, wrapped in fabrics that seemed to compete over who would be the most beautiful of the night.

  Too much luxury.

  Truly an empire that adored excess.

  

  It didn’t take long for the hall to begin filling. The people entering were not ordinary — that much was obvious from their rehearsed posture, especially the women, wrapped in fabrics that seemed to compete over who would be the most beautiful of the night. It was too much luxury. Truly an empire that adored excess.

  With the hall completely full, the spectacle began. In the end, it was nothing more than an award ceremony — another elegant ritual for important people to applaud themselves.

  The presenters were beautiful, but empty of anything that could genuinely spark interest. The first award was in the field of medicine; from what I could grasp between terms far too long for a five-year-old child — and sufficient enough to make an adult feel stupid — everyone applauded as if it were the salvation of the world itself.

  The winner’s speech began — long and technical enough to fall asleep to.

  At that same moment, a visitor appeared in the VIP box. Ryskai stood to greet him, and soon the two sank into a low, calculated conversation. Nothing urgent.

  I was getting bored. Even squeezing Red wasn’t helping.

  I waited a few minutes, enduring the bad speeches and false smiles, until I decided to act like what everyone believed I was. I leaned to the side and nudged Ryskai with childish insistence, interrupting the exchange of words like a small living inconvenience.

  — Father, bathroom.

  He didn’t fully divert his attention from the guest.

  —Take him, —he ordered one of the guards, in a low, impatient tone.

  My hand was captured almost immediately. The guard escorted me out of the box with silent efficiency. The building was already crowded, but for Ryskai, excess security was never enough.

  Another inconvenience in my plan were the guards stationed in front of every door along the corridor.

  As soon as I entered the private bathroom, I realized it looked more like a private suite than a simple restroom. There was a table with snacks, a sofa far too soft for that kind of place, and in the corner, something I had missed for years: a television.

  The guard remained at the entrance, watching in silence. At least it wasn’t like the maids at the mansion, who practically breathed beside me while I used the bathroom.

  I turned my back to him as I walked across the room toward the toilet. I moved only two fingers — a minimal gesture.

  The dust responded in silence like a ghost — gathering behind his head, compressing until it gained density, as if remembering that it had once been something solid.

  The metallic scent in the room hinted at blood, enough to make even the guard react slightly and turn — but not fast enough.

  Thum.

  One single dry impact was enough.

  He collapsed without making a sound. Before his body could hit the floor, the same dust spread across his clothes, holding him suspended for a few seconds as if he were still standing, before gently laying him down.

  Finally alone, I let out a restrained breath, loosened part of the extravagant clothing, and threw it onto the floor.

  Now the plan truly began.

  But knocking down just one guard had already drained more energy than I would like to admit.

  I sat on the sofa, picked up a sweet from the table, and took a slow bite, organizing the next step while I still had a few minutes before someone decided to check why the heir was taking so long.