Chapter 26 — Unshackled
The heavy clink of chains echoed sharply in the stillness of the carriage. Two guards flanked Lucien, their faces unreadable, eyes fixed ahead as they silently moved to his sides. The woman who had claimed him stood nearby, her posture regal, her expression calm but inscrutable.
Her voice broke the silence—soft, smooth, yet edged with steel. She spoke again, attempting to reach him, but the words landed like cold rain. Lucien's eyes flicked toward her briefly, catching the curve of her lips as she spoke, but no meaning settled in his mind. The sounds were foreign—unfamiliar syllables slipping through his thoughts like water through his fingers.
Around him, the other men sat still, chained and quiet. Their gazes were hollow, but Lucien noticed a flicker of curiosity or perhaps faint hope in one of their eyes as the woman's words hung in the air.
Suddenly, with a faint metallic click, the chains binding Lucien's wrists and ankles were unlocked. The cold, unyielding metal fell away, clattering softly to the floor. A tingling numbness spread across his skin, the raw exposure strangely unsettling after weeks of confinement.
The guards stepped back without a word, faces blank, as the woman raised a hand in a silent command.
"Stand," she said simply.
Lucien hesitated, muscles stiff and weak from months of captivity. His legs wobbled as he pushed himself upright, the unfamiliar freedom feeling like a shock to his system. Around him, the other prisoners were still shackled, their eyes watching with a mix of disbelief and wary envy.
He was led out of the carriage, the woman walking ahead with that same unreadable expression, the guards flanking him close.
They moved through a wide corridor carved from cold stone, its smooth walls glowing faintly under flickering sconces. Amber light spilled down the passage, illuminating ancient tapestries and worn carvings that whispered of forgotten histories.
This place was unlike the cramped, dank cells where Lucien had suffered—here, the air felt thicker, charged with something older and more profound. It was quiet, but alive, as though the stones themselves breathed.
The footsteps echoed, the guards silent but vigilant, until the procession reached a heavy iron door.
Lucien's heart beat faster. The unknown pressed against his chest, a familiar weight of fear mixed with a fragile thread of hope.
The door swung open with a low groan, revealing a stairwell descending into shadow.
Instead of light and warmth, he was led downward—into the bowels of the palace, far from the glittering windows and gilded halls above.
The stairs twisted deep beneath the earth, slick with dampness, the air cooler and heavier with each step. At the bottom awaited a chamber carved from rough stone, modest but well-kept.
The room was lit by sconces burning with steady flame, casting a warm glow that softened the rough walls. It was simple—no ornate furnishings, no luxurious trappings—but it was clean, orderly, and safe.
A narrow cot with neatly folded blankets stood against one wall, a small wooden table held a basin of clear water, and a stool sat nearby.
There were no windows here, but the space felt strangely peaceful, removed from the world above yet free from its cruelty.
Lucien's breath caught in his throat as he was gently guided inside, the guards stepping back once more.
Around him, the other prisoners remained shackled in a nearby cell, their muted voices occasionally drifting through the bars. Their eyes searched him as if wondering what this change meant—whether it was mercy, a reprieve, or something else entirely.
He sank onto the cot, the soft mattress unfamiliar beneath his aching body. His hands trembled as he reached for the basin, dipping them into the cool water. The sensation was a shock, washing away layers of dirt, sweat, and exhaustion.
He lifted his gaze toward the low ceiling, the flickering flames dancing in his tired eyes.
Outside, somewhere far above, the city carried on—its life a distant murmur, a world moving forward without him.
Laughter, footsteps, voices—they all felt like echoes from a place he had lost.
And yet here, in this quiet underground room, something fragile stirred within him—a tentative spark of hope.
Hope was unfamiliar and frightening, like the cold absence of chains on his skin. But it was there.
A whisper of possibility in the silence.