Chapter 49: Ch49 Chains And Carriages
Luther jumped awake with a jolt, his chest rising and falling as though he had just been pulled from the bottom of a lake. His body was slick with sweat, sticking the thin tunic against his skin. His eyes darted around, first confused, then narrowing into suspicion.
The bed. The blanket. The stone walls.
And the window.
He rubbed his face and groaned. The same cursed room.
Only now, the once-opened window had been locked tight with a thick iron latch and a heavy keyhole. Someone had clearly gone out of their way to make sure he didn’t try his luck a second time.
"Lovely," Luther muttered, dragging his hand down his face. He stood, glaring at the barred sunlight filtering through the glass. "What is this supposed to be? A room? A prison cell? Can’t really tell the difference."
He sighed dramatically, tossing the blanket off himself. Still, almost by instinct, he folded it neatly, as though mocking whoever might be watching him.
He crept toward the door on the tips of his toes, body bent low like a thief, every muscle ready to sprint at the first crack of opportunity. His hand reached for the handle.
Then—
Click.
The moment he twisted it open, a spearpoint gleamed inches from his forehead.
Luther flinched, stumbling backward until his legs hit the bedframe. The guard standing outside didn’t even blink, his eyes like cold iron as he jabbed the spear forward just enough to scrape a line of sweat from Luther’s brow.
"Okay! Okay! I get it!" Luther lifted both hands in surrender, his voice high-pitched with forced humor. "I’ll stay right here. Didn’t even want to leave anyway. Love the room. Great interior design. Smells like... dust and regret."
The guard didn’t so much as twitch. He simply yanked the door back and slammed it shut with a thunderous bang.
The silence that followed pressed heavily against the air.
Luther let out a long, theatrical sigh. "I’m starting to feel like I’m the butt of a really bad joke."
His stomach growled so loudly it sounded like an angry bear. He winced, clutching it. "And apparently, the joke’s on me."
Only then did he notice the basket of fruits sitting innocently on the table. He trudged over, picked up a bright red apple, and bit into it with all the irritation of a man chewing through his problems.
Crunch.
"Fantastic," he muttered around the mouthful. "Held prisoner, starved half to death, and fed rabbit food. What’s next? A cage match with a squirrel?"
The world shifted, pulling the scene away from Luther’s sulking room and toward the rolling line of carriages cutting through a worn forest road. The steady rhythm of hooves clattered against dirt, accompanied by the occasional rattle of wheels over stone.
The last line of guards, wrapped in chain and cloth bandages, rode sluggishly. Their armor gleamed dully in the fading light, many still recovering from wounds sustained back at the temple.
"Capital’s still a week out at this pace," one guard muttered, shifting in his saddle with a groan. "Longer if we run into another monster pack."
"Don’t jinx it," another snapped, rubbing at a scar still raw along his forearm. "Last thing I want is to face another wyvern with half our strength down."
A third guard chuckled wearily. "Monsters I can handle. But food?" He patted his stomach and let out a groan. "Feels like a pit that keeps getting deeper. If we don’t eat properly soon, I’ll be chewing on my boots."
That got a few snickers.
One of the younger ones piped up, "Why not just starve now and get it over with? Might save us the trouble of carrying your heavy stomach all the way to the capital."
The laughter was short-lived, breaking the tense silence for only a moment before it faded again into the sound of hooves.
In the middle carriage, Mark sat slouched in the corner, his body loose and seemingly fragile, like a man barely clinging to consciousness. He kept his eyes half-shut, his head tilted against the wooden wall.
Eilan, by contrast, looked restless, spinning a wooden practice sword between his fingers. His eyes glimmered with mischief as flames flickered and danced along the edge of the blade, licking at the air like hungry tongues.
Without warning, he smirked and snapped his wrist. The sword flared, launching a streak of fire toward Mark.
A ripple shimmered around Mark’s body—an invisible barrier sparking to life. The flames fizzled harmlessly against it.
Mark groaned, still feigning weakness. "Really, Eilan? Again?" His voice was soft, irritated. "Keep your little toys to yourself. You’ll burn your eyebrows off."
"You’re no fun," Eilan grumbled, crossing his arms. He let the fire die and slumped against the opposite door. "Why’d I even agree to share a carriage with you?"
"Because you’re smart enough to know the other option was worse," Mark replied, eyes still closed. Then, a lazy smirk curled across his lips. "Unless, of course, you’d rather sit with Father. And your precious little crush."
Eilan froze. His face flamed red, hotter than his own magic. "T-T-That’s not—! I don’t—!"
Words tangled in his mouth, leaving him stammering like a fool. He shoved his face toward the window to hide his embarrassment.
Mark’s smirk widened as he chuckled low. "Pathetic."
But his amusement was only surface-deep.
Inside, his thoughts churned darkly.
The temple’s sudden declaration of a so-called Saint. The boy—Luther.
Mark clenched his jaw. It was an unwanted complication. That fool Harold had revealed himself too early, disrupting everything.
This "Saint" had captured the attention of the temple and now the Empire. And that meant Mark’s carefully laid plans would need to be rewritten from the ground up. He had gone to the temple for answers, for a key he’d long sought, but thanks to the chaos, he’d found nothing.
His mind seethed, but his face showed nothing but calm amusement. He could wear masks better than anyone.
Fine, he thought coldly. Let them all worship their savior. The boy won’t live long enough to enjoy it.
Up front, in the grandest of the carriages, the Emperor sat with his gaze tilted toward the night sky. The silver crescent of the moon cast pale light across his sharp profile.
Beside him sat Liliana, posture rigid and hands resting lightly over the hilt of her sword. On the other side lounged Aithur, his head propped lazily on one hand, though his purple eyes betrayed a depth of calculation.
The silence stretched until the Emperor finally broke it.
"Tell me," he said softly, his tone almost conversational. "How do you see him?"
The two looked up, confused.
"The boy," the Emperor clarified. "The one the temple calls their Saint. The one who wields magic without a medium. How do you see him?"
Liliana’s jaw tightened, but she answered smoothly. "He... is a good person."
Aithur’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk, his tone bored. "I don’t waste time believing in myths. Savior, Saint—it’s all noise."
The Emperor chuckled. "Strange. You say that, Aithur, yet your father was a believer."
The air froze.
Aithur’s expression darkened instantly, his smile evaporating. Frost began to creep along the wooden walls of the carriage, tiny ice crystals forming in spiderweb patterns.
Purple light bled into his eyes, and the air thickened as a giant blue lion made of raw magic manifested behind him, its heavy breath fogging the air, pressing against the Emperor with dangerous weight.
Liliana’s hand flew to her sword. Her muscles coiled, ready to strike, to protect.
Aithur’s smile returned—but it was sharp, dangerous. "Do not ever speak that name again," he hissed. "Or I will erase this empire you so cherish."
The atmosphere was suffocating.
But the Emperor only giggled, raising a single hand in mock surrender. "As you wish. My mistake."
The lion dissolved, vanishing in a mist of blue particles. Liliana released a tense breath, slowly letting go of her sword hilt.
The Emperor leaned back, still smiling faintly. "I had forgotten how fiery you could be when it comes to your father."
"My father," Aithur spat, folding his arms, "was a fool who chased the first thing that glittered like beauty. He deserved everything he got."
Liliana, however, smirked. "If your father was truly a fool, then you wouldn’t even exist. So perhaps you should be grateful for his idiocy."
Aithur scowled, purple energy flaring faintly at his fingertips. Liliana’s hand twitched toward her sword again, the air thick with tension as crimson and violet magic began to swirl.
The Emperor pinched the bridge of his nose. The last thing he wanted was his carriage destroyed by these two hotheaded warriors.
"Enough—" he started.
But his words were cut off by a sharp whistle.
And then—
BOOM!
The last carriage erupted in a fireball, shrapnel and flame lighting up the night sky like a dance.
The flames like water.
Eilan and Mark...
Their carriage had been blown.
The Emperor paled.
And the night had only just begun.