The West Wing was quieter.
Not silent, but the noise had changed. Less clatter of pots and barked orders, more polished boots, murmured conversation, and the subtle hush that came with wealth. The kind of quiet that told Torik he did not to belong.
Torik moved with practiced ease, his steps light, hands swinging at his sides, head just low enough to seem invisible. His 'borrowed' robe hung loose on his frame, stained at the hem and wrinkled just enough to pass for a servant's garb. But here, in the halls lined with velvet drapes and flickering crystal lights, even the servants walked straighter. Cleaner. Better fed.
He didn't fit.
Which was why he needed to move quickly.
He stepped carefully, not too fast to draw attention, not too slow to invite curiosity.
As he passed a mirrored alcove, a pair of minor nobles brushed by in robes of violet and silver, a gold pendant shaped like a swan, the woman's voice out with laughter like glass on stone. Neither spared him a glance, but the guard behind them did, eyes flicking to the hem of his robe and the angle of his shoulders.
He turned the corner and found it immediately, the door with the painting above it. Just like the servant boy said.
It was massive. A wall-sized canvas framed in dark iron, the paint blackened at the edges as if scorched. Torik slowed despite himself, staring up at it.
The Bound.
The Last Titan Tharoghul knelt in a twisted wasteland of ash and bones. Chains of molten gold wrapped his arms and torso, pinning him to the earth. Behind him stood the First King, Edramon, face pale and grim, holding a sword shaped like a crack of lightning. Above them both, a host of faceless angels hovered, mouths open in silent judgment.
Torik had seen the Bound before. Everyone had. Shrines stood in every district, sermons filled the squares, chants carried on wind and echo alike. "Chains keep us safe. Chains keep us strong. Blessed be the Bound."
But something about the original, the rawness of the paint, made his skin crawl.
Torik took a breath and pushed open the door.
The chamber beyond was quiet. Lavish.
Not royal-suite lavish, Highlady Ysara likely had better rooms deeper in the keep, but still, this one was meant to impress. A wide desk of lacquered oak sat near the window. Tall bookshelves reached the ceiling. A modest hearth crackled to the right, above it a polished crest of House Ysara carved into the mantle.
No guards. No wards. Just a quiet room for a quiet meeting.
Torik didn't relax.
He moved to the desk first, running his hands underneath, then checking the drawers. Paperwork. Sealed letters. A silver ring with the Galrick sigil, so he had arrived here already.
But no Crown.
He turned to the bookshelf. Titles about economics, trade treaties, a dusty tome on ancient rituals. Some volumes were heavy and leather-bound, with strange clasps he didn't recognize. Nothing that would help with finding the target.
Torik stepped back, scanning the room again. His eyes landed on the painting above the hearth. This one was also of Tharoghul, his eyes were piercing but Torik kept his gaze strong.
He felt around the frame. Nothing. He knocked gently on the stone behind it.
Hollow.
"Got you," he muttered.
He reached for the frame…
And froze.
A click echoed behind him.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Torik pried his fingers behind the frame and gave it a tug. It didn't budge at first. He leaned his weight in, felt the pop of old masonry shifting, and the painting swung forward on hidden hinges. Behind it, darkness. A crawlspace just wide enough for a body.
Perfect.
He climbed in and swung the painting gently shut behind him, sealing off the light. The smell hit him first, dust and something metallic, but weirdly enough it smelt a bit like the sewers. Stone pressed cold against his back, the floor rough beneath his palms as he inched forward. He settled near what had to be a vent or listening slit, thin vertical bars carved into the wall like some old servant's spy hole.
Footsteps.
A voice echoed into the chamber on the other side. Feminine, refined, with a rhythm like pouring wine.
"Highlord Galrick," Lady Ysara greeted. "You look worse than the last time I saw you."
A chuckle, deeper and gravelly. "That bad, is it? Gods. I thought this robe would cover most of it."
"You always did rely too much on robes," Ysara replied. Then the sound of goblets clinking. "Sit. You brought it?"
Torik leaned closer, squinting through the slits.
Then something moved beside him.
His heart hit his throat. He twisted, too fast, and his shoulder knocked the wall with a thud.
A hand clamped over his mouth.
"It's me," came the whisper. Hot breath. Familiar voice. "Don't scream."
Torik blinked.
Mox.
He shoved the younger boy's hand away, lips twisted in a silent snarl.
Mox's eyes glinted faintly in the dark, teeth flashing in a sheepish grin. "Couldn't help myself," he whispered. "Followed the carriage. Thought you might need a second pair of eyes."
Torik exhaled, long and slow. Of course he did. Mox always had the worst timing and the best instincts.
They both turned back toward the vent.
"…yes, I brought it," Galrick was saying. "Though if the King ever hears I carried it in a bloody wagon, he'll have me boiled."
"You should be boiled," Ysara said, her voice sharper now. "You're lucky it didn't shatter worse. That gem was grown, not carved. Do you know how few of those remain?"
"I didn't drop it," Galrick muttered. "The seal cracked on its own. Maybe age. Maybe something else."
Torik's brows knit. Seal?
"Perhaps worse," Ysara said, her voice low now. "Since the seal fractured, I've heard reports. Creatures breaching the outer wards. Villages burning. One town gone entirely with no survivors, just blood and ash. And that's just what they're willing to admit."
Galrick grunted. "So the rot's spreading."
"If the jewel was meant to suppress something," she said, "we may all be standing too close when it bursts."
It was more an invitation for Galrick to share information as Ysara knew that he knew more about it.
"You have the artificer?" Galrick continued.
Ysara pursed her lips in a smile and sighed.
"I have someone. He'll be here soon." A pause, and the creak of a chair. "The Bound priest delivered the crown earlier, yes? I trust he was not… compromised."
"He looked the same as always," Galrick said. "Spoke in riddles. Sweated like a pig in that heavy robe. But his guards were new."
"Yes," Ysara replied, almost absent. "They weren't guards."
Torik shot a glance at Mox. The other boy raised an eyebrow.
"He's keeping the crown with him?" Ysara asked.
"For now. Safer that way. No one dares touch a Bound priest, not in this city."
"That depends on the thief," she said dryly.
Galrick laughed. "If someone manages to rob him, they deserve the damn crown."
Torik's pulse quickened. So, it was with that creepy man.
Mox shifted, leaned closer to his ear. "The Bound priest," he whispered. "The one from the carriage. The one with the mask."
Torik nodded slowly.
Wine flowed. Words blurred into posturing and empty threats, the kind nobles traded when they were bored.
A chair scraped.
Galrick rose.
"Still unnerving," the old lord muttered.
"What is?" Ysara asked.
Galrick's footsteps echoed closer.
"That painting," he said. "The Last Titan. Gives me chills every time. Like it's watching."
Torik held his breath. He could feel the man's presence, barely inches beyond the stone. Just a few bricks separated them.
"You nobles have such taste," Galrick muttered. Then, after a beat, his voice lowered. "His eyes weren't always white, you know. The first paintings, before the Faith cleaned them up, had them red."
The footsteps got even closer to the painting. His face inspecting it intently.
"You shouldn't look into his eyes," Ysara said, her voice suddenly cold. "They say if you do, you'll find him in your nightmares."
Silence. Then footsteps again, moving away.
Mox let out a breath he'd clearly been holding.
Torik didn't move.
The eyes were still there. On the other side of the wall. Staring.
The artifact wasn't tucked away in a vault or hidden beneath floorboards.
It was on a person.
Torik hated jobs like that.