Chapter 37 — POV: Kieller
The room was silent except for the hum of blood cooling on stone.
Lyra was gone.
Only the corpse remained—broken, unrecognizable, painted in crimson. And the air still carried her. Her perfume laced with iron, the ghost of her fury stamped into every shattered bone.
For one brutal heartbeat, I froze.
It wasn't the body that did it. I've seen death, dealt it, drowned in it. No, what cracked me was the image of her standing here before me—blood on her skin, madness in her eyes.
A memory surged. Another face I once failed to protect. Another hand I couldn't hold.
The fracture came and went like a storm through glass.
And then arrogance filled the void.
I crouched, touched the slick floor where her footprints trailed out the door, and smirked to myself.
"You've crossed the line now, Lyra," I murmured to the empty air. "That makes you mine."
I rose and snapped my fingers. My men moved in instantly, surrounding the corpse.
"Erase everything. This body. This room. Not a trace remains unless I permit it. The world only knows what I allow."
They obeyed without question—until one faltered.
"Sir… the cameras. Someone streamed this. Live."
I turned, slow and cold. The soldier's voice shook.
I looked back at the corpse. And for the first time, recognition struck. Not the features—they were mangled—but the insignia burned into his jacket, the faint tattoo on his neck.
I had seen him before. A ghost from the past.
Before I could press deeper, my phone buzzed.
Not a call. A video. Unmarked video.
I swiped it open—and froze.
Gold. A mask of molten light filled the screen. Smooth, gleaming, eternal.
The Golden Mask.
His voice slid through the speaker, low and amused.
"Don't bother cleaning up too neatly, Kieller. That one was only my messenger. Disposable. Everything is going exactly as I planned."
My grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening.
He leaned closer to the camera, mock sympathy dripping from his tone.
"I have something you should see."
The feed shifted.
Another video popped out.
Static at first—then a dimly lit room. Shadows flickered over crates stacked like walls, a single bulb swaying overhead.
In the center—A chair.
Lyra.
Her body slumped, unconscious, her head lolling to one side. Her dress, torn at the slit, revealed bare legs. Her wrists still bound but slack, as though she had fainted mid-fight.
Men's voices echoed in the background—chuckling, cruel, hungry. One hand entered the frame, brushing her thigh. Another tugged at her waist.
Their laughter grew louder, sharper, filling the silence like knives.
"Feisty earlier," one voice sneered. "Look at her now.""Still think she can fight us?" another chuckled.
They jeered, circling her like wolves around a fallen lioness.
I felt my blood run molten. then another video come.
The Golden Mask's voice returned, smooth and deliberate:
"One queen is entertaining… but I prefer her broken. Tell me, Kieller, how far will you go to protect what's already been touched?"
The screen went black.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the echo of their laughter inside my skull.
My men stared at me, waiting for orders. The corpse on the floor stank of old blood.
But all I could see—was Lyra. Bound. Fainted. Surrounded.
And all I could hear—were their hands on her skin.
The war wasn't coming.It was already here.