The bile rose in my throat, hot and acrid, as the carriage jolted over a pothole. My fingernails dug into the velvet upholstery, drawing threads, while the dried blood on my skin began to itch and flake. Across from me, Alaric Veyron sat in silence, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension and scarred by old fires.
He didn't look at me. He just watched the city pass by through the small window, his jaw set like a trap.
"I need to check on the boy," I rasped. My voice sounded thin, like glass about to snap.
"The boy is being handled by the sisters of the infirmary," Alaric said, his eyes never moving. "You, however, are being handled by me. There's a difference."
This is bad. He's not shouting. He's calculating.
"I did what had to be done. The road failed because—"
"The road failed because this kingdom is rotted, Elowen. Everyone knows that." He finally turned, his gaze pinning me to the seat. The light from a passing street lamp flickered across his face, making him look less like a man and more like an executioner. "But you didn't just save a boy. You destroyed a royal gift in front of three hundred witnesses. You humiliated the Crown to play hero."
"It was a coat, Alaric! A piece of wool!"
"It was a symbol of my rank." He leaned forward, the space between us vanishing. The scent of woodsmoke and cold rain clung to him, suffocating the small cabin. "And since you decided my rank was less important than a peasant's life, you've just made me your only shield. The Council will want your head for the 'heresy' of altering the cargo's fate. The Church will want your blood for interfering with 'divine providence'."
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Nausea swirled in my gut. I had the blueprints in my head—the designs for the steam pressure valves, the reinforced axles—but none of that mattered if I was rotting in a dungeon.
"What do you want?" I whispered.
"I want you to shut up and do exactly as I say."
The carriage slowed. We weren't at the Ainsworth estate. The air outside was thicker here, smelling of salt and expensive perfumes mixed with the stench of the nearby slums. We were at the Garrison—the military heart of Aurelion.
"Why are we here?" I reached for the door handle. My hand shook.
"Protocol," he said, reaching over and gripping my wrist. His skin was searingly hot against my cold flesh. "You broke the rules of your station. Now, you'll see the consequence of being 'soft'."
He didn't wait. He shoved the door open and stepped out, dragging me with him. I stumbled, my silk dress snagging on the metal step, the fabric tearing with a sound like a scream.
The courtyard was crawling with soldiers. Officers. High-ranking nobles who had gathered to oversee the unloading of the iron crates. They all stopped. They all stared.
I was covered in mud. My hair was a bird's nest. I was clutching a torn dress, being hauled along by a Captain who was missing his uniform coat.
"Captain Veyron?" a voice boomed. It was Lord Harrington, the head of the Conservative Nobility. His eyes traveled from Alaric's white shirt to my blood-stained face. "What is the meaning of this... disarray?"
I felt the panic rise, a cold tide in my chest. I should lie. I should say I was attacked.
"Lady Ainsworth had an epiphany," Alaric said, his voice carrying across the entire courtyard. He didn't let go of my wrist. He held it up like a trophy—or a piece of evidence. "She decided the King's cargo was worth less than the life of a commoner. She used my Greatcoat as a rag to stabilize a wagon."
The silence that followed was deafening. I felt the weight of a hundred gazes turning into daggers.
"Is this true, Elowen?" Harrington stepped closer, his face twisting in disgust.
I looked at Alaric. He was watching me, waiting. There was no mercy in his eyes. He was throwing me to the wolves to see if I'd crawl back to him.
If I admit it, I lose my standing. If I deny it, Alaric will crush me himself.
"Yes," I said, my voice shaking but loud. "The boy would have died. The road is the problem, not the cargo."
A gasp went through the crowd. Someone muttered the word 'insane'. Another whispered 'heretic'.
"She is clearly unwell," Harrington snapped. "Captain, take her to the holding cells until her father can be summoned to account for this insult."
"No," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a guillotine.
He pulled me closer, my shoulder slamming against his arm. He looked at Harrington, then at the gathered officers.
"She isn't going to a cell. She's going to the engineering pits." Alaric's grip tightened, his fingers bruising my skin. "If she's so concerned about the roads and the wagons, she will spend the next forty-eight hours drafting the repair schedules for the southern pass. Under my direct supervision. No food, no rest, until the King's iron has a safe path."
"Alaric, you can't—" I started, my breath hitching.
"I just did." He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as the crowd began to hiss with disapproval. "You wanted to move the world, Elowen. Now start digging."
He turned me around and shoved me toward the dark, damp stairs leading to the underground pits. I looked back at the nobles—the people who used to be my peers. They looked at me as if I were already dead.
I had saved a boy, and in return, I had just been stripped of my name and handed over to a man who saw me as nothing more than a tool to be broken.
As the heavy iron door of the pits groaned open, Alaric shoved me inside.
"One more thing," he said, leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette blocking the only light. "The boy you saved? He died ten minutes after you left."
The world tilted. My knees gave out, and I hit the cold stone floor as the door slammed shut, locking me in total darkness.
The silence was the cruelest thing I'd ever heard.