The splinters from the floorboards were jammed deep under my fingernails, raw and bleeding. I had the main pressure seal exposed, a brass neck of a pipe that hissed with the pent-up rage of the palace boilers. Then the door burst open, and the heavy boots of the Royal Guard drowned out the sound of my sabotage.
"Stand up, Architect," the lead guard barked, grabbing me by the hair before I could kick the board back into place.
"I'm not finished with the logs," I gasped, the nausea surging as he hauled me to my feet. "Alaric said I had until dawn."
"The Captain changed his mind. The Council wants a live demonstration."
They didn't give me time to wash the soot from my face or the blood from my hands. I was dragged through the gilded halls, a filthy smudge against the white marble, and thrown back into the center of the High Council chamber. The atmosphere had shifted; it wasn't a meeting anymore. It was an arena.
Alaric stood at the head of the table, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked at me with a detached, clinical coldness that made my skin crawl.
"She claims the logs are forged," Alaric announced to the room, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the gathered nobles. "I've forced this hearing to settle the matter. If she can't prove the math is hers, she is surplus to requirements."
"Alaric, what are you doing?" I whispered, my chest tightening until it felt like it would crack.
"Quiet," he snapped. He stepped toward me, shoving a stack of vellum into my chest. "Prove it, Elowen. Show them the valve clearance for the Southern Gate. Now. Or Harrington takes over your station permanently."
He's pushing me. He's forcing me to speak in front of everyone, knowing that once I do, the Council will never let me go. He's sealing my cage in public.
"The clearance is variable," I said, my voice shaking. "It depends on the silt levels. If I give you a fixed number, the gate will jam and the back-pressure will level the valley."
"She's stalling," Harrington drawled from the table. "Vane, we don't have time for a lecture. Let the Captain handle the 'interrogation' his way."
Vane leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Captain Veyron, you said you could make her compliant. Do it. Or we'll find someone who can."
Alaric grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging into the bone. He forced me to look at the Council, then at him. The heat in his eyes was back, but it was wrapped in a terrifying layer of steel.
"Talk," he hissed. "Give them the numbers. Give them everything."
I could give them the real numbers and save the valley, but it would make me the Crown's most valuable slave. Or I could give them the failure-code Alaric hinted at in the note.
I looked at the floorboards—the ones I knew sat directly above the pipe I'd just loosened. If I triggered the verbal sequence for the steam-purge, the room wouldn't just get hot. It would explode.
"The ratio," I began, my heart thudding against my ribs, "is four-to-one at the primary intake. But the secondary vent... it requires a manual override of ninety-two degrees."
"Ninety-two?" Harrington frowned, reaching for his own notes. "The logs say eighty."
"The logs are wrong," I snapped, the adrenaline finally overriding the fear. "Try eighty and you'll burn this palace to the ground."
"Test it," Vane ordered.
Alaric didn't blink. He walked over to the communication tube that led to the boiler room. "You heard her. Set the secondary vent to ninety-two. Full pressure."
"Alaric, wait—" I started, but he caught my eye.
A silent command. A warning. Stay still.
The floor began to vibrate. A low, rhythmic thrumming that made the pens on the table dance. The nobles began to look around, their faces shifting from boredom to unease. The smell of hot metal and ozone began to fill the chamber, leaking through the gaps in the stone.
"Something's wrong," Vane said, standing up. "The pressure is climbing too fast."
"It's the architect's numbers," Alaric said, his voice devoid of emotion. He walked over to me and grabbed my shoulder, his grip a physical anchor. "She's either the savior of the project or the person who just killed us all."
He's letting the pressure build. He's using my 'lie' to create the distraction we need.
"Shut it down!" Harrington screamed as a pipe in the wall hissed, a jet of white steam scalding the tapestry behind him.
"The valve is jammed!" a voice yelled through the communication tube. "We can't vent it!"
The room was turning into a pressure cooker. The nobles were scrambling for the exits, but the guards—Alaric's men—stood firm, blocking the doors.
"Captain, open the doors!" Vane roared.
"Not until the architect is finished," Alaric replied. He pulled me closer, his body a shield against the heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, the roar of the steam drowning out his words for everyone but me. "The bypass is open. When the floor goes, you run for the shadows behind the dais. Don't look back for me."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"You already did." He looked at me, a flash of raw, agonizing pain breaking through the mask. "When you chose to trust me, you signed for this."
I could stay. I could refuse to move until he comes with me. Or I could do what he says and let him become the monster they think he is.
"I hate you," I whispered, my nails digging into his forearm.
"I'm counting on it."
He shoved me away, toward the dais, just as the first floorboard shattered. A geyser of scalding steam erupted in the center of the chamber, right between the Council table and the exit. The screams were instantaneous.
Harrington went down, clutching his face. Vane was lost in the white cloud.
I hit the floor behind the marble dais, the cold stone a mercy against the heat. I looked through the fog and saw Alaric standing in the middle of the chaos. He didn't run. He moved toward Harrington, his sword drawn, but not for protection.
He was finishing the job.
I wasn't the sabotuer. I was the witness. And Alaric was the executioner.
The status had shifted permanently. I wasn't a prisoner of the Council anymore; I was a fugitive with the man who had just murdered the government in my name.
The ceiling began to groan, the structural integrity of the wing failing under the thermal expansion. I reached out for him, but the steam wall was too thick.
"Alaric!"
A heavy hand grabbed my hair from behind—not Alaric's.
"Nice work, Elowen," a woman's voice whispered in my ear, sharp as a razor.
I turned, my ears ringing, to see Pharita standing over me, her face untouched by the heat, holding a damp cloth to her mouth. She wasn't running from the fire; she was waiting for the smoke to clear so she could claim the map.
"The Captain is a great distraction," she said, her eyes cold. "But you're the prize."
She didn't lead me to the exit. She dragged me deeper into the collapsing palace, away from the only man who could save me.