Chapter 503: The Siege Begins (End)
The palace was still. Not silent—too many cracked windows let the wind moan through arrow-slits, too many guttering lamps hissed as the last of their oil fought the night—but motionless, the way a felled stag still twitches though its heart has stopped. Gold-leaf cornices dulled under smoke film; frescos of serpent-crowned kings peered through grime like ghosts ashamed to be seen. The once-polished floor, a mosaic of lapis and ivory swirls, lay under a skin of fine ash, the pattern visible only where boot soles had recently disturbed it.
Lyan advanced down the royal wing’s gallery, the soles of his boots whispering over tile. He moved without escort, without the comfortable hum of Belle’s illusions or Wilhelmina’s watchful bark. Surena’s vanguard held the outer courtyard; Josephine’s riders had fanned into the merchant district. But the royal family—those who had ordered every ambush, every burned village—were somewhere ahead, and he did not intend to share that meeting. This knot he would cut with his own hand.
(You should’ve brought them. A good net catches more than one fish)
Lilith’s purr slid behind his eyes, velvet edged with amusement.
(If they’re too far gone, end it cleanly)
Cynthia again—the conscience that never slept, even when his did.
(Enough chatter. If they’re the last obstacle, burn through them. Lightning doesn’t wait)
Griselda, crackling impatience into the back of his skull.
Lyan let their words settle like dust on a table—noticed, catalogued, but not brushed away. He pressed palm to the haft of his glaive and resumed his slow sweep, eyes taking in everything.