The air grew colder with each step.
The once-grand stairs behind them vanished into darkness, consumed by stone walls that grew older, rougher, and narrower the deeper they went. Brooklyn descended first, torch in hand, the flame casting long shadows that flickered like phantoms against the crumbling walls.
His men followed—six of his elite guard, armored in silence. General Laiken kept to Brooklyn's right, blade drawn but steady, eyes scanning every corner. The sound of their footsteps echoed like whispers of ancient sins.
No one spoke.
Not even Anderson.
They reached a steel door at the very bottom, bound in rusted iron and scorched symbols. It hadn't been opened in years. Possibly decades. A dark sigil had been burned into the stone above the arch—a language long dead, even to the mages of Faolinshire.
Laiken ran his hand across it, frowning. "This wasn't on any of Iverlyn's records."
Brooklyn said nothing. He reached forward and pressed the obsidian-ringed hand to the door. The sigils pulsed faintly, and with a groan like a dying beast, the ancient gate unlocked.
The door cracked open.
The scent hit them first.
Blood. Mold. Something worse.
Laiken's expression darkened. The other men tensed, grips tightening on their blades. But Brooklyn stepped forward first, and the gate swung open slowly on rusted hinges.
And then the world went still.
It was a wide chamber, lit only by thin shafts of torchlight from behind them. The stone floor was cracked and damp. Chains hung from the ceilings, rattling slightly from the breeze now entering the vault. On the far end of the room, beneath a collapsed arch and beside a pile of broken ropes and torn velvet, lay a figure.
A girl.
Unmoving.
Bound in a network of iron cuffs, blood-crusted ropes, and thick rusted chains fastened cruelly tight across her body. Her ankles and wrists were bruised deep purple, her skin carved with lashes and dried welts. A thick leather collar with a tarnished leash ring pressed against her throat.
She lay like a discarded thing—small, filthy, and broken.
Everyone froze. Even the torch seemed to dim.
"…What in the gods' name…" one of the guards muttered under his breath.
No one dared move. Except for Brooklyn.
His face didn't twist in horror. He didn't flinch or draw his blade. He merely stepped forward, the torch casting a circle of light around him as he approached her body. His eyes didn't leave her—not for a moment.
Laiken finally found his voice. "Your Grace…"
Brooklyn knelt slowly, hand tightening around the torch as he stared down.
Laiken drew closer, his voice lower. "She could be one of them. A weapon. Something… unnatural. Should we—"
"No," Brooklyn said.
The word echoed. Firm. Unquestioning.
Laiken frowned. "But—"
"I said no."
Brooklyn's eyes stayed on the girl. She stirred faintly now—just a twitch, barely visible, like a dying flame gasping for air. Her lips were cracked. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her breath came weak and shallow.
And then—barely audible—she moved.
A single twitch of her neck. A faint wince. Her lashes flickered, and her lips parted.
Brooklyn leaned in.
Her voice came broken. Like glass being stepped on.
"…Who… are you…?"
Her eyes blinked open slowly, revealing dull, lifeless green, like wilted emeralds.
"…Will… you kill me…?"
Brooklyn didn't speak at first. He simply looked at her—truly looked. Not as an enemy. Not as a prisoner. But as something else. Something buried.
He reached out and touched the edge of one chain—not gently, not tenderly, but with a cold precision.
"No," he said quietly.
And then, as she slipped into unconsciousness again:
"Not yet."
The chamber was quiet again. Only the dim rustling of the torch flame disturbed the silence, casting shadows against cold stone walls. Brooklyn stood still, the chains now loose and scattered around the unconscious girl's frail form. She had awoken briefly after they brought her to a quieter corner of the ruins—still within the vault, but away from the rusted cage that had once imprisoned her like a forgotten animal.
She lay draped in a worn velvet blanket now, one of the only things left untouched from the looted royal bedchambers. The fabric barely covered her battered body, but at least it softened the coldness of the floor. Her wounds were still raw—long, open marks tracing her spine and thighs. Some looked recent. Others... were old enough to have healed and split open again.
She stirred. Her lips trembled before her eyes fluttered open.
A strangled gasp escaped her throat.
Brooklyn remained seated just a few feet away, elbows on his knees, gloved fingers laced together in thought. He hadn't spoken in almost ten minutes. He had watched her breathe, watched her struggle to wake, watched her fight her own consciousness like it was a curse.
And now, she looked at him with absolute terror.
"Please…" she croaked, her voice shredded from screams she must have long since forgotten. "Please… kill me. I can't… I can't survive another day if they come back. They'll tear me apart again. Please—"
Her voice broke. Not into sobs, but something more primal. Something hopeless.
"I can't… I can't take it anymore. I beg you. I'm not even a person now. Just… just end it. I don't want to go back in those chains."
Brooklyn didn't move. He stared at her—his amber eyes like dull fire behind a frozen mask.
He finally spoke, his tone flat. "Iverlyn is no more."
She blinked. He continued.
"This kingdom is mine now. All of it. Its soldiers. Its soil. Its vaults."
He leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing. "Including you."
She whimpered. "Please… please just kill me…"
Brooklyn's tone hardened. "Enough."
His voice silenced her instantly.
He stood and walked toward her slowly, his boots echoing with each step. Then, he knelt beside her, his shadow falling across her broken frame. She flinched, shivering. He grabbed her chin—not roughly, but firmly—and tilted her face toward his.
Her lips quivered.
"I can let you live," he said, "but on one condition."
Her swollen eyes met his.
"You will obey every command I give," he said coldly. "No matter how uncomfortable. No matter how humiliating. You don't speak unless I allow it. You don't move unless I say so. Everything you do—every breath, every word—will be mine to decide."
She shook violently. "Why…?"
His eyes flared.
"Shut your mouth," he growled. "I said answer my question first."
Tears streaked down her dirt-smudged cheeks. Her hands trembled against the floor, barely able to support her weight. She couldn't look him in the eye anymore. Only one word slipped from her lips:
"…Please… don't be too cruel…"
And then her body gave out.
She collapsed into unconsciousness once more. Her head began to fall toward the stone with nothing to cushion the impact—but Brooklyn's hand darted forward instantly. He caught her by the nape, halting her descent inches from the floor. She didn't even know it.
For a long moment, he remained like that—kneeling, holding her, the girl's breathing shallow in his arms. His face remained unreadable. Cold. Detached.
But his grip did not loosen.
The wind outside the vault had shifted.
By the time they emerged from the underground cell, the midday sun had climbed high, casting stark, merciless light upon the ruins of Iverlyn's capital. The black wolf banners of Faolinshire snapped crisply atop every broken tower, but none of Brooklyn's men spoke of victory now.
Not after what they had seen.
The girl lay limp in Brooklyn's arms, wrapped tightly in his dark cloak. Her body, light as it was, felt like it carried a thousand years of torment. Her wounds had soaked through the linen beneath, and the bruises had deepened in the past hour. She hadn't stirred once since she collapsed.
And perhaps that was the most unsettling part—her silence.
As Brooklyn stepped into the open courtyard, the elite guard parted wordlessly, eyes lowered. Even hardened soldiers—men who had marched through villages with swords red and burning—now looked at her as if they stood before a grave.
Laiken said nothing. His blade was sheathed. His eyes never rose above the ground.
Anderson approached carefully, his face more grave than Brooklyn had seen in years. His gloved hands trembled slightly as he took the girl's weight for a moment while Brooklyn adjusted the cloak around her shoulders.
"She'll die if she stays here another hour," Anderson said.
"She's not staying," Brooklyn replied.
He shifted his gaze toward the outer gates of the palace. The broken drawbridge. The war banners. And beyond them, the woods that would lead them back north.
"Prepare a carriage," Brooklyn commanded. "We ride to Faolinshire. She comes with me."
Anderson hesitated. "Should I fetch a physician first, perhaps here in—"
"No," Brooklyn said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Not here. Not among these ruins."
He looked down at the girl in his arms. Her face had lost all color. Crusted blood clung to the edges of her lips, and her breathing had become so faint it seemed to pause with every rise of the wind.
Brooklyn clenched his jaw.
He turned to Laiken, to the few trusted soldiers who had followed him this far into conquest. His voice was low but thick with something they hadn't heard from him before.
"How long," he asked, "do you think she's been like this?"
No one answered.
He looked around again. At the blood-stained floor. At the broken manacles. At the carved stone walls that had hidden this horror just beneath a palace dressed in silk and gold.
"What have they done to her…?" he muttered. "How much did she suffer?"
Still—nothing. Not even Anderson, who had served four generations of Faolinshires and once read every whisper in the court like scripture, could speak.
Because none of them knew.
Not how long she'd been chained.
Not what cruelty she'd endured.
Not who had ordered it.
Not even why.
And that made it worse.
Brooklyn turned and walked forward. "Ready the men. I want to be back in the capital by dusk tomorrow."
Anderson gave a tight bow and disappeared to issue the orders. Laiken followed without a word.
By late afternoon, the carriage stood ready outside the blackened gates—an enclosed royal vehicle flanked by Faolinshire's finest. The roads ahead were cleared, guarded at every mile. A thick velvet interior had been prepared, layered in cushions and warm furs. Brooklyn placed her inside himself. Carefully. As though she were not just wounded—but made of glass.
She still didn't wake.
Brooklyn sat across from her, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn't speak a word the entire journey. He barely blinked.
And no one dared interrupt him.
The road to Faolinshire stretched on beneath pale skies, the forest whispering against the carriage wheels. And though the war was over, something far heavier now rode with them.
Something unspoken.
Something nameless.
Something ruined.
Faolinshire Castle stood tall beneath the gray evening sky, its obsidian spires reaching through the mist like ancient fangs piercing heaven. From the outside, it looked as it always had—imperious, silent, untouched by time or war.
But within its walls, silence had taken on a different weight.
The returning procession had thundered through the iron gates without fanfare. No trumpets, no celebration. No noblemen gathered in the court to greet their Duke's victorious return. The servants, alerted only moments before the carriages arrived, had lined up quietly in the grand foyer, robes neat, eyes respectful.
Until they saw her.
Brooklyn emerged from the carriage first. He held her in his arms, cloaked still in his black mantle. But it could not hide her condition. Her head rested limply against his chest, strands of dirt-matted scarlet-blonde hair falling across her face. Her skin was deathly pale beneath the bruises and lacerations. And her wrists—gods, her wrists. Purple and torn where the shackles had dug into flesh.
A collective gasp rippled through the line of maids and footmen.
No one dared ask.
Not who she was.
Not what had happened.
Not why their Duke—cold, brutal, unreachable—was carrying a girl who looked like she'd crawled out of the very depths of hell.
Brooklyn's boots struck the polished marble floor with sharp, purposeful steps. He didn't slow. His eyes didn't waver.
The head steward, an elderly woman named Lady Evera, curtsied swiftly. "Your Grace—shall we prepare a holding chamber for the guest—?"
"No," Brooklyn cut her off. "She's not a prisoner."
His voice was sharper than usual, unyielding. Evera froze.
Brooklyn continued without turning to her. "She'll be given one of the west wing suites. Clean linens. Fire lit. Silk, not wool. I want the best room in the manor aside from mine."
Servants hesitated. He stopped and glared over his shoulder.
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
They scattered at once—two maids rushing up the stairs to prepare the room, a page dashing toward the physician's quarters.
Brooklyn climbed the main staircase with slow, controlled steps, ignoring the stares that followed him. The castle had seen many things—executions, banquets, war councils. But this? This was different.
A girl. A stranger. Scarred, bleeding, unconscious—and now under his roof by his own will.
Whispers would ripple by morning.
At the top of the stairs, Anderson waited with a towel and warm basin, eyes shadowed.
"The chamber has been aired, Your Grace. The fireplace is lit. I've ordered the physicians to be summoned immediately. They'll arrive within the hour."
Brooklyn nodded curtly and entered the suite.
The room was warm. Candlelight flickered across rosewood furniture and velvet tapestries. The bed, large and layered in embroidered sheets, was already turned down.
He laid her carefully on it.
The blanket shifted as she sank into the mattress, one hand twitching faintly from pain even in her unconsciousness. Brooklyn stepped back and watched her chest rise and fall.
A faint moan left her lips.
Anderson entered quietly behind him. "The servants are… rattled. Should I brief them?"
Brooklyn stared down at her. "Tell them nothing. Only what they need to know."
"Which is?"
"That she is under my protection," he said, "and that any disobedience in her care will be treated as a crime against the crown."
Anderson gave a slow, tight nod.
"What will you do if she doesn't recover?" he asked softly.
Brooklyn didn't respond.
He walked to the edge of the bed and adjusted the blanket again, covering the visible gashes that laced her arms.
"She'll recover," he said, almost to himself.
Outside, the wind began to howl faintly through the towers. Somewhere down the corridor, the hurried footsteps of the healers echoed, growing louder.
But inside the room, everything remained still.
She didn't wake.
Not yet.