Chapter 6-Behind the Golden Doors
The carriage rolled to a slow halt, the rhythmic clatter of hooves fading into a muffled silence. Outside the high, gilded gates, sunlight spilled across the polished stone of the driveway, making it gleam as if it had been washed in gold. The air here was different — calmer, scented faintly with roses drifting in from somewhere unseen.
The driver stepped down first, boots clicking against the stone. With a practiced motion, he swung the carriage door open, bowing slightly as he gestured for them to step out.
Leo was the first to descend, the soles of his boots meeting the smooth, pale stone with a soft tap. The heat of the midday sun warmed his shoulders, but his gaze was already climbing upward — tracing the mansion's towering façade.
It was not merely large. It was monumental.
The entrance was framed by two massive columns, each carved from white marble streaked with veins of gold. Between them stood the front doors — towering slabs of dark, polished wood, their surface inlaid with intricate golden patterns that seemed to shift subtly when the light touched them. The designs weren't random; they told stories — hunts, battles, coronations — the legacy of the Draxler family etched into every curve and line.
Ralf let out a low whistle. "That door probably costs more than my entire house… and the street it's on."
Jack gave a sideways grin. "If they sold that door, they could buy a small kingdom."
"Kingdom?" Ralf smirked. "More like two."
Leo didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the door, half-expecting it to open by itself, as if such a place wouldn't trouble with something as ordinary as knocking.
They didn't have to wait long.
With a smooth, almost theatrical motion, the great doors began to swing inward. No creak, no groan — just the whisper of weightless hinges. The rich scent of polished wood and faint perfume drifted out, mingling with the rose-scented air outside.
And then she appeared.
Standing just beyond the threshold, framed by the soft golden light spilling from the grand hall, was a young woman. She didn't move at first — just stood there as if she had been waiting for this moment, for them.
Her hair was a cascade of gold, so fine and silky that it seemed to catch and hold the light in every strand. It fell over her shoulders like spun sunlight, the tips brushing the fabric of her gown. She was tall, graceful — her poise alone spoke of upbringing in marble halls. Her eyes — a vivid shade that seemed to shift between amber and soft green — caught each of them in turn, assessing, but not coldly.
Jack's breath left him in a quiet mutter, almost involuntary. "By the gods… how can an angel walk this earth?"
Leo blinked at him. "I… don't know," he heard himself say, almost in unison with Ralf's equally dazed response. Neither of them seemed aware they had spoken until the words were already hanging in the air.
A small laugh escaped Mira behind them, a laugh edged with exasperation. "Geez, look at these boys," she said, giving Lyra a sideways glance. "They're hopeless in the face of your beauty, Lyra. Don't mind them."
Lyra's lips curved in a faint smile, though her eyes glinted with quiet amusement. She stepped forward, each movement fluid, measured — a dancer who had never stumbled.
"This," Mira said, gesturing toward the girl, "is Lyra Draxler. She's a dear friend of mine. We met when I first entered the military."
She turned to her companions, still caught in varying degrees of stunned silence. "And this," Mira continued, "is my brother, Leo… and his two friends. The one who just praised your beauty is Jack, and the other is Ralf."
Lyra's gaze settled on Leo, her smile deepening just slightly. "Oh, Leo," she said, her voice smooth, carrying the faintest lilt of amusement. "I was really waiting to see who Mira's little brother was — the one she always talks about."
Leo felt his ears burn before the heat crept across his cheeks. Mira caught the look instantly and grinned like a wolf who had found prey. Lyra's laugh came warm and light, the kind of sound that felt like it belonged in a sunlit garden.
"Let's go inside," she said, still smiling. "I'm sure you're all tired from the journey. Your rooms are upstairs." She glanced to the side, catching the eye of a uniformed servant who had appeared silently by the doorway. "Show them to their rooms. Tell the kitchens to prepare food — when it's ready, I'll inform you."
The servant bowed and gestured for them to follow.
As they stepped into the mansion, the air shifted again — cooler, touched with the faint scent of lavender. The entry hall unfolded before them in a sweep of opulence that made even the capital's main streets feel plain.
The floor beneath their boots was a seamless expanse of polished marble, so smooth that it caught their reflections. The walls were lined with tall, arched windows framed in gilded trim, their panes washed with the soft light of the afternoon. The ceilings soared far above, disappearing into ornate plasterwork that depicted constellations in gold and deep cobalt.
And in the center of it all hung a chandelier — no, not merely a chandelier. It was a cascade of crystal, tier upon tier, catching the light in a thousand fragments. Each glint seemed too perfect to be glass; it looked as though the fixture had been cut from diamond itself. The light it cast was soft, golden, and alive, making the gold trim on the walls seem to pulse faintly.
Jack's jaw worked, trying to form words. "That thing… could probably buy the kingdom Ralf was talking about."
Ralf glanced upward, eyes wide. "It could buy the empire."
Leo barely heard them. His gaze was sweeping the hall, from the oil paintings in heavy frames — portraits of solemn men and striking women, all with the unmistakable Draxler sharpness in their features — to the small details: the glint of silver thread woven into the carpet, the soft ripple of a silk curtain caught in a faint breeze.
The servant led them toward the grand staircase, its railing a masterwork of carved mahogany inlaid with gold. Their footsteps were muffled by the deep crimson carpet running the length of the stairs. Above them, the chandelier's glow followed, casting them in soft, gilded light.
Leo's thoughts swirled. It wasn't just beauty — it was the kind of power you could feel in your bones. The Draxler mansion wasn't simply a home; it was a statement.
And somewhere behind them, Mira and Lyra's voices trailed softly in conversation, their tones low, easy — as though they had all the time in the world.
The servant, a young man in crisp black livery trimmed with gold, ascended the staircase with quiet, measured steps. His polished shoes barely made a sound, yet somehow his presence carried an air of disciplined authority — the kind only seen in households where service itself was an art.
The three men followed, their eyes unable to settle in one place for more than a heartbeat.
At the landing, the staircase split in two, curling upward like the spread wings of a swan. Between the twin flights stood an enormous arched window, its panes of stained glass depicting a dawn breaking over a field of banners — the Draxler crest gleaming at its center. When the sunlight hit it just right, the colors washed across the marble floor like spilled jewels.
Jack slowed as they passed, his gaze tracing the intricate detail. "Even their windows tell stories," he murmured.
Ralf leaned closer, keeping his voice low. "And I'm guessing every story ends with the Draxlers winning."
Jack smirked but didn't answer. His eyes had wandered again, this time to a display cabinet they were passing — an entire wall of glass containing weapons so finely wrought they looked ceremonial. Swords with hilts of silver filigree, jeweled daggers, and a single black spear that seemed almost to drink in the light around it.
Leo's attention was caught by the paintings that lined the upper hall. Each was lit by its own small golden lamp, the frames carved with curling vines and polished until they gleamed. One portrait showed a man in battle armor, his gaze sharp and unyielding; another depicted a woman seated on a balcony, the night sky unfolding behind her. Each one carried an aura — as though the people in the frames could step out and continue the work they had left behind.
"Left here," the servant said softly, turning into a wide corridor that ran the length of the second floor.
The air here felt different — warmer, quieter, with the faintest hum of life far below. The thick carpets underfoot dulled their steps completely. Along the walls, polished bronze sconces held candles whose flames never seemed to flicker, each encased in a glass cover etched with curling patterns.
They passed door after door, each framed in carved wood, each with a small crest plate affixed just above the handle. Some were closed, some stood ajar, revealing glimpses of rooms within — a sitting room with a roaring fireplace, a study with shelves of leather-bound books, a music room where a grand harp gleamed in the corner.
Ralf glanced into one such room and muttered under his breath, "If I lived here, I'd never leave the house."
Jack chuckled. "If you lived here, they wouldn't let you wander without a leash."
They turned another corner, and the corridor opened into a smaller hall. At its center stood a tall vase of white lilies, the arrangement so precise it looked painted. The scent here was clean and crisp, cutting through the faint lavender they had smelled earlier.
The servant stopped before three doors in a row. Each was of the same polished wood as the others, but these bore no nameplates — only a discreet Draxler crest engraved into the upper panel.
"These are your rooms," the servant said, inclining his head. "Your belongings will be brought up shortly. The bathing chambers are at the end of the hall to your right. Please make use of the bell rope if you require anything."
Jack glanced toward the end of the hall and arched a brow. "Bathing chambers," he repeated under his breath, as if the words themselves belonged to another world.
The servant gave a faint, courteous smile before turning away. His footsteps vanished into the muffled stillness.
For a long moment, none of them moved.
Leo rested his hand on the cool brass handle of his door, the weight of the journey pressing down now that the grandeur around them had settled. His mind kept circling back to the brief exchange downstairs — Lyra's smile, her voice, the way she'd said his name as though she'd been saving it.
Ralf broke the silence first. "I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be impressed… or worried I'll get lost on the way to dinner."
Jack grinned. "If you get lost, just follow the smell of food. Or the sound of Mira laughing at Leo's red face."
Leo gave him a flat look, but it only made Jack's grin widen.
The corridor seemed to breathe around them — quiet, dignified, yet humming with the unseen rhythm of a household in motion. Somewhere below, the faint clink of silverware hinted that preparations for the meal had already begun.
Leo pushed open the door to his room.
Warm light spilled over him, chasing away the last cool traces of the hall. The chamber was spacious, with tall windows draped in heavy silk curtains of deep emerald, their trim stitched in gold. The bed stood at the center, its frame carved from dark wood and dressed in linen so white it almost glowed. A low table sat near the hearth, already set with a crystal pitcher of water and two glasses.
Beyond, a balcony overlooked the inner gardens — a sweep of manicured green broken by winding stone paths and bursts of color from late-summer blooms. The distant sound of running water suggested a fountain somewhere among the hedges.
Leo stepped inside slowly, as though crossing a threshold into another world.
Jack's voice called faintly from the room next door. "If you don't see me in an hour, I've either drowned in that tub they gave me or I'm still counting how many pillows they stacked on the bed."
Ralf's dry reply came a beat later. "Don't touch anything that looks more expensive than your life."
Leo smiled faintly to himself, letting the heavy door click shut behind him.
For the first time since the carriage had rolled up to the gates, the mansion's grandeur wasn't overwhelming — it was simply there, wrapping around him like a strange, unfamiliar comfort.
Somewhere far below, in that vast and gilded hall, Mira and Lyra's conversation continued in quiet tones. He could not make out the words, but part of him wanted to.
And part of him wasn't sure if he was ready.
.....
Leo lingered by the balcony doors, his gaze drifting beyond the glass to the sculpted gardens below. The late-afternoon sun lay warm across the hedges, gilding every edge in light. Somewhere down there, a fountain whispered over stone, its steady trickle a soft counterpoint to the stillness of the room.
Then—faintly—he caught voices.
They rose up from the main hall, softened by distance yet clear enough to make out the rhythm of words. Mira's tone was casual, curious.
"Where is your sister? I didn't see her when we arrived."
A pause, then Lyra's reply, warm and matter-of-fact.
"I think Eliza is in her room. She's been keeping to herself these past few days."
The conversation slipped into something softer, too muted to follow. The echo of Lyra's voice lingered longer than the words themselves.
The name lingered in Leo's mind for reasons he couldn't place.The group continued up the sweeping staircase, their footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet, the conversation fading behind them. Somewhere in this grand house, a door remained closed — and behind it waited someone they had yet to meet.