The interior of the carriage was a world Elian had only ever dreamed of in feverish, starvation-induced hallucinations. It didn't smell of rot or sulfur; it smelled of polished mahogany and crushed lavender. The seats were upholstered in a velvet so deep a black it seemed to drink the dim light filtering through the enchanted windowpanes.
Elian sat on the edge of the plush bench, his body rigid. He was painfully aware of the mud crusted on his boots, the soot smeared across his cheek, and the grime beneath his fingernails. In the Wards, he was a respected healer, a man who could stitch a severed artery in the dark. Here, in this floating box of luxury, he was a stain.
Across from him, Vane lounged with the careless grace of a predator who knows the cage door is locked.
He had removed his heavy obsidian gauntlets, tossing them onto the seat beside him with a dull thud. His hands were surprisingly elegant—long fingers, calloused palms, scars tracing pale lines across the knuckles. Hands that had killed, Elian was certain, but hands that could also play a piano or throttle a man without breaking a sweat.
The carriage was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the levitation crystals beneath the floorboards. The silence stretched, taut and heavy, until Elian felt like he might snap.
"You're staring," Vane said, not opening his eyes. He was leaning his head back against the velvet, his profile sharp against the passing shadows of the clouds outside.
"I'm plotting," Elian corrected, his voice hoarse.
Vane opened one eye. It was a striking, icy grey, framed by lashes that were unfairly long. "Plotting your escape? Or plotting my murder?"
"Both," Elian snapped. "In that order."
A low chuckle rumbled in Vane's chest. He sat up, the movement sudden and fluid, closing the distance between them. The carriage was small. Suddenly, his knees were inches from Elian's. The air between them thickened, charged with the same static electricity that had preceded Elian's solar flare.
"Ambitious," Vane murmured. He reached into a compartment built into the carriage wall and pulled out a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid. He poured two glasses. "I like ambition. It's a rare quality in the Wards. Usually, desperation is the only currency down there."
He held a glass out to Elian.
Elian looked at it suspiciously. "I'm not drinking that. It's probably poisoned."
"If I wanted to kill you, Elian," Vane said softly, taking a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving Elian's, "I wouldn't use poison. It's too impersonal. I'd want to watch the light go out myself."
The threat was delivered with such casual intimacy that Elian's breath hitched. He ignored the glass. "Tell me what you want. You said a 'security detail.' You said 'disposable.' You have an army of mages in the Sky Palace. Why do you need a street rat?"
Vane swirled the liquor in his glass. The playful demeanor evaporated, replaced by the cold, hard edge of the High Commander.
"The Sky Palace is not the paradise you think it is," Vane began, his voice dropping an octave. "It is a nest of vipers. And right now, the head viper—Prince Lysander—is... indisposed."
Elian frowned. "The Prince? The tabloids say he's preparing for the Eclipse Festival. They say he's radiating power."
"They lie," Vane said flatly. "The Prince is dying."
The words hung in the air. Elian blinked, stunned. The Prince was the solar anchor. If he died, the magic keeping the Sky Palace afloat would fail. Aethelgard would fall out of the sky and crush the Wards below. Everyone would die.
"His magic is fading," Vane continued, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "It has been for years. A genetic defect, the physicians say. But the Eclipse is approaching. The barrier between our world and the Void will be thinnest in three weeks. The Prince must perform the Rite of Solstice to reseal it. If he cannot channel the sun..."
"The Eclipse eats us," Elian finished, horror dawning on him. "The darkness takes over."
"Precisely." Vane placed his glass down. He looked at Elian with a terrifying intensity. "I have been searching for a battery. A Source Mage powerful enough to... supplement His Highness. To stand in the shadows and feed him power so the court doesn't realize their Golden Boy is a husk."
He reached out, his bare fingers grazing the silk cuffs binding Elian's wrists. The touch was electric. Elian gasped, pulling back, but there was nowhere to go.
"And then I found you," Vane whispered. "A boy in the mud, wielding a shield that could withstand a falling building. You aren't just a battery, Elian. You are a star."
"I won't do it," Elian said, though his voice trembled. "I won't help you prop up a lie while my people starve in the runoff."
"You will," Vane replied, his voice hardening. "Because if the Palace falls, the Wards are crushed first. And because I know where Bram lives. I know where you sleep. I know every cracked stone of your pathetic little life."
He leaned in closer, trapping Elian against the seat. His scent—sandalwood, cold iron, and something distinctly masculine—filled Elian's nose. He was so close Elian could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"You belong to me now, Elian. Until the Eclipse passes, you are my secret. You are my weapon."
Elian glared at him, his violet eyes burning. "I am not a weapon. I am a healer."
"In the Palace," Vane said, his gaze dropping to Elian's lips, "you will find they are often the same thing."
The carriage gave a sudden lurch, signalling their arrival. The darkness outside the window was replaced by a blinding, prismatic light.
Vane sat back, the mask of the Commander slamming back into place. He picked up his gauntlets and slid them on, hiding his hands, hiding the brief moment of humanity.
"Clean yourself up," he ordered, tossing a handkerchief at Elian. "We are arriving at the Azure Gate. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not look the nobles in the eye. And for the love of the gods, keep your hood up."
Elian took the handkerchief. It was silk, embroidered with a silver wolf. He wiped the worst of the mud from his face, his mind racing. He was trapped. Blackmailed. Kidnapped by a man who terrified and confused him in equal measure.
But he was also alive. And he was entering the belly of the beast.
The carriage door opened.
The light that flooded in was not the sickly yellow of the Wards. It was pure, crystalline white. The air that rushed in was thin, crisp, and sweet, smelling of blooming jasmine and ozone.
Vane stepped out first, his cape billowing in the high-altitude wind. He offered a hand back into the carriage. A mock gesture of chivalry.
Elian stared at the gauntleted hand. He had a choice. He could refuse, be dragged out, and look like a prisoner. Or he could take it, walk out like an equal, and play this game until he found a way to flip the board.
He took Vane's hand.
Vane pulled him out, his grip tight.
Elian's breath caught in his throat. They had landed on a platform of floating white marble, suspended thousands of feet in the air. Around them, spires of glass and gold twisted toward the heavens, connected by bridges of shimmering light. Gardens defied gravity, waterfalls cascading off the edges of islands into the clouds below.
It was beautiful. It was impossible. It was a lie built on the suffering of the people below.
"Welcome to Aethelgard," Vane murmured near his ear, his grip on Elian's hand tightening as he sensed the boy's overwhelmed hesitation. "Don't let the beauty fool you. The Wards have mud that you can wash off. The filth up here?"
He gestured toward the glittering golden doors of the main palace, where guards in ceremonial armor stood watching them.
"The filth up here stains your soul."
He tugged Elian forward. Elian stumbled, then found his footing. He pulled his grey hood low, hiding his face, hiding his violet eyes. He walked beside the Wolf, crossing the threshold into a world of glass, ready to shatter it all.