Chapter 151: The Prisoner
Lorraine’s knees buckled. The ground swayed. Before she could hit it, a pair of strong arms caught her—ironclad and trembling.
"Lorraine!" Leroy’s voice was a rasp against her ear, rough and unsteady. The golden mask that had once gleamed with pride was streaked with spatter, shadowing eyes that burned too raw. His gloved hand cradled her head, the other clutching her waist as if by holding tighter he could will the sickness, the fear, the weakness out of her body.
"You’re burning up—Damn it, you’re— You have to rest..." His words broke apart, harsh command warring with tenderness that cracked through no matter how hard he bit it down.
Lorraine’s fingers curled weakly into his chest. For a moment, she let herself lean, breathing against him, listening to the frantic drum of his heart beneath his clothes. Just for a moment.
Then she pushed lightly, forcing her weight back to her own feet. Her voice came hoarse, but steady. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fine," Leroy snapped, angling his head to see her face beneath the hood. His hands refused to let go.
Her eyes, still faintly dazed, lifted to his. "We don’t have time. She’s inside. Secure the prisoner first."
Every part of him rebelled; he wanted to tear the doors down, carry her out of the stench and carnage, hide her where the world could never touch her. But the determination in her gaze cut through his instinct, sharp and unyielding.
The woman he held was trembling, yes, but her will was iron. And he loved her too much not to follow where her courage led.
Leroy drew a ragged breath, nodded once, and tightened his grip just a heartbeat longer before letting her steady herself. His hand lingered on her shoulder, just enough for her to feel him still there, before he turned his golden mask toward the sealed doors.
The blade at his hip gleamed in the morning light, a silent promise.
"Lorraine?" Damian’s voice broke through, unusually soft, his boyish bravado gone for a rare moment. He crouched at her side, eyes narrowing at the pallor in her face. "You look—"
"I’m fine." Lorraine cut him off, straightening her hood with brisk fingers as though that gesture could erase the tremor in her hands. She met his gaze briefly, steady, commanding him not to press further.
She had a little clue as to what might be wrong with her. But she was not willing to think about it now.
Damian opened his mouth anyway, then caught Leroy’s glare, molten beneath the mask. His lips snapped shut with a click of teeth.
Leroy guided Lorraine a step back, positioning himself between her and the barred entrance. His fist pounded once against the heavy wooden door. "Open."
From within, a muffled, trembling voice of the head apothecary answered. "You can’t come in. We—we’ve sealed it. It’s for your safety!"
Damian’s smile was sharp and humorless. "Our safety? With screams bleeding through the walls?" He stepped closer, his hand resting casually on the hilt at his hip, though his tone was still deceptively light. "That doesn’t sound like safety. That sounds like slaughter."
"We are following orders!" the apothecary cried from behind the door. "No one enters."
Leroy’s jaw clenched, his gloved palm pressing against the wood, testing its strength. "Whose orders?" His voice was low, steel layered with warning.
No answer came, just the scrape of bolts being reinforced, the hurried shuffle of feet retreating deeper.
Lorraine drew in a slow, shuddering breath, steadying herself. "They’re stalling us," she murmured, her voice quiet but certain. "The longer we wait, the less chance we have of finding her alive."
Her words hung sharp in the morning air. Leroy’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, Damian’s smirk faded into something taut, and the three of them knew that they would have to break in.
Leroy shifted his stance, ready to splinter the door from its frame. Damian flexed his fingers, eager to follow.
"Wait."
Lorraine’s voice, though soft, cut through both men like a blade. She reached beneath the folds of her plain cloak, fingers fumbling for a moment against her breast before drawing out the pendant she always wore hidden. The chain slipped forward, glinting in the light. Dangling with the small locket was a ring, heavy, old, and unmistakable.
The breath caught in Leroy’s throat as the gold caught the morning sun. It was no ordinary seal. Its face bore the double eagle, wings stretched wide, a chain locked around its leg: the sigil of House Arvand.
Her father’s sigil.
Hadrian Arvand’s signet ring.
For a heartbeat, Leroy forgot the blood drying on his gloves. Forgotten, too, was the mask pressing against his cheekbones. He leaned in, studying the ring as though it might vanish if he blinked. She must have gotten it from Hadrian.
Lorraine turned from him before he could speak, raising the pendant and knocking once against the wooden door. When the small viewing grate creaked open, she lifted the ring for the apothecary to see.
The man inside gasped audibly. His suspicion, his defiance, both bled away in an instant, replaced by fear, reverence, perhaps even guilt.
"My lady," he whispered.
The bolts scraped back with hurried clatters, and the door opened to them at last.
Leroy’s eyes never left the ring as he followed her in.
The door creaked open, and the stench of rot and sickness swept out to meet them, thick enough to sting the throat. Inside, the dim chamber was a world apart—shadows clinging to cracked stone walls, the sour reek of medicine mingling with decay.
Figures shifted in the gloom: gaunt men and women, their skin marked with sores and lesions, their eyes hollow but watchful. A cough rattled from one corner; in another, a child whimpered softly, his face half hidden beneath a rag. Every step stirred the straw-strewn floor and the air of hopelessness that pressed in on all sides.
Lorraine instinctively drew back, her hand tightening around her cloak. At once, Leroy moved closer, his arm a shield, his masked face bent low as though he could ward the stench and the sight from touching her. He did not let her falter, guiding her forward, his presence iron and unyielding against the sea of suffering.
The head apothecary, his expression tight, motioned them down a narrow hall. The sounds of moans and shuffling bodies dimmed with every step, replaced by the slow drip of water and the faint hiss of torches.
At the end of the corridor, he stopped before a heavy door bolted shut from the outside. He hesitated long enough that Leroy’s hand drifted to his sword hilt. But then, with trembling fingers, the apothecary worked the bolts free.
The door swung open with a groan.
The small chamber within was bare save for a cot and the thin figure seated upon it. Shadows obscured her face, but there was no mistaking the outline of a woman: the tilt of her shoulders, the fall of tangled hair, the way she lifted her head at the intrusion.
For a moment, silence swallowed the room whole.
And then... her eyes caught the light.