I’ve done it. I’ve gotten out of the Crimson Syndicate’s clutches. I’ve gotten away from Lucian…
For now.
23
Lucian
The alert comes as a faint chime through the wards woven into the air of the Crimson Spires.
Someone has passed through the gates of the Bleeding Court.
At this hour. Who could it be? My little kingdom is supposed to be locked down by now—I don’t allow anyone to enter or leave after moonrise.
My head lifts from the parchment I’m reviewing, the ink still drying on contracts written in blood and gold. I frown, reach out with my senses—but the wards yield nothing except the faint echo of departure. The gates only report passage, not identity.
“Likely Whistler,” I mutter to myself. The Realm Hopper has lingered too long, as usual. Sneaking wine from the kitchens…pocketing trinkets…pestering the servants. He should have left hours ago.
I close the ledger with deliberate care. My time is better spent elsewhere. The Spires are secure. The gates hold strong. None enter or leave without my sanction.
Still, for a moment, unease stirs in my gut. A whisper of warning…subtle and cold, stirs inside me.
I shake it off. Paranoia is a habit I cannot indulge tonight. There are too many negotiations, too many alliances to balance, too many enemies circling. The Six Syndicates of the Shadow Realm are in constant conflict with each other—we never know peace, only temporary alliances that break up the turmoil for a little while.
I turn back to another contract. I still have much to do.
If only I had known who had really slipped through the gates…if only I had listened to that whisper, had risen from my desk and gone to the gates myself…
I would have realized the truth—that it is not Whistler who has left the Bleeding Court this night.
It is my Queen who has just slipped beyond my reach.
24
Jules
The hub is much quieter than before.
My boot soles click softly on the massive stone floor, the sound swallowed by the vast circular chamber. The air feels cooler here—hushed—like even the rounded walls are holding their breath.
I look around but to my relief, I don’t see The Magistrate.
That towering black-skinned figure with the glowing silver eyes—the one who radiated menace so heavy it made my knees weak—is nowhere in sight. The hub feels…emptier without him, though the silence is its own kind of threat.
I let out a shaky breath. Okay, good. This is good. I’m out and that gives me the chance to actually look around some.
The gates curve around the far wall like the spokes of a massive wheel, each one different, each one its own doorway to another world. I pass the Gilded Warrens again, their golden lattice glittering with diamonds. The Briar Court, still thick with curling green vines and huge, neon flowers.
And then—the one I didn’t notice before when Whistler was dragging me through.
The Savage Den.
I slow my pace, staring.
The gate is made of raw iron bars twisted into snarling shapes—wolves… bears…lions… All of them with bared teeth. Thick chains coil across the surface, their links glowing faintly as though heated from within. Scratches gouge the stone floor before the gates, as though something with long claws dragged across it again and again.
Even the air feels different here. It smells faintly of musk and fur—a wild, earthy tang that makes the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand up.
My stomach flips.
