Chapter 5: The Art of Disappearing

The bruise on Saoirse’s hip was blooming into a magnificent shade of violet, mirroring her eyes.

She stared at it in the reflection of the washbasin mirror, tracing the tender skin with a fingertip. It was a gift from Tristan’s training saber, delivered yesterday when she had hesitated during a parry.

“You hesitated because you were thinking,” he had said, standing over her while she wheezed on the stone floor. “Servants don’t think. They do.”

Three days had passed since the wine cellar. Three days of a brutal, silent education.

Tristan did not teach her how to fight like a soldier. He taught her how to fight like a ghost. He taught her how to walk across the floorboards without making them creak. He taught her how to pour wine with a steady hand even when he was screaming at her. He taught her how to stand in a corner and flatten her presence until she felt less like a person and more like a piece of furniture.

“Invisibility isn't magic,” he had told her over a dinner of stale bread and cold stew. “It’s psychology. People see what they expect to see. If you act like you are terrified, they see a victim. If you act like you are nothing, they see… nothing.”

Saoirse pulled her gray wool dress over her head, wincing as the fabric rubbed against her bruises. She tied her apron, the knot tight at the small of her back. She checked her hair in the mirror. It was pulled back severely, the silver pin buried deep in the messy bun.

She looked dull. She looked tired. She looked perfect.

The heavy oak door unlatched. Tristan walked in.

He looked impeccable. He wore a coat of crushed velvet in a deep plum color, embroidered with silver thread—the colors of mourning, worn with mocking festivity. His black hair was styled to look windswept, and he smelled of expensive cologne and brandy.

"You’re late," he drawled, tossing a pair of leather gloves onto the desk.

Saoirse pointed to the window. The sun had barely crested the smog line.

"The sun is late," Tristan corrected, checking his pocket watch. "But the Emperor is not. We are summoned to breakfast in the Obsidian Hall. Apparently, my father wants to celebrate the ‘efficiency’ of the extraction process."

The word extraction hung in the air like smoke.

Saoirse felt the familiar spike of heat in her chest—the Dragon’s fire responding to the threat against its kin. But this time, she didn't clench her fists. She didn't let her eyes flash.

She took a breath, visualizing a glacier sliding into a dark sea. She pushed the fire down, deep into the black water, until she felt cold.

Tristan watched her. He saw the micro-expression, the shift from rage to neutrality. A flicker of approval crossed his face.

"Good," he murmured. He walked over to her, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline for a fraction of a second too long. "Remember the rules. You are deaf. You are dumb. You are furniture."

He stepped back, his face settling into the loose, drunken smile of the Fool Prince.

"Shall we go, mouse? I hear the cook makes excellent poisoned eggs."

The Obsidian Hall was designed to make everyone in it feel small.

The ceiling was lost in shadows, supported by pillars of black stone carved to look like twisting vines—a mockery of the forests the Empire destroyed. At the center of the cavernous room sat a long table made of polished weirwood, the sacred timber of Aethelgard.

To eat off the bones of your enemy. It was the Oakhaven way.

King Alaric sat at the head, looking more skeletal than usual. His skin was gray, papery, stretched tight over his skull. He was eating with mechanical precision, cutting a piece of rare steak into perfect squares.

To his right sat the Empress, icy and regal in white fur. To his left, Liam tore into a chicken leg with his hands. Rowan sat next to him, reading a document while he sipped water.

Tristan burst through the doors, stumbling slightly.

"Good morning, family!" he announced, his voice booming. "I see we’ve started without the prayer to the God of Hangovers."

The King didn't look up. "Sit down, Tristan. And be silent."

Tristan pulled out a chair at the far end of the table, the "children's seat." He flopped into it, sliding down until his chin nearly touched the wood.

Saoirse stood behind him, hands clasped, eyes on the floor.

"Wine," Tristan snapped, snapping his fingers over his shoulder.

Saoirse moved. She grabbed the pitcher from the sideboard. She approached the table.

This was the test.

She poured the wine into Tristan’s goblet. Her hand was rock steady.

"Careful, girl," Liam sneered, watching her. "Don't spill it on his coat. It’s worth more than your life."

Saoirse didn't react. She didn't look at Liam. She finished pouring, wiped the lip of the pitcher with a cloth, and stepped back into the shadows.

"The extraction is proceeding ahead of schedule," the King said, his voice scratching like sand on glass. "The prisoner is… resilient. Her blood is rich."

Saoirse felt the temperature in her blood rise. Ice, she told herself. Be the ice.

"Is she singing yet?" Tristan asked, swirling his wine. "I always heard dragons sing before they die. Or is that swans? I get my poultry confused."

Rowan looked up from his document. "She screams," he said softly. "It is a fascinating sound. It fluctuates in pitch when the inhibitors are applied. Like a tuning fork."

Saoirse dug her fingernails into her palms, breaking the skin. The pain grounded her.

"Speaking of noise," the Empress said, turning her cold eyes to Tristan. "Your servant. Does she truly not speak? Or does she simply have nothing to say to a master who reeks of the stables?"

Tristan took a long sip of wine. "She’s mute, Mother. Born without a tongue, I suspect. Or maybe she swallowed it. It happens."

"Useless," the Empress sniffed. "Like master, like dog."

"I heard a rumor," Liam grinned, tossing a chicken bone onto the table. "I heard you were in the wine cellar yesterday, brother. For an hour. With her."

The table went quiet.

Tristan froze, the goblet halfway to his mouth.

"And?" Tristan asked, his voice losing a fraction of its slur.

"And," Liam leered, "I wonder what you were doing in the dark with a mute girl who can't say 'no'."

It was a disgusting, vile accusation. It was meant to shame Tristan, to paint him as a predator.

Saoirse felt a wave of nausea. She looked at Tristan’s back.

Tristan slowly lowered the goblet. He didn't get angry. He didn't defend his honor. He laughed.

It was a wet, pathetic, self-deprecating laugh.

"Oh, Liam," Tristan wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You give me too much credit. I was looking for the '86 vintage. I got lost. And then I fell asleep behind a barrel. The girl was just there to make sure the rats didn't eat my boots."

He turned in his chair, looking up at Saoirse with a glassy, vacant expression.

"Isn't that right, Seir? We had a lovely nap, didn't we?"

Saoirse looked down at him. She saw the tightness in the corners of his eyes. She saw the humiliation he was swallowing—eating the dirt so they wouldn't look closer.

She nodded. A simple, dumb nod.

Liam roared with laughter. "Pathetic! Sleeping in the cellar like a vagrant!"

Even the King let out a dry, wheezing chuckle.

The tension broke. Tristan was the fool again. The threat was neutralized.

But as Tristan turned back to the table, picking up his fork with a shaking hand, Saoirse saw his knuckles. They were white.

He was protecting her. He was letting them call him a monster and a failure so that no one would ask why he had really been in the cellar.

You are not a fool, Saoirse thought, a strange, fierce ache blooming in her chest. You are the strongest man in this room.

Midnight in Oakhaven was not dark. The smog reflected the glow of the furnaces, painting the city in a perpetual, bruised purple twilight.

Tristan’s room was silent.

"It’s time," he whispered.

He was dressed in black leather—tight-fitting, noiseless gear that vanished in the shadows. He threw a bundle of clothes at Saoirse.

"Put these on. The dress will snag on the pipes."

Saoirse changed quickly. It was a squire’s outfit—breeches, a tunic, and soft-soled boots. It felt liberating after days of skirts.

Tristan moved to the fireplace. He reached up into the chimney, pulling a hidden lever. The back of the hearth ground open, revealing a soot-stained tunnel.

"The ventilation system is a maze," Tristan murmured, checking his weapons—two daggers and a small, collapsible crossbow. "I’ve memorized the route to the Lower Cells. But if we get separated, you go up, not down. Down leads to the incinerators."

He looked at her.

"Do you have the pin?"

Saoirse patted her hair. "Yes."

"Good. Let’s go."

They crawled into the chimney.

The heat was oppressive. Even though the fire was out, the stones retained the memory of burning. The tunnel was tight, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees. It smelled of sulfur and old ash.

They moved for what felt like hours. Tristan led, his movements silent. Saoirse mimicked him, placing her hands exactly where his had been.

Finally, the stone turned to metal. They were in the main ducts now, suspended above the castle.

Tristan stopped. He held up a hand.

Below them, through a series of vents, Saoirse could hear the castle sleeping. Snoring guards. A crying baby in the nursery wing. The rhythmic chanting of the night monks.

Tristan signaled left. They shimmied down a narrower pipe, descending into the earth.

The air grew colder. The smell of sulfur was replaced by the smell of bleach and copper.

The Lower Cells.

Tristan stopped at a junction. He pointed to a grate in the floor ahead.

He leaned close to her ear. "That’s it," he breathed. "Cell 4. Directly above the table."

He pulled back, his eyes serious. "I will stay here at the junction to watch the patrol patterns. You have two minutes. If I tap the pipe three times, you come back. Instantly. Do not finish your sentence. Do not say goodbye. You run."

Saoirse nodded.

She crept forward, her heart thudding against the metal floor.

She reached the grate. She peered down.

The room was dark, lit only by the low hum of the magical containment field—a blue circle of runes etched into the floor.

Helena was there.

She wasn't on the table anymore. She was slumped in the corner of the cell, chained to the wall. Her head hung low, her silver-blue hair veiling her face. She was shivering.

Saoirse pressed her face to the cold metal bars.

"Helena," she whispered. The word was barely a breath.

Helena didn't move.

"Helena," Saoirse said, pushing a tiny pulse of warmth—just a spark—down through the grate.

The prisoner’s head snapped up.

Helena’s face was a ruin. One eye was swollen shut. Her lip was split. But the other eye—the violet-red eye—was clear.

She looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice.

"Up here," Saoirse whispered.

Helena looked up. She squinted against the gloom of the vent.

"S... Saoirse?" she croaked. Her voice was broken glass.

"Shh," Saoirse hissed. "Don't say my name. Don't say it."

Helena let out a sob, covering her mouth with her shackled hands. "You’re alive. By the Veil, you’re alive."

"I’m here," Saoirse promised, her own tears dripping onto the metal. "I’m going to get you out. I swear it."

"No," Helena gasped, shaking her head violently. "No, you can't. You have to run. You have to leave Oakhaven."

"I’m not leaving you."

"Listen to me!" Helena whispered, straining against her chains. "The Emperor... he isn't just taking the blood. He’s making something. I heard them. The Inquisitors."

"Making what?"

"A vessel," Helena said, her voice trembling. "They call it the God-Shell. They need dragon blood to forge it, but they need the Source to fill it. They know I’m not the Source, Saoirse. They know!"

Saoirse’s blood ran cold.

"How?"

"My blood," Helena wept. "It’s too weak. It doesn't sing. The King... he tasted it. He knows. They are keeping me alive to bait you. They know the real Dragon will come for her kin."

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Three taps on the pipe.

Tristan’s signal.

"I have to go," Saoirse whispered, panic rising.

"Run, Saoirse!" Helena begged. "They are waiting for you! It’s a trap! Vane told them everything before he died! He told them about the violet eyes!"

Clang. Clang. Clang. Harder this time. Urgent.

"I will come back," Saoirse vowed. "Hold on, Helena. Just hold on."

She scrambled backward, crawling away from the grate just as the heavy iron door of the cell below groaned open.

"Who are you talking to, witch?" a guard’s voice boomed.

Saoirse didn't wait to hear the answer. She scrambled back to the junction where Tristan was waiting, his face pale.

"Patrol came early," he hissed, grabbing her tunic. "Move."

They raced through the ducts. They didn't crawl this time; they scrambled, scraping elbows and knees.

They reached the chimney shaft just as alarms began to blare throughout the lower levels.

WHOOP. WHOOP. WHOOP.

" breach in Sector 4," a magical voice amplified through the walls. "Magical signature detected."

"Faster," Tristan growled, pushing her up the ladder rungs of the chimney.

They burst out into his bedroom, tumbling onto the soot-stained hearth.

Tristan didn't stop. He slammed the lever, sealing the fireplace. He grabbed Saoirse, dragged her to the center of the room, and stripped off his black gear in a frenzy.

"Clothes," he ordered. "Hide the gear under the floorboard. Now!"

Saoirse ripped off the squire’s tunic, her hands shaking so hard she nearly tore it. She shoved the black clothes into the hollow space beneath the rug while Tristan pulled on a sleeping robe.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was hammering on the door.

"Open up! Imperial Guard!"

Saoirse looked around. She was in her undergarments—a thin chemise and bloomers. She was covered in soot. She looked exactly like someone who had been crawling through a chimney.

Tristan saw it too.

"The bed," he commanded.

"What?"

"Get in the bed!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Now!"

Saoirse dove onto the four-poster bed. Tristan vaulted over the mattress and landed beside her. He grabbed the heavy duvet and pulled it up to their chins, covering their soot-stained bodies.

He grabbed her face, his hands rough. He mussed her hair violently, making it look like bedhead. He smeared a streak of soot from his cheek onto hers.

"Play the part," he whispered fiercely. "You are my lover. You are the reason I didn't hear the alarm."

The door exploded inward. Splinters of wood showered the room.

Liam stood in the doorway, flanked by four guards with drawn swords. He looked furious.

"Search the room!" Liam roared. "We tracked the magical signature to this tower!"

Tristan sat up, blinking groggily. He pulled the sheet down just enough to reveal his bare chest and Saoirse’s shoulder.

"Liam?" Tristan groaned, shielding his eyes from the torchlight. "By the Gods, can't a man get some sleep? Or some privacy?"

Liam marched to the bed. He looked at Tristan. He looked at Saoirse, who was huddled against Tristan’s side, clutching the sheet to her throat, her eyes wide and terrified.

Liam’s lip curled in disgust.

"So the rumors were true," Liam spat. "You are bedding the mute."

Tristan wrapped a protective arm around Saoirse’s shoulders, pulling her closer. His skin was hot against hers. His heart was hammering against her back, but his voice was steady.

"She doesn't talk, brother," Tristan said with a lewd wink. "But she listens very well. Now, get out of my bedroom before I tell Father you’re interrupting the making of a potential heir."

Liam stared at them for a long, tense moment. He looked around the room. He saw the cold fireplace (sealed tight). He saw the messy room.

He didn't see the black gear under the floor. He didn't see the terror in Saoirse’s eyes as anything other than a servant’s fear of a prince.

"You are repulsive," Liam muttered. "If the signature is here, it’s probably just the stench of your desperation."

He turned to the guards. "Clear out. It’s just the fool whoring again."

Liam stormed out. The guards followed. The broken door hung on its hinges.

Tristan waited until their footsteps faded down the hall.

He didn't let go of her.

He slumped back against the headboard, exhaling a breath that shook his entire frame. His arm was still wrapped tight around Saoirse, holding her against his chest.

"That," Tristan whispered to the ceiling, "was too close."

Saoirse didn't move away. She lay there, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. She felt the soot on her skin, the warmth of his body.

She thought of Helena’s words. They know. They are waiting for you.

She looked up at Tristan. His profile was sharp in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his lashes casting long shadows.

He had saved her again. He had lied for her. He had shamed himself for her.

"Tristan," she whispered.

It was the first time she had spoken his name.

Tristan’s eyes flew open. He looked down at her, shock registering on his face.

"You spoke," he breathed.

"They know," she whispered, her voice rusty from disuse. "They know Helena is not the Source. They are building a vessel. A God-Shell."

Tristan stared at her. The implications crashed over him.

"If they know she’s not the Source," he said slowly, "then they are hunting for the real one."

He looked at her violet eyes, now visible in the moonlight, no longer hidden by the act.

"And Vane told them about the eyes," she added softly.

Tristan’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

"Then we are not safe," he said. "Not even in this room."

He looked at the broken door.

"We have to kill the King," Tristan said. "Soon."

Saoirse placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart.

"Yes," she agreed. "Soon."

In the ruin of the doorframe, the darkness watched. The game had changed. The mask was slipping. And in the bed, the Viper and the Dragon lay together, plotting the end of the world.