Chapter 22
Lina's POV
Isabella rose from her chair with liquid grace, her lips curving into a cold smile that made my skin crawl. "It seems His Majesty has decided to grace us with his presence," she murmured, her blue slitted eyes gleaming with malicious anticipation. "How fortunate for you, mongrel."
The door swung open, and Augustus strode in wearing full ceremonial armor. Behind him came Moros and Grok. The dragon-king's presence filled the space like a physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders until my bones ached.
"Your Majesty," Isabella breathed, sinking into a deep curtsy before moving toward him with practiced grace. "This wretched creature has destroyed my most treasured tapestry. I was about to have her flogged to death."
Augustus's gaze slid past her and locked onto me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter. When he spoke, his voice was winter itself. "Lina Valerian. Again."
I forced myself to meet his gaze without flinching, my burned hands throbbing where the guards had wrenched them behind my back. "Your Majesty."
"Did you destroy the tapestry?" Each word was clipped and precise.
"No, Your Majesty." My voice came out steadier than I'd expected. "I repaired it exactly as instructed. The enchantment was intact when I reported to Brenda. Someone cut it after I left."
Isabella's laugh was sharp as shattered crystal. "Listen to her lies! This half-breed mongrel deliberately sabotaged my property!" She pressed closer to Augustus, her fingers curling possessively around his arm. "She's been trouble since she crawled into the Chasm. She probably thought ruining my tapestry would force you to notice her again."
The words hit like physical blows, but I kept my expression blank. Augustus's gaze never left my face, and the silence stretched until the air felt brittle enough to shatter.
"Is that your theory, Isabella?" he said at last, his tone carrying a dangerous edge. "That a half-blood slave with burned hands would suddenly sabotage your property for attention?"
Before I could answer, Isabella's voice split the air. "Of course she did! This duskborn mongrel is vicious and calculating—she should be thrown into the smelting furnace and burned alive!"
I turned my head to the right, tracking the words through my good ear. Her insults landed like knife-strikes, but I set my jaw and said nothing until the sharpness of them dulled.
"I checked every connection point before I handed it in, Your Majesty," I said quietly. "The enchantment was intact. Every thread was properly sealed."
Augustus tilted his head, something faintly amused and entirely cold entering his expression. "So your claim is that someone deliberately framed a lowly slave?" The words were deliberate, drawn out, as if he were tasting each one. "How very dramatic."
I raised my trembling right hand and pointed. "Brenda. It must be her."
Brenda shrieked instantly, her voice cracking with panic. "It was Grok's idea! Lord Grok told me to do it—I had no choice!"
Grok dropped to one knee before the words had even finished leaving her mouth. "Lies," he said, his voice smooth and controlled despite the sweat gleaming at his temple. "Your Majesty, I swear on my oath of service—she's inventing stories to save herself. I gave her no such orders."
I watched the two of them with cold eyes. Grok was Augustus's creature. He would never have arranged any of this without explicit instruction from above. But saying that aloud would strip me of every remaining advantage I had. I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
Isabella rounded on Grok, her voice cutting sharp as shattered glass. "You dare stand in my chambers and lie to my face? Did you or did you not interfere with my property?"
"My lady, I assure you—"
"Don't insult my intelligence!" Hatred rose thick and burning in my chest as I watched him grovel and deny. He would do it indefinitely. He had no reason to stop.
Then Brenda broke entirely.
"He gave me gold coins!" She was sobbing now, her words tumbling over each other. "Lord Grok gave me gold coins and told me to arrange for Lina to repair the tapestry alone—without witnesses! He said—he said she needed to suffer, that once she had nothing left she would remember to be grateful for His Majesty's kindness!"
Grok's hand flew out. The crack of his palm across her face silenced the room.
Brenda stumbled, blood welling from the corner of her mouth and smearing across her chin.
"Moros." Augustus's voice was soft—the most dangerous register. "Have your men take her below for questioning."
My heart dropped like a stone. He was going to silence her. Moros moved toward the door and spoke quietly to the waiting guards. Two of them stepped in, seized Brenda under the arms, and hauled her toward the exit. Her scream rose shrill and desperate—then was abruptly muffled as something was pressed over her mouth—and she was dragged out of sight.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Augustus turned back to the room, his golden eyes traveling unhurriedly from the bloodstain on the floor to Grok, and finally to me. "Now," he said softly, "it's your turn."
Grok cleared his throat. When he looked at me, his expression had shifted into something almost paternal. "Lina." His voice was low, carefully reasonable. "You're an intelligent girl. All you need to do is show a little humility—offer His Majesty a sincere apology—and all of this goes away. Everything."
I stared at the floor. Of course. This was the point of every layer of this trap—not punishment, but submission. Grok had never been acting alone.
Isabella had gone very still. Then, slowly, her head turned toward Grok. "I beg your pardon?" Her voice was dangerously quiet. "You want this mongrel to crawl to His Majesty? You want her to grovel her way back into his good graces—back into his sight?"
"My lady, please—" Grok started backpedaling immediately, his hands raised. "I only meant a formal acknowledgment of fault, nothing more, there's no question of anyone's position—"
"Shut your mouth." Isabella's eyes blazed as she stepped toward him. "Do you think I'm a fool? This was clearly engineered to manufacture sympathy for her. Manufacture gratitude. A pretty little story where the poor suffering slave has no one to turn to but the king's mercy. I should have seen it from the beginning!"
"It was your idea, wasn't it?" she continued, her voice sharp with a different kind of suspicion. "Make her suffer long enough, and she'll come crawling. That's your logic. That's what this whole performance has been." Her chest heaved. "And now I'm even starting to think you're the one who stole His Majesty's pendant!"
My body went rigid.