Chapter 51 Chapter 50: The Gilded Stage
The phantom sensation of a blade's edge against my skin jolted me awake. I was sweating, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, the duvet tangled around my legs like a shroud. The dream clung to me, visions of blood blooming in the darkness, of silent, gleaming steel. In the profound silence of the alien suite, the feeling of isolation was a physical weight on my chest. I desperately, achingly, needed a friend.
Groping in the dim light, my fingers found the cool, familiar shape of my com. I slid it from the nightstand and retreated, back beneath the duvet, creating a cocoon where the only light was the device's soft glow. I knew the reality; there was no net here, no signal that could bridge the gulf between this world and my own. But hope wasn't always logical. I typed the message to Silver anyway, the words a silent plea into the void: Miss you so much, need to be with you. Nanda (Heart)x3
Hitting "send" was a ritual of faith. The message would likely never leave this device, but the simple act of writing it, of casting my vulnerability out into the universe, made me feel a little better. It was as if, for a fleeting moment, our souls had connected across the light-years, and Silver was somewhere, rooting for me.
The comfort was brief. The day demanded armour. I began my routine, the meticulous application of makeup and the donning of clothes now feeling less like preparation and more like a soldier girding for battle. I moved with a new efficiency, having learned from bitter experience just how long it took to execute Marcel’s intricate instructions.
I laid out the day's suit: another masterpiece of tailoring, severe in its lines yet audacious in its cut. The jacket was impeccably structured, but the skirt was incredibly, dangerously short. It was a garment designed to stun, to command a room, and as I looked in the reflector, I had to admit it worked I looked powerful, stunning. And it was completely, utterly wrong for here.
This suit wasn't armour; it was a target. It was made to attract the Nate gaze, to provoke and entice. And after last night, after Vincent's violating hands and Zul's predatory words, attracting that kind of attention was the last thing I wanted. It felt less like a choice and more like a setup, as if I was being deliberately dressed as a lure, and the wolves were already circling.
The morning's agenda was a "light breakfast" in Lord Vincent's suite, a gathering that felt more like a strategic briefing than a meal. The attendees for the day were Zeb the Karn Isa aid and a single, forgettable aide from each of the other Karns Teb and Zul. I struggled to recall the latter with any significance; they blurred into a backdrop of weasel-faced officials.
As yesterday, Chup-chup was my silent shadow, his presence following me like a persistent, albeit now welcome, odour. The initial unease had morphed into a grudging gratitude. His unblinking vigilance was the closest thing to a safety net I had in this gilded cage. Walking down the corridor, every step was a sharp reminder of the suit's impossible brevity. The whisper of fabric against my thighs felt less like a caress and more like a dare, a sensation that was brutally confirmed the moment I entered Lord Vincent's suite.
Saul was standing at his usual post, and his eyes, usually so neutral, flickered over me with a flash of pure, unvarnished disgust before he schooled his features back into stone. It was a look that felt like a physical slap, branding me as complicit in my own objectification.
Luckily, my attire had the same effect on Jode and Ciel as it would have on a pair of clams. They glanced up from their respective data pads and notes, registered my presence with the barest of nods, and submerged themselves back into their work.
“Nanda! Good of you to join us,” Lord Vincent called, his words slightly muffled by a mouthful of food. He gestured grandly with a piece of flaky, golden bread. “You must try this; it is simply heavenly.” I forced a smile and took a seat, picking delicately at the spread before me. It was a feast for the eyes, exotic fruits, warm pastries, spiced meats, yet my stomach churned with a nauseating dread. The very idea of enduring another day in this viper's nest threatened to bring everything back up.
Before the tension could stretch any further, the Zeb arrived, flanked by two other Nates who looked like they’d been carved from the same slippery, opportunistic wood.
“Lord Vincent,” the Zeb intoned, bowing slightly. “May the sun and the moon shine on your endeavours today. Your portys await. I Zeb of Sanctara, Sina of Halora, and Argo of Ardenia will be your guides this day.”
Lord Vincent made a theatrical show of wiping his mouth and dabbing his lips before rising with a speed that belied his age. “Well, gentle-Nates,” he boomed, his eyes then twinkling as they landed on me, “and Nanda, of course.” His smile was a razor blade. “Who could forget Nanda?” Before I could react, he had taken my arm, his grip firm and proprietary. “Let’s not keep Sylva waiting.”
Outside, three large, sleek portys sat idling, their polished surfaces reflecting the pale morning light. The seating arrangement felt deliberately, and ominously, orchestrated. The first was for the Zeb, Lord Vincent, and Saul, a cage for the powerful and their chief protector. The second was reserved for Sina of Halora, myself, and my ever-present porcelain chaperone, Chup-chup. And the rear porty was assigned to Argo, Jode, and Ciel, a clear statement of their perceived utility. As I was guided into the middle vehicle, a cold knot tightened in my stomach. We were not just being transported; we were being divided and packaged, and I was trapped squarely in the middle, The door hissed shut, sealing me in the middle porty with the silent, watchful Sina and the unnervingly still Chup-chup. I was isolated, the sole delegate from Polli-Nation in my own moving tin can, a specimen being transported for display. Through the tinted glass, the city of Sylva unfolded like a carefully staged play.
Our route to the famous Sanctara market in the old harbour town was anything but direct. We glided through vast boulevards lined with monumental, stately houses, their facades of white stone and polished obsidian gleaming in the morning light. They were less homes and more fortresses of wealth, their immaculate gardens guarded by intricate, gilded gates.
But more imposing than the architecture was the military display. Every other square seemed to host a parade or a drill. Rows of troops in sharp, grey-and-silver uniforms moved with robotic precision. Heavy, six-wheeled armoured vehicles sat parked in perfect formation, their gun turrets sweeping slowly as we passed. It was a spectacle of raw power, so blatant that any fool could see its purpose. This was not for local consumption; this was a deliberate show of might from Karn Isa, a flex of military muscle aimed directly at us, the delegates from Polli-Nation. The message was clear: See our strength. Understand your place.
Yet, as we neared the coast and the air began to carry a faint, salty tang, the city's mask began to slip. The grand boulevards narrowed into crowded thoroughfares. The gleaming obsidian and white stone gave way to weathered brick, faded paint, and buildings that leaned against one another for support. The people changed, too. Gone were the leisurely strolling elites; here were Nates and very few well covered Pollis, with purpose in their steps and the grime of labour on their hands and clothes. This was the working heart of the city, the engine room whose existence the stately houses on the hill preferred to ignore. We were leaving the stage-managed theatre of power and entering the real, breathing, and far more complex world of its people.
The approach to the Sanctara market was unnervingly silent. The usual cacophony of a bustling harbour square, the calls of vendors, the chatter of crowds, the din of commerce, was entirely absent. In its place was a sterile, militarized quiet, broken only by the low hum of our portys' engines. Troops in crisp, grey uniforms had formed a solid perimeter around the entire market square, their backs to us, their weapons held at a ready, non-threatening, but unmistakable posture. They were a human barricade, sealing the area and allowing only our convoy to pass through the checkpoint. It was a display of control so absolute it felt suffocating.
When the doors of our portys hissed open and we stepped out, the emptiness was jarring. We were not greeted by a vibrant market, but by a ghost town curated for an audience of one. The vast, sun-bleached cobblestones of the square stretched out, empty, between the colourful stalls. The only other people present were the market stall owners themselves, standing rigidly at attention before their wares, their faces carefully neutral. We were a tiny island of diplomats and observers adrift in a sea of enforced solitude.
The "tour" began, a meticulously orchestrated pantomime of commerce. We were shown every luxury under the sun that the Sylvan race produced or traded: rivers of silk so fine they felt like mist, hand-woven rugs depicting intricate historical scenes, perfumes in delicate crystal bottles that promised scents of forgotten gardens, and jewellery glittering with locally mined gems. Artisans displayed hand-carved rushém boards of rare woods, each piece a masterpiece. Each trade Nate, when we paused at their stall, would bow deeply, their eyes never quite meeting ours, and deliver a rehearsed explanation of their craft in hushed, respectful tones.
And all the while, the sun beat down. Even though it was only mid-morning, it baked the unprotected square, reflecting mercilessly off the pale cobblestones. The air grew heavy and thick, wavering with the heat. The fine dust stirred by our feet clung to the sheen of sweat on my skin. The beautiful, expensive perfumes in the air began to cloy, mixing unpleasantly with the scent of hot stone and my own growing discomfort. This wasn't a market; it was a stage, a performance of prosperity under the blinding, unforgiving eye of the sun and the ever-present watch of the Karn's soldiers.