Chapter 118 Dragged Forward
The iron shackles were thick, crude, and agonizingly heavy.
I watched, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, as Commander Thorne secured the final padlock across Klaus’s broad, scarred chest. The metal mechanism echoed off the cold stone walls of our suite, sounding exactly like a death sentence.
Klaus didn't fight them. He stood barefoot on the polished floor, wearing only his ruined dark trousers. The heavy iron suppressor collar locked tightly around his throat glowed with a faint, hissing red heat. I could feel it—the phantom burn searing into my own windpipe through the blood-bond anchored deep in my chest. The ancient runes carved into the iron were actively suffocating his immortal magic, stripping away the strength of the First King's blood I had just fed him. He was breathing in shallow, ragged rasps.
"Move," Thorne barked, driving the heavy wooden shaft of his halberd hard into the center of Klaus's back.
Klaus stumbled, the heavy chains dragging his weight forward, but he caught himself before his knees hit the stone. He didn't look at Thorne. He turned his head slightly, his sapphire eyes finding me through the dim, morning light of the room.
I am alright, his thought pushed through our tether. It was weak, muffled heavily by the suppressing iron, a faint vibration that felt like a dying pulse. Do not struggle against them, Nerissa. Let them walk.
Two elite guards grabbed my arms. Their blackened steel gauntlets bit deep into my biceps, bruising the soft flesh beneath my ruined dark grey mourning dress. I locked my jaw, tasting the metallic copper of my own blood where I had bitten the inside of my cheek. I refused to give them the satisfaction of a scream.
We were shoved out of the brief sanctuary of the East Wing and into the sprawling, freezing corridors of the Citadel.
The march began.
It was a meticulously designed procession of absolute humiliation. Thorne didn't take the direct route to the Throne Room. He paraded us through the grand galleries and the sweeping, curved staircases where the wealth of the Empire was proudly displayed beneath high, vaulted ceilings.
The halls were not empty. Word of the Grand Admiral's arrest for treason had spread like a wildfire fueled by Lady Vespera’s venomous whispers. The lords and ladies of the court lined the polished black marble corridors. They stood beneath the flickering bronze chandeliers, wrapped in heavy silks and dark velvets, holding crystal glasses of dark wine.
They had come to watch the legend fall.
As we walked past, the silence of the court broke into a chaotic wave of cruel, sharp whispers. I saw their red eyes wide with a mixture of horror and predatory delight. They stared at Klaus’s bare chest. They stared at the thick silver scars carved by the Trench-Stalker, but most of all, their eyes locked onto the dark, necrotic veins of the curse sitting dormant over his heart.
"A feral," a nobleman sneered, not bothering to lower his voice as we passed. "He carries the deep rot. The rumors were true."
"He drank from her," a lady in emerald silk whispered, hiding her fangs behind a delicate lace fan. "He bound himself to the Witch. Disgusting."
I felt every insult hit Klaus. The blood-bond was a flawless, agonizing mirror. I felt the sharp sting of his ruined pride, the heavy, crushing weight of three hundred years of loyal service being erased in a single morning. This was the man who had commanded their fleets. This was the soldier who had broken the Northern Reaches to keep these exact people safe in their opulent towers. And now, they looked at him as if he were a disease.
Ignore them, I pushed the thought down the tether, projecting every ounce of fierce, protective fury I possessed into his mind. They are parasites. They are nothing.
Klaus didn't answer with words. He sent back a wave of heavy, exhausted affection. He didn't care about the sneering court. He only cared about the tight, painful grip the guards had on my arms. Every time I stumbled on the slick marble, every time a guard yanked my shoulder, a spike of helpless, murderous rage flared behind his ribs.
The physical toll of the chains was brutal. The heavy iron links dug into the fresh, unhealed cuts on his wrists. With his magic suppressed by the collar, he was bleeding like a mortal. Drops of pale silver ichor fell from his hands, leaving a distinct, trailing path of ruin on the pristine white stone of the grand hallways.
"Keep up, traitor," Thorne growled, yanking the thick chain attached to the back of Klaus’s collar.
Klaus’s head jerked backward. The burning runes seared deeper into his throat. He let out a low, rough grunt, his boots slipping on his own blood.
"Stop pulling him!" I shrieked, twisting violently against the guards holding me. "He can't breathe!"
"The Admiral doesn't need to breathe, Witch," Thorne mocked, looking back at me with a heavily scarred, arrogant smirk. "He just needs to walk. And you need to learn your place."
The guard on my right backhanded me.
It wasn't a full strike, but the heavy steel of his gauntlet caught my cheekbone. My head snapped to the side. A sharp, stinging pain exploded across my face, and my vision swam with dark, dizzying spots. I sagged, my bare feet dragging on the marble, but the guards simply hauled me upright by my armpits.