What Awaits Beyond The Gate
Aurelia's eyes opened—
—and the world ended.
Not with a scream. Not with a gasp. But with the slow, sickening realisation that she had, for a single unforgivable moment, slept against him.
Warmth still clung to her cheek where his chest had risen, steady as an executioner's drum.
Move.
Her body obeyed before her mind could flinch. She recoiled, the velvet cloak hissing away like a serpent withdrawing fangs. Cold air bit her skin. She welcomed it.
He did not move.
Of course, he didn't.
But his gaze—oh, his gaze—cut through her like a blade through smoke. Not angry. Not amused. Just aware, the way a god is aware of an ant crawling toward an altar.
"Next time," he said, "be careful who you lie on, fool."
The word fool settled into her ribs like a rusted nail. Not an insult. A diagnosis.
She did not react. Did not let her breath stutter.
But beneath her sleeves, her fingers curled into fists so tight her knuckles wept white.
The window beckoned, a guillotine's edge of light.
Outside, the mist didn't drift—it suffocated. A living thing, thick with the scent of wet earth and something darker, something that slithered down her throat like a promise.
Then—
—the gates.
They didn't emerge. They unfolded, as if the world had peeled back its skin to reveal the rot beneath.
Gold.
Not the gold of kings or coins.
The gold of sacrificial altars.
Towers of metal—no, not metal, bone dipped in sunlight—rose higher than mercy.
Soldier clutched swords with fingers too long, their faces stretched into silent howls. No rust. No decay. Just perfect, pitiless hunger, carved into every line.
Dark figures stood at the gate, their demeanour commanding as they bowed deeply, as if acknowledging the return of a powerful deity. Their presence was striking, a testament to their unwavering respect and the significance of the moment.
Her body betrayed her.
She leaned forward.
Not in awe.
In surrender.
The way a fox, caught in a snare, stops struggling when it feels the teeth of the trap.
The way a woman, finally understanding the knife at her throat, tilts her head back to bare her neck.
A whisper slithered through her, colder than the mist:
You thought you were free, but this was only the suffering.
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The carriage rocked forward—
—and the gates swallowed them whole.
Not iron gates. Not even gates meant for men. These were the jaws of a god-beast, fanged and gilded, grinding open not with groans but reverence, as if the very world bent back to admit its favourite executioner.
She didn't breathe. Couldn't. The air thickened, choking on incense and rot.
This was no homecoming.
It was a return to the slaughterhouse.
Her heartbeat skittered like a rabbit's feet on marble. Her throat burned from the inside out. Here—within these walls—her childhood had died screaming. And now, the corpse had come back to kneel.
The palace towered above them, obscene in its grandeur. Obsidian columns veined with gold twisted like bones. Statues of weeping saints bowed over the archways, their mouths stitched shut with chains.
And waiting on the stairs—
King Mortifer.
The man who wore his crown like a butcher wears blood. Cloaked in crimson, his grin split his face like a wound. Beside him, his three wives stood in silence, all pale, all draped in the same silver-gold silks like sacrificial brides preserved in wax.
The king raised his arm.
"My son is back!"
His voice broke the sky.
And the silence was shattered.
A roar thundered through the courtyard—inhuman, savage. The dark human beings cloaked in shadow and flesh fell to their knees. Some wept. Others chanted. One clawed at her own throat in ecstasy.
"Tenebrarum."
They spoke the name like a prayer to be punished.
Aurelia didn't look at him. She didn't need to. She could feel him. The centre of gravity. The eye of the storm. He wore black, as always—no embroidery, no jewels—only a mask and silence, and still he outshone them all like a black star swallowing light.
The king's other sons flanked the stairs like statues cursed with envy.
"He's not supposed to be given this title," Kaelen hissed, his mouth barely moving.
Another brother—eyes narrow as slits—nodded, but said nothing. Hate sat on their shoulders like vultures waiting to feed.
Tenebrarum didn't answer. Didn't bow. Didn't even look up.
He descended from the carriage like the war god he was—slow, steady, deliberate. And Aurelia followed.
Her legs barely moved.
It wasn't fear. It was a memory. The stone under her feet had once been splattered with blood. Her blood. The scent of it still lived in the cracks.
She stepped down, eyes lowered, body trembling.
And then—
They saw her.
Their faces twisted—not with recognition, but confusion. Disgust. Interest. All the things she feared.
A ripple passed through the gathered court like rot beneath a silken rug.
"Who is she?" one wife whispered.
"A concubine?" another asked, voice sharp with venom.
"No," the head queen breathed, a grin blooming across his mouth like decay. "Another slave."
From the palace's right wing, behind a veil of arched pillars and ivory banners, Matrona emerged.
The crowned princess.
Draped in a robe of wine-red velvet that clung like melted rubies, she moved with trained silence. No announcement. No fanfare. Just the quiet authority of a woman who knew the floor belonged to her.
Her crown glinted—a circlet of spears woven in gold.
But it was her eyes that struck first.
They landed on Aurelia—and stopped.
Everything in her expression froze. A second too long. A breath too sharp.
It was subtle—so subtle none of the men noticed—but women like Aurelia felt it. The flicker of calculation. The inward tilt of the chin. The way her fingers, bare of rings, curled softly at her sides.
She had seen a threat.
Aurelia froze.
No chains bound her—but she had never felt more shackled.
The palace did not welcome her. It studied her. Doors opened like eyes. Curtains whispered. The floor remembered her. Every inch of this place wanted her to kneel.
She did not speak. Not yet.
But inside—
Something broke.
Not loudly. Not cleanly.
Like a wing crushed beneath a boot.
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To be continued...