“Elena,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, chains clanking on his wrists. His lips twisted into a bitter grin. “Come to gloat?”
In the dim confines of the dungeon cell, she edged nearer. The lantern’s light caught the sharp planes of her cheekbones, her lips forming a faintly triumphant line. Her free hand hovered near the ring of keys at her hip, the metal jingling faintly as she walked. She had always been this way: controlled, precise, and calculating.
“No, Marcus,” she said, her tone edged with iron. “I’ve come to end this foolishness.”
The torch sputtered in its sconce, sending shards of flickering light against the damp stone walls. At first, he thought it might be a trick of exhaustion, but as his vision cleared, his sister remained, real as ever.
The cell was sparse—a crude wooden bench against one wall, a tarnished chamber pot shoved into the corner, and iron shackles binding his right wrist to the floor. Marcus sat up slowly, wincing as the metal bit into his skin.
A brittle laugh escaped him, echoing through the dungeon’s silence. “You think chains and executions can kill faith?” His voice was rough. “You mean this for evil, but—” He gestured vaguely, rattling the chain at his wrist. “It doesn’t matter what you do. The truth always outlives tyrants.”
Elena tilted her head. “Faith.” She drew the word out as if weighing it. “Let’s not pretend that’s what this was about for you. You were never a believer, Marcus. You latched onto the Candlemakers to spite Father. To spite me.”
Through the bars, she stood cloaked in crimson, the rich fabric flowing around her like poured wine. Her dark hair framed a pair of cruel and animated eyes—Father’s eyes.
Marcus’s smirk faltered, replaced with something colder. “Go on, Elena. Rewrite my story if it helps you sleep.”
“See? You can’t even deny it,” she said, releasing a soft sigh. “He’s dead now, Marcus. Gone. The man who made you rebel. The man you hated so much. But I need you… Threadneedle needs you.”
She let the words dangle between them like a baited hook.
Marcus saw the ring of keys at her side. “And what?” he asked. “I swear loyalty to the Crown? To you?”
“To your family,” Elena corrected. Her voice was coaxing now. “We’re blood. You don’t belong with those deluded, superstitious idiots. Martha’s dead. The Candlemakers, no more. Their faith, their stories, forgotten, just like every other failed rebellion.”
Marcus breathed out a laugh. “Forgotten?” he echoed. “Is that what Father told you? That he’d burn it all down, purge the faith from this land?”
Something crossed Elena’s face, breaking her composure—a hesitation.
“It doesn’t matter what Father thought,” she said coolly. “He’s gone.”
“No,” Marcus said, leaning forward despite the chains pulling at his wrists. “The world is as he tried to make it—by force, by fear. But did he ever tell you why he chose this place? Why Threadneedle?”
Elena’s fingers tightened around her keys. “What are you talking about? Father heard the voice of Escheron the Bound, first Lord of Threadneedle.”
Marcus let out a short, bitter laugh. “A ghost from the Age of Crowns and Chains? That old story? How many times did we hear about the fall of Rome, the rise of Threadneedle—a fortress raised in the mountain pass, a seat of judgment, trade, and secrets?”
“Well, Escheron was the first of the Edric legacy…”
“But is it really him the stones remember?” Marcus interrupted. “The tower, Elena. The one Father was so obsessed with. Did you never wonder about it?”
Her silence was answer enough.
“This wasn’t just about stamping out faith to serve the Crown,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the cell. “This was about power. True power. Ask yourself, Elena—why was Kael sent here? Why does the Crown even care about this backwater, frozen place?”
Her brows knitted together, but she didn’t speak at all.
“They feared him,” Marcus pressed, his voice gaining strength. “They were going to execute Father. If whoever killed him hadn’t beaten them to it—”
“Martha,” Elena interrupted.
“You believe that?” Marcus shook his head, his grin darkening. “You’re more of a fool than any of the Candlemakers.” He let the moment stretch, then added, softer, “Have you ever heard of the Covenant?”
Pause. “Another myth,” Elena replied, but there was something in the way she said it, like someone repeating a story she wished she could forget.
“No.” Marcus’s voice was steady. “It’s real—at least, Father believed it was. The doomsday device, a bomb to end worlds. Can you imagine the power someone would have—Father, the Crown—if they held the keys to that? World-changing power.”
Elena drew closer, something faltering in her usual mask of control. “Right here? In the tower?”
“Why do you think he chose Threadneedle?” Marcus pressed. “Why do you think he spent years shut away, poring over texts, searching for a way to control it?”
Her breathing quickened, but she brushed it off with a scoff. “Fairy tales. After the First Android War, the code was destroyed. By…” She looked up, trying to remember. Then she shook her head, more certain than she wanted to be. “The Council of Seven. It was lost forever.”
“Not destroyed,” Marcus corrected. “Fractured. The Council splintered the Covenant key across the multiverse so no machine could ever reassemble it. Father swore something—or someone—was hunting the shards, forging a living key the tower needed to draw them back.”
Elena’s expression hardened, but Marcus saw the flicker of doubt before she could hide it.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Marcus tried to pull it out of her. “Oona.”
Elena flinched. His smile widened, with no amusement in it. “Father spent countless nights locked away, trying to unlock her—why? All those hours in the study… what do you think he was really chasing?”
The keys at Elena’s belt jingled faintly. She gathered her composure. “Impossible. The Crown purged every scrap of tech after the Last Android War.”
“Thirty-five years ago, yes. But not everything,” Marcus said, voice low. “They left the tower intact,” he continued, glancing up toward the mountainous spire outside the dungeon walls, “gambling on the power buried in the Covenant. Suppose one android—one survivor—endured there. It could rebuild what the Council scattered after the First Android War: the Covenant’s doomsday code, fractured across countless worlds. Suppose it found a way to reproduce… to reassemble—”
Elena’s breath caught. “Reassemble?”
“The Covenant key,” Marcus whispered, watching fear bloom in her eyes.
“Elena,” Marcus said, his voice gentler now. “This isn’t over. You can lock me away, kill me, do whatever you think will protect your throne. But the truth—about the tower, about Oona—it’s coming. And the Crown won’t save you from what’s waiting.”
She didn’t speak. Her fingers tightened around the keys.
Then, without looking at him, she dropped them to the floor. The sharp clang echoed through the dungeon.
And without another word, Elena turned and walked away.