Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 51
The Strongroom.
That's what the sign had said on the wall. Before Marcel had knocked me unconscious. Before everything went dark and I woke up in chains like an animal waiting for slaughter.
Cold industrial space. High ceiling disappearing into shadow. Rusted chains hanging like dead vines from anchor points older than the monarchy. Water dripping from pipes that probably hadn't been touched since the war. Stone walls thick enough to swallow screams.
And me. Hanging like meat in a freezer. Shirtless. Barefoot. Blood painting patterns down my chest and arms that looked almost artistic in the bad light.
I tried to move. Failed. The chains held firm. Anchor bolts driven into stone older than the monarchy itself, into foundations that had survived revolutions and bombings and centuries of London trying to tear itself apart.
Appropriate. Poetic, even.
The prince bound in his mother's emergency vault. Tortured in a place meant to save him.
Marcel would appreciate the irony.
“Ah. You're awake.”
His voice slithered through darkness. Cultured. Calm. Like we were having tea instead of this. Like this was just another state function and I was late arriving.
I turned my head. Sent lightning through my neck. Saw him standing by a table I hadn't noticed. Metal. Surgical. Covered with tools that caught light like promises of worse things coming.
“You're tougher than your mother,” he continued, moving closer. Blade glinting in his hand. Small. Surgical. Meant for precision, not mercy. “She screamed sooner.”
The words hit like fists. But I swallowed the rage. Forced my voice to work through a throat that felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.
“You talk too much.”
Blood bubbled between my lips. I spat. Watched it hit the floor. Dark. Too dark. The kind of dark that meant internal bleeding, organ damage, things that would kill me slow if someone didn't find me soon.
How long had I been bleeding?
Marcel circled me. Lecturer in a museum. Professor examining a specimen he'd created himself. The knife traced patterns in the air. Never touching. Not yet. Building anticipation like this was foreplay.
“All I ever wanted was the crown,” he said. Voice soft. Almost wistful. Like he was confessing something beautiful instead of monstrous. “And your father, your sainted father, was too weak to see what needed to be done.”
“You murdered her.” The words scraped. Raw. Each one costing me. “You murdered a Queen.”
He stopped in front of me. Eye level. Close enough I could smell his cologne. Expensive. The kind that costs more than most people make in a month. The kind that probably smelled the same eighteen years ago when he'd ordered my mother killed.
“No.” His smile was gentle. Patient. Like he was explaining mathematics to a child. “I killed sentiment. I killed hesitation. I did what had to be done so the kingdom could survive.”
Then he drove the knife into my side.
Shallow. Precise. Cruel.
The scream ripped out before I could stop it. High. Broken. Echoing off stone walls that had heard screams before. That would hear them again. That were built to swallow sound and give nothing back.
“And look how strong it made you,” Marcel whispered, pulling the blade free. Blood followed. Hot. Wet. Too much. “Look what you became because I took her from you.”
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pain filled everything. White. Blinding. Absolute. The kind of pain that made you forget your name, your purpose, everything except the single burning need to make it stop.
“Eighteen years,” he continued. Still calm. Still conversational. Like he was discussing the weather instead of carving me apart. “Eighteen years you've been hunting. Building yourself into a weapon. All because of me.”
He wiped the blade on my skin. Cleaned my own blood off with my own flesh. The intimacy of it made my stomach heave.
“I made you, Your Highness. I'm the architect of everything you are.”
“Fuck you.” The words came through clenched teeth. Through pain that wanted to drown me. “You're nothing. Just a parasite. Feeding on grief.”
His expression shifted. Admiration twisted into something darker. Something that looked like disappointment mixed with rage.
“Perhaps.” He set the knife down. Picked up something else. Brass knuckles. Old. Military. Stained with rust that probably wasn't rust. “But I'm the parasite that won. That's what matters.”
The first punch caught my jaw. Snapped my head sideways. Rattled teeth. Filled my mouth with copper and the taste of my own failure.
The second hit my ribs. Cracked something. Maybe several somethings. Air exploded from my lungs. Wouldn't come back. Drowning on dry land.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Methodical. Controlled. Each blow calculated for maximum damage without unconsciousness. He'd done this before. Knew exactly how much a body could take before it shut down. Knew how to keep you awake and screaming.
He wanted me awake. Wanted me to feel every second. Every crack. Every break.
“You think you're fit to rule?” He punctuated each word with impact. Fist to ribs. Fist to kidneys. Fist to anywhere that would hurt but not kill. “You and your pet soldier? You'll burn this empire to ashes.”
I couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything except hang there and bleed and try to remember how to breathe through ribs that were definitely broken now. Multiple fractures grinding against each other with every shallow gasp.
“Look at you.” He grabbed my hair. Yanked my head up. Forced me to meet his eyes. “Broken. Bleeding. Helpless. This is what your love did. This is what caring costs.”
I forced my working eye to focus. Forced words through broken lips that were already swelling shut.
“At least I'll burn it honest.”
The smile that spread across his face was beautiful. Terrible. The kind of smile that belonged on angels before they fell.
“There it is,” he breathed. “There's the fire your mother had. The thing that made her dangerous.”
He released me. Stepped back. Studied me like art. Like I was his masterpiece and he was deciding if I was finished or if I needed more work.
“You could have been magnificent,” he said softly. Like he meant it. Like he genuinely mourned what I could have become. “You could have been me.”
“That's the point.” I managed. Tasted blood. Swallowed it. Felt it slide wrong down my throat. “I'd rather die than become you.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” He wiped blood from his knuckles. Almost tender. “You already are. You just haven't accepted it yet.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He moved back to the table. “You hunt in darkness. Kill without hesitation. Hide behind a mask while you deal violence to those you deem worthy. How is that different from what I do?”
“I don't murder mothers.”
“Semantics.” He lifted something from the table. Metal. Long. A brand. The Devereux crest at the tip, all sharp edges and cruel angles. “Everyone murders something. You just prefer your victims breathing.”
He set the brand in a torch mounted on the wall. Flame licked metal. Turned it orange. Then red. Then white hot. Heat radiated across the room. Made sweat break out on skin that was already slick with blood.
“Let me give you a crown worthy of your legacy,” he said.
Horror flooded through pain. Cold. Immediate. The kind of fear that lived in your spine and made you understand exactly how small you were.
“No.” I pulled at the chains. Metal bit deeper. Blood ran warmer. Fresh wounds opening on top of old. “Don't. Don't you fucking dare—”
“Your mother wore the real crown,” he continued. Like I hadn't spoken. Like my fear was just background music to his symphony. “You'll wear mine. A reminder of who really rules this kingdom.”
The brand glowed. Ready. Hungry. White hot metal that would sear through skin and muscle and mark me permanently. Make me his in a way that would never heal.
He lifted it from the flame. Approached. Slow. Savoring my fear like wine.
“This will hurt,” he said. “More than anything you've ever felt. More than losing her. More than loving him.” He smiled. “And you'll wear the scar forever. Every time you look in a mirror. Every time Viktor touches you. You'll remember this moment. Remember who really owns you.”
“I'll kill you.” The promise came out broken. Desperate. Everything I'd tried not to be. “I swear to god I'll—”
Footsteps.
Not distant. Close. In the room. Behind me.
Heels clicking on concrete. Measured. Confident. The sound of someone who belonged here.
Marcel's smile widened. “Ah. Perfect timing.”
I turned my head as far as the chains would allow. Saw movement in the shadows. A figure stepping into the light.
Familiar silhouette. Familiar walk. Familiar everything that made my brain refuse to process what my eye was seeing.
“Hello, Sebastian.”
Élodie's voice.
Élodie's face.
Élodie standing beside Marcel like she'd been there all along. Like this was where she belonged.
She wore black. Tactical gear that fit like it was custom-made. Hair pulled back severe. No makeup. No softness. Just sharp edges and cold eyes that looked nothing like the woman who'd comforted me after nightmares.
“No.” The word came out small. Childlike. “No. Élodie. He has you. He's making you. You need to—”
“Need to what?” She moved closer. Graceful. Predatory. Nothing like the gentle woman who'd fixed my camera loops and covered my lies. “Run? Fight back? Save you?”
She stopped beside Marcel. Close. Comfortable. Her hand rested on his arm in a way that spoke of familiarity. Practice. Time.
“I'm exactly where I want to be.”
The world tilted. Gravity failed. Every certainty I'd built my life on shattered like glass against stone.
“You're lying.” But I heard the doubt in my voice. Saw the truth in her eyes. “You're lying. You wouldn't. You—”
“Helped you?” She tilted her head. “Fixed your security footage? Covered your tracks? Oh, Sebastian.” Her smile was sad. Pitying. “I was never helping you. I was helping us track you.”
Marcel's hand covered hers. Squeezed. The gesture was intimate. Practiced. The kind of touch that spoke volumes about how long this had been happening.
“Eighteen years,” she said softly. “Eighteen years I've been beside you. Watching you. Documenting everything. Every secret. Every vulnerability. Every person you cared about.” She paused. “Did you really think I fixed those camera loops to hide you? I was creating evidence. Building a file. Making sure we had everything we needed when the time came.”
“Why?” The question came out broken. “I trusted you. I loved you. You were—”
“Family?” She laughed. Soft. Musical. The same laugh she'd used when we were children and I'd done something foolish. “I was never your family, Sebastian. I was your keeper. Your warden. The leash they put on you after your mother died.”
She moved closer. Crouched in front of me so we were eye level. Her hand came up. Touched my face. Gentle. The same way she'd touched me a thousand times before.
“I do love you,” she said. “In my way. Like you'd love a beautiful, broken thing that you're going to have to put down eventually.”
I jerked away from her touch. The chains screamed. My shoulders screamed louder.
“You gave him everything.” My voice cracked. “My routes. My schedule. The workshop. Viktor's background. You gave him us.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No shame. Just acknowledgment. “Every night you went out, I knew where. When. How long you'd be gone. Every time you met Viktor somewhere you thought was secret, I made sure Marcel knew.” She stood. Brushed imaginary dust from her tactical gear. “The docks ambush? I told them you'd be there. The gala? I adjusted the security protocols to give them access. Every time you almost died, Sebastian, it was because I helped set the trap.”
“The children's hospital.” The words came out hollow. “The toys I made. You knew about those too.”
Her expression softened. Just slightly. “Those were beautiful. Genuinely beautiful. That's what made it hurt.” She paused. “That's what made it necessary.”
“Necessary?” The rage came back. Hot. Clean. Better than the grief trying to drown me. “Murdering my mother was necessary? Torturing me? Destroying everything?”
“Yes.” Marcel's voice. Calm. Final. “Because your father was weak. Because your mother made him weaker. Because the kingdom needed someone willing to make hard choices.”
“Like killing innocent people?”
“Like removing obstacles.” He set the brand down. Picked up the knife again. “Your mother was lovely. Truly. Charming and kind and everything a queen should be. She was also making your father soft. Making him hesitate when he needed to act. Making him care about approval ratings instead of what needed to be done.”
“So you killed her.”
“I removed an obstacle.” He tested the knife's edge with his thumb. Blood welled. He didn't flinch. “And Élodie helped me do it.”
The words hit like bullets.
I looked at her. Really looked. Saw the truth written in every line of her face.
“For what? Power? Money? What could possibly be worth this?”
“Everything.” She said it simply. Like it explained the world. Like it justified murder and betrayal and eighteen years of lies. “I want everything your family has. Everything I was never allowed to have.”
She moved to Marcel. His arm came around her waist. Pulled her close. They fit together like puzzle pieces that had been cut specifically for each other.
“I was twenty-five when Marcel approached me,” she continued. Voice steady. Unashamed. “I'd spent my entire life being the perfect ward. The loyal companion. The girl who smiled and curtseyed and knew her place.” Her eyes flashed. “Do you know what it's like? To watch a family have everything while you're just the charity case? The orphan they took in to look good?”
“We loved you.” The words came out broken. “My mother loved you. My father—”
“Your father saw me as decoration.” She pulled away from Marcel. Moved toward the table. “A pretty face to make his son look good. Someone to keep you occupied while he ran the kingdom. I was never family, Sebastian. I was a convenience.”
“That's not true—”
“It's exactly true.” She picked something up. Small. Sleek. A knife that looked like it cost more than most cars. “When your mother died, do you know what I thought? I thought finally. Finally there's an opening. Finally I could be more than just the girl in the background.”
Understanding hit like ice water. “You wanted to be Queen.”
“I wanted to be the power behind the throne.” She corrected. “I wanted what I'd earned through years of service. Years of being loyal. Years of being exactly where I was told to be.” She tested the knife's edge. “Marcel saw it. Saw my potential. Saw what I could become if I stopped playing by their rules.”
“So he convinced you to help him.” My voice was barely a whisper. “To betray us.”
“He showed me the truth.” She turned. Knife loose in her grip. Moving with it like it was part of her body. “That power isn't given. It's taken. That the only way to rule is to be willing to do what others won't.”
“Like murdering my mother?”
“I didn't kill your mother.” She said it flatly. “But when Marcel told me his plan afterward, when he explained what needed to happen, I understood. Your mother was making your father weak. Weak kings fall. When kings fall, kingdoms bleed.”
“So you helped him cover it up. Helped him destroy evidence. Helped him—”
“I helped him build a better future.” She moved closer. Knife catching light. “And then I positioned myself exactly where I needed to be. Close to you. Close to your father. Close enough to shape both of you into what the kingdom needs.”
“What you need,” I corrected. “What Marcel needs.”
“Same thing.” She reached up. Touched my face with her free hand. “Your father is breaking, Sebastian. I've been watching it happen for years. Soon he'll need someone. Not a queen. Just someone to lean on. Someone who knows how to run a kingdom while he grieves.”
“And once you have him dependent—”
“I rule.” Simple. Final. “Not as Queen. As the hand that guides the King. As the voice that whispers in his ear. As the power everyone has to go through to reach the throne.”
“You're insane.” I pulled at the chains. Metal bit deeper. Fresh blood ran warm. “Both of you. You're fucking insane.”
“We're pragmatic.” Marcel's voice. Calm. “We're what the kingdom needs even if it doesn't know it yet.”
“The kingdom needs murderers?”
“The kingdom needs people willing to do what's necessary.” Élodie was right in front of me now. Knife held loose and easy. “People who understand that sometimes you have to cut away the rot to save the whole.” She paused. “I am sorry it has to be you, Sebastian. I really am. You deserved better than this.”
“Then stop.”
“I can't.” She lowered her hand. “Not when we're this close. Not when your father is finally breaking. Not when everything I've worked for is within reach.”
“Viktor will stop you.” I forced the words out. “The Sentinels will stop you. My father will—”
“Your father doesn't know I exist.” She said it flatly. “To him, I'm just the loyal ward. The girl who's been nothing but helpful and kind and exactly where I need to be.” She paused. “By the time he realizes, it'll be too late. You'll be dead. He'll be broken. And I'll be exactly what he needs to survive.”
“He'll never love you.”
“He doesn't have to love me.” Her smile was cold. “He just has to need me. Love is what got his wife killed. Need is what will let me rule.”
She stepped back. Nodded to Marcel. “He's ready.”
