Chapter 13: Through The Vents
It meant that the Purge had begun.
Oliver's hands trembled as he slammed the door to his chamber shut, his breaths shallow and quicker than before. The cold air bit at his lungs as his mind raced. Was he doing the right thing? Was hiding truly the answer?
He turned in a frenzy, eyes darting to his wardrobe, his drawers, and the tiny bag he had readied and hidden beneath his bed at the time he entered the room. Perhaps he could just sneak out and disappear. Maybe he could live in the slums under a new name. Maybe—
But his body wouldn't move. His legs gave out beneath him, and he went back to the corner of the room where he had sat before the first scream, curling into himself.
His mind screamed for action, but his body recoiled in fear—a primal, paralyzing dread that had a name: Seraphina, and the ushered dread she brought with her.
Then, a sound—a scream. Not the clinking of glasses, not laughter or music. A real scream—raw, human, terrified, and too close for any form of comfort.
Oliver froze.
Before he could process it, the door burst open. A soldier stormed into the room, a bloody blade in hand, fresh from running a resisting servant through the gut. Their eyes locked.
"There you are," the soldier hissed. "Come here, royal thwart. Lady Seraphina has named rewards for your royal bloodline."
Oliver backed away in horror. The soldier lunged, but instinct took over. Oliver dove across the bed, tumbling over the other side and yanking open the vent near the floor. He slipped in just as the soldier swiped at his foot.
"Get back here!"
A hand reached into the vent, but Oliver twisted, kicked back, and felt the sharp satisfaction of his heel meeting the soldier's eye.
"Agh!"
He crawled deeper, his hands scrambling, knees scraping.
All around him, screams echoed like a chorus of death. He whispered to himself over and over, like a chant. "Not again. Not again. Not again."
But he kept moving, because something deep within him, no matter how frightened, refused to be caught.
His mind raced. Could he make it to the sewer systems? The garden tunnel? The old well?
Then he heard it.
A scream.
It wasn't like the others. It rang clearer. Sharper. Personal.
It was Velma's.
His heart stopped. Then it surged with fire.
He turned, crawling through the cramped metallic guts of the castle, chasing the sound. Turning corners, sliding through grime and soot until finally, he came upon a vent with thin slats. He pressed his eye to them.
There she was.
Velma, standing her ground, bloodied, panting, yet still unbroken. Before her stood Sir Fen Bolton—towering, calm, his blade dripping with the blood of nobles he had slaughtered.
But before Velma, he looked like a man savoring his meal.
Velma spat blood to the side, her posture shaky but still proud. She faced Bolton like a warrior.
Oliver knew Velma. She was kind and reliable, but that also came with an abnormal level of stubbornness.
It was a stubbornness she wore and had grown proudly, especially against people who tried to bully her.
After struggling for self-preservation in this place—against these many half-siblings and stepmothers—for so long, it was only natural she had developed a certain immunity to bullying.
But this was not the best time for such a good trait.
Oliver stared, stunned. This wasn't like before. In the memory of the past he knew so well, on this night Velma had been weakened, paralyzed by the poison like the other nobles. Even more, she had been unwilling to fight because she was trying to shield him from all the chaos.
But now, because she hadn't drunk, because she'd gone looking for him earlier... she was free to act. And she was fighting.
But she was outmatched.
Then again, considering how the nobles of the empire got their strength and capability from those dungeons, there was no way Velma ever stood a chance.
Even if she were a heaven-defying genius in this world with the ever-thinning Aether in the air, it was not possible to win against a noble of the Somara Empire.
Sir Bolton moved with ease, slashing, toying. And still, Velma resisted—until finally, he caught her. A hand around her neck, lifting her off the ground. Her legs kicked, her lips bled.
But through the pain, her eyes wandered.
And found him.
Through the slats, Velma had somehow managed to lock eyes with Oliver.
For a moment, the chaos vanished.
She was shocked, but then—through cracked lips, a pain-racked body, and bloodstained teeth—she whispered, "Run."
Oliver's heart shattered.
He remembered her corpse from his past life. Battered. Broken. Unrecognizable. Her final moments had been in agony. For all the suffering that he had seen and faced firsthand at the hands of the Somara Empire, there was none as heartbreaking as hers.
Because hers had been personal.
It was also the death that made him realize that no matter how much he tried to please the people of the Somara Empire, it would never be enough. And that, in their eyes, he was only slightly more useful than trash. Of course, that realization had not stopped him from trying.
Right now, Oliver couldn't move. Those terrible memories seemed like they were going to merge with reality much earlier than he thought.
Velma's blood was real. Her pain was real. And he was still frozen.
Sir Bolton frowned. Noticing her gaze wasn't on him, his twisted enjoyment soured as he followed her line of sight.
And then he saw Oliver.
Oliver. In the vent. Wide-eyed. Pale.
Sir Bolton smirked. "You little rat."
He lunged.
Oliver tried to retreat, scrambling backward, but Bolton's hand caught his leg.
Oliver screamed, kicking, thrashing, and clawing at the metal. "Let me go!"
His foot struck true—once, twice. A sickening crunch.
Bolton growled, tightening his grip. "And where do you think you are going, little rat? Come and join your loving sister and become my pet."
Oliver screamed louder, not just in pain, but in rage and terror.
"NOT AGAIN!"