Chapter 27 Portraits of a Ruler
PORTRAITS OF A RULER
The words lingered long after he said them…
‘I would do anything you asked of me… anything but letting you go.’
It carried more weight than the shattered marble behind us, more finality than the echo of stone splitting at his will.
He had destroyed half his hallway without hesitation, had carried me through the wreckage as though I were something fragile and irreplaceable.
And yet the one thing I wanted, he refused to grant me.
The simple question… why?
Why would I matter enough to him that he would seemingly do anything for me, including destroying parts of his home? Do anything but let me go?
Perhaps it wasn’t such a simple question after all.
But one way or another, I was going to get my answers.
At least this was what I told myself. Although, it did little to comfort me or to calm the uncertainty I felt pressing in from all sides.
I just wished I knew what his end game was here, so that I could prepare myself for it.
So that I could steel myself against whatever was beginning to grow inside me.
The way he handled me with such care and comfort, anyone would think I was something precious to him and not the mortal burden who had infiltrated his club.
It was maddening, as I had no clue why. And one look at the man who still carried me in his arms told me I wasn’t about to get my answers any time soon.
As he continued down the corridor with me held securely against him, his arm firm at my back, the weight of it all once again pressed quietly into my chest. The air was clearer here, the destruction left behind us, but the question would not loosen its hold on me.
“You know, you can put me down now,” I said quietly after long, silent minutes had passed.
His mouth curved faintly at one corner, and with my face barely inches from his, it became impossible not to see how dangerously handsome he was.
“I could,” he agreed, but then added,
“But I won’t.”
I decided to give up after that, knowing that if he wanted to carry me, then he would.
As clearly, Oblivion was the type of captor that wanted to keep me close.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I knew he felt it when his gaze lowered slowly to me.
However, my own drifted further down the corridor, and that was when I noticed it.
Not just the hallway but the alcoves beyond. Every single plinth was empty. Every decorative shadow replaced with rubble and pale fragments that were now scattered across dark stone.
Which meant that he had not stopped at what I could see, but he had gone so far as to erase every statue in his home.
“Oblivion…” I breathed his name again, and his body tensed against me. As if he was hearing it whispered from my lips for the first time and it meant something to him. Something profound and definite.
But then his gaze followed mine briefly before returning to my face, untroubled by the scale of what he had done.
“They were stone… You are not,” he said evenly, and I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say to that.
So, I remained silent as the corridor widened and opened into a small entrance hall.
Positioned directly ahead, stood a tall, decorative wooden door.
One that was carved with a battle scene that had been etched into the wood in intricate relief.
Demonic figures suspended in a frozen clash of power and defiance.
Blades were arced through the air, with wings flared wide.
Some of which were whole and radiant, and others that were fractured and splintered, caught mid-fall.
Yet at the center stood one figure unmoved, amid the chaos.
His wings weren’t spread out in the attack like most, but instead folded tightly behind him.
Even in carved stillness, there was a commanding authority to him, the kind that did not need to prove itself.
A long sword held in one hand, as if he faced half the army alone.
I couldn’t help but question who the warrior was and if the man who held me now was the answer.
Oblivion’s steps slowed as we approached the door, and only then did he lower me carefully to my feet.
His hands remained at my waist a moment longer than necessary, steadying me, before he withdrew.
Then he turned toward the door, as though what lay beyond it belonged to him in a way nothing else did.
However, before he could open the door, I reached out as my reflexes kicked in. I placed my hand on his forearm to get his attention. He paused with his hand on the ornate metal handle before he cast his eyes down at where I freely touched him. Then, before I could chicken out, I spoke.
“Thank you.” The words came easily as I played back how he had treated me with such care.
His gaze then lifted to mine, and I noticed the way the light caught along the sharp line of his cheekbone, softening it. The way the warm glow brightened the blue in his eyes.
“You need not thank me,” he replied, his voice steady as always.
“I do, because there aren’t many who would have acted that way and you…” I paused a moment longer before I spoke again.
“You could have left them,” I said quietly, and when he continued to wordlessly watch me, I pressed on.
“You could have told me they wouldn’t hurt me and made me walk past them anyway.
You could have mocked it or dismissed it, but you didn’t.
” I finished with a breathless sigh, because it was all true.
He could have easily belittled my fear like others before him had.
He could have asserted control and forced me to endure it.
But instead, he had altered his own space to accommodate it.
That mattered to me.
His gaze held mine for a fraction longer, the silence between us making me fidget. Something he also noticed as my hands twisted the material of my skirt. Which was most likely why he reached out and took my hand in his, before bringing it to his lips so that he could kiss the back of my palm.
He then inclined his head once, the gesture sweet and almost formal as he told me softly,
“You’re very welcome, Eliza.”
He opened the carved door and shifted out of my way, his motion unhurried, as if this moment meant something to him. I was also left wondering where this thought came from as I stepped through.
However, my thoughts faltered the second the space around me transformed without warning. The ruin of marble and dust disappeared behind me, replaced by a vast entrance hall that seemed impossibly grand for the steel shell I had once thought housed it.
Black and ivory marble stretched beneath my feet in a precise geometric pattern that gleamed faintly beneath the glow of an enormous iron candelabra suspended high above.
Dozens of candles burned within it. Their flames were steady yet alive, sending trembling shadows upward into elaborate plaster molding that climbed the walls and disappeared into darkness.
It was beautiful.
And yet something about the scale of it, the silence of it, pressed faintly at the edges of my nerves.
Even more so when I looked ahead to find a sweeping staircase that curved upward at the far end of the hall.
Its banister carved in dark oak that matched the paneling which lined the lower walls.
To one side, a great marble fireplace stood carved with intricate detailing, its fire lit but low, the heat barely reaching where I stood.
The flames reflected in a tall mirror mounted above the mantle, doubling the light and deepening the illusion of space.
The air carried the scent of old wood and polished stone, touched with something darker beneath it, something warm and unfamiliar that lingered in the back of my throat.
Behind me, the door shut, and I flinched before I could stop myself.
The sound wasn’t loud, yet it reverberated through the hall with a depth that felt final.
In the next instant, warmth closed in behind me as Oblivion stepped forward.
His hands settling firmly yet gently at the tops of my arms, steadying rather than restraining.
His touch was grounding, the heat of him cutting through the chill that had crept along my spine.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low near my ear, the word brushing over me softer than the echo of the door had been.
“You’re safe here.” The reassurance in his tone didn’t feel rehearsed but more like instinctive.
Especially when his hands remained there a moment longer than necessary.
His thumbs barely shifting against the fabric at my sleeves as if ensuring I was truly steady, before he stepped back, releasing me without reluctance.
Then, in a gesture that felt both old-fashioned and quietly commanding, he extended his arm.
An invitation or an expectation, I didn’t know, as for a moment I simply looked at it.
The gentlemanly behavior should have felt absurd given how I came to be here.
He had basically kidnapped me, threatening to toss me over his shoulder and carry me out of my home, screaming if necessary.
Yet despite this, right now, it strangely fit in with who he was and where we now stood.
As it didn’t feel, in any way, mocking or performative.
No, instead it felt natural to him. Expected even.
As for my own instincts, part of me knew that I should refuse.
My hopeless mind trying to cling on to the memory of what I was to him.
That I was his prisoner. Which was why I had to question my sanity when I reached for him as though he were someone safe to cling to.
Someone to help me navigate my way through this new madness.