Chapter 424: The Art of Getting Out

Cherion rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his palm, pressing until sharp bursts of static flickered behind his eyelids. He shook his head, tapped his cheeks with two quick, stinging slaps, and forced himself to open his eyes again.

The portrait hadn’t shifted, faded, or transformed into something else.

The woman in the crimson dress was still standing there, painted against the backdrop of a dark, moonlit balcony. Her striking obsidian hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her piercing, deep red eyes stared straight through the room.

It was, without an ounce of doubt, the exact same face from the solemn portrait hanging in the private wing of the Valtrane estate back in the North.

Zarius’s mother.

"What in the actual world..." Cherion whispered, his voice barely a breath against the quiet air. He took a slow, trembling step backward until the backs of his calves bumped against the edge of a low paint table, rattling a pair of dried brushes sitting in a glass jar.

His brain went into absolute overdrive, spinning out a dozen wild, terrifying scenarios at once. Why on earth does King Alderon have a secret, breathtakingly detailed portrait of the late Duchess of Valtrane hidden away in his private gallery?

Were they close in their youth? Is this some decades-old unrequited obsession? A dangerous political secret? Or something far more complicated that could shatter the delicate, fragile peace between the capital and the North?

Every single option felt like a landmine waiting to go off beneath his feet.

I shouldn’t be seeing this. I really, really shouldn’t be seeing this, Cherion thought, his stomach twisting into a hard, cold knot as he stared at the canvas. He was just trying to find a basic, emergency exit, and instead, he’d stumbled directly into... this!

Before he could spiral any deeper into the horrifying implications of the painting, the quiet atmosphere of the gallery was shattered by the sound of faint, muffled voices drifting through the thick oak door leading out to the main corridor.

"...only a brief session, Your Majesty," a stern, formal voice said through the heavy wood. "The court physicians strictly advised against staying on your feet for too long before the evening reception..."

"I am merely checking the varnish on the mountain landscape," a smooth, calm, and unmistakably royal voice replied, a voice Cherion recognized instantly with a cold spike of dread.

King Alderon. "Do not fuss so much, Halrond. I won’t take too long."

Cherion’s blood turned to pure ice.

Oh, absolute shit.

Panic surged through his veins like a physical jolt. He lunged forward, grabbing the heavy cloth off the floor, and yanked it back up over the portrait of Zarius’s mother. His hands shook violently as he hastily smoothed down the edges of the dark fabric, praying to whatever deity was listening that it looked untouched, as if no one had stepped near it in months.

Think, Cherion, thi... no, run! he screamed at himself internally, taking two quiet steps back.

He whipped out the worn leather observation journal he had gotten from the High Priest, shoved it deep into the waistband of his trousers, and re-buttoned his outer coat tightly over his ribs to keep it entirely hidden. He spun around on his heel, keeping his footfalls completely weightless as he darted back toward the dark corner of the gallery where the massive wooden bookshelf stood.

Just keep moving, he told himself, holding his breath as he carefully negotiated his feet around another wooden stand.

From the hallway outside, a faint iron key clinked as it slid into the heavy brass lock of the main door.

Clack

Cherion reached the hidden panel, digging his fingers frantically into the narrow gap between the carved wooden frame and the wall. He braced his boots against the floor and yanked back with every single ounce of strength he possessed.

Nothing happened.

The heavy shelf remained completely flush against the stone wall.

"Come on, secret door!" he hissed through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white as he dug his fingernails into the dark wood and pulled again.

The heavy, stone-backed mechanism barely budged an inch, grinding sluggishly as if a hidden internal latch was actively resisting the sudden pull. Unlike when he had tumbled through from the stone tunnel side earlier, opening the secret passage from inside the studio clearly required a specific lever or a massive amount of brute force, neither of which he had time to figure out.

He cursed the stone door with every foul word he knew, then immediately redirected half of that swearing toward his own muscles. Was this damn thing really that stubborn, or was he just pitifully weak?

No, screw that. He wasn’t weak. He worked out! Sure, his routine mostly consisted of trying to survive daily plot twists, fleeing from high-risk royal drama, and doing the occasional set of push-ups in his room, but he had solid muscle. He wasn’t some delicate, paper-thin aristocrat who got winded from carrying a light book. He had functional, practical strength!

Yet here he was, red-faced and straining against a piece of masonry that treated his entire physical effort like a gentle, insignificant breeze. The realization that a hidden mechanism was casually clowning his self-esteem in the middle of a life-or-death escape attempt was almost as insulting as getting caught in the King’s scandalous secret studio in the first place.

Click

The heavy iron lock on the main door turned with a final sound that echoed through the quiet gallery like a gunshot.

Cherion’s heart slammed violently against his ribs, his breath catching in the back of his throat.

I don’t have time to look for a hidden latch. I don’t have time to be subtle.

Abandoning all caution, Cherion slammed both hands flat against the carved edge of the bookshelf, pressed his shoulder straight into the heavy wood, and threw his entire body weight into a desperate, furious push to force the stone-backed panel open.

Across the room, the heavy brass door handle slowly began to tilt downward.