Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 65: Chapter 71

Read chapter 65 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 65: Ghosts In The Code The transition back to reality was like being submerged in ice water after a fever dream. The greyscale bled out, replaced by the suffocating weight of the nursery wing’s shadows. Ciara stood trembling, her breath hitching in her throat as she stared at the door where the Goddess—Allen’s mother —had just vanished into the static of the universe. “The air in this wing has a habit of thickening when the Lord’s lineage is concerned,” a voice like chilled silk drifted from the window. Ciara jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. Seraphine hadn’t moved from her spot by the heavy velvet curtains, but her eyes—sharp, calculating, and far too old for the porcelain face they inhabited—were fixed on Ciara. The Marquis didn't look like a jealous rival; she looked like a chess player observing a new, erratic piece on the board. “You look as though you’ve been weighed and measured, Mistress Ciara,” Seraphine said, stepping away from the glass. Her gown hissed against the stone floor. “And by the look of your pallor, the scales did not tip in your favor.” Ciara straightened her back, trying to summon the "barbarian defiance" Lillian had mentioned. “I spoke to her. Allen’s mother.” Seraphine’s brow arched a fraction of a millimeter. “Then you have been granted a privilege even I have been denied. Most only see the Goddess; few meet the Mother.” She walked toward the center of the room, her gaze drifting toward the eight doors that lined the nursery wing—four on the left, four on the right. “Did she explain the architecture of this home to you? Or perhaps the architecture of the future?” Ciara looked at the doors. “She said... she said you were the legacy. That Allen needs your mind to build his empire.” “He does,” Seraphine said simply, without a shred of ego. “Allen is a boy with the power of a god and the social grace of a hermit. He can raise an army, but he cannot draft a tax code. He can conquer a glade, but he cannot negotiate a treaty with the remaining Marquis of the realm. I am the iron in his glove, Ciara. I am the one who ensures that when he builds a city, it does not crumble into anarchy the moment he turns his back.” She stopped in front of one of the nursery doors, her hand trailing over the dark wood. “There are eight rooms here. Four for the heirs of the soul, four for the heirs of the crown. The Goddess was quite specific in her blueprints. In this world, an empire without a lineage is just a tomb waiting to be filled.” The implication hit Ciara like a physical blow. The question of children. Of a future that spanned centuries. “You expect me to just... accept that?” “I expect you to be pragmatic,” Seraphine replied, her voice turning cold. “You hold his heart, Mistress Ciara. You are the anchor that keeps him from drifting into the abyss of his own power. I hold his schedule, his laws, and his borders. Do not confuse the two roles, and we shall get along famously. But if you force him to choose between his heart and his crown, you will be the one who breaks him. And I will not allow that.” Ciara looked at her—this thirty-five-year-old woman in a fantasy game world—and realized the gap between them wasn't just years. It was the weight of an empire. The Great Hall was a cathedral of stone and shadow, but right now, the silence was louder than any shout. On one side, my "Silent Forty" stood like statues made of wax—fleshed squires including the children and Silas , their unblinking stares driving a knife through the morale of the living. On the other side, eighty survivors were huddled near the hearth. They weren't looking at the Squires as protectors; they were looking at them as mirrors. “Lord Voss!” Alric’s voice cut through the murmuring. The bard looked like he’d aged ten years in an hour; all that flamboyant charm was gone, replaced by a desperate, weary edge. He intercepted Nathan and me before we could even cross the hall. “Pray, My Lord, we find ourselves in most dire straits,” A