Atlas's POV
"Good day, General!" the palace knights greeted with a respectful bow as I strode into the palace.
I acknowledged their greetings with a nod, my focus fixed on the task ahead. The report Vincent requested had been delayed long enough, and I was determined to finish it quickly and return to Avador.
The long hallway stretched before me, its many corners and familiar walls dredging up memories I'd rather forget.
A heaviness settled in my chest as I walked, the air growing thick. This place, once my home, now felt like a gilded cage, suffocating and oppressive.
As I approached the royal court, a group of people rounded a corner at the long left end of the passage at the entrance in a flurry, their hurried footsteps echoing in the vast space. Among them was Richard, his face a canvas of exhaustion and distress.
"General," he greeted weakly, adjusting his glasses as his gaze dropped to the floor. "You're here already."
"Richard." I stopped, eyeing him critically. "Don't tell me the King has another excuse to avoid me today."
"Well, uh, he's expecting you, but I suggest you don't go in now," Richard replied nervously, his voice trembling as he attempted a chuckle.
"And why is that?" I asked, irritation simmering inside me.
"It's… hard to explain," he stammered, his discomfort almost amusing.
"Then don't bother." I brushed past him, unwilling to waste more time.
"B-but, Atlas—"
I ignored him, my pace quickening. Vincent had delayed long enough. As I neared his office, a faint grunt reached my ears, followed by the unmistakable sharp click of heels echoing down the hall.
I turned at a corner sharply, only to collide with someone. The force sent her stumbling backward, but I caught her wrist just in time. She wobbled, her free hand clutching my other arm for balance.
Our gazes locked. My eyes widened in recognition and confusion. "Iris?"
Vincent's fiancée.
We'd never spoken, but I'd seen her around the palace in our youth. She looked almost different now though I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Before either of us could speak, Vincent's furious voice roared from down the hall.
Iris flinched, her eyes darting around like a cornered animal. Without another word, she broke free and bolted past me, clutching her gown as she ran.
My feet moved before I could think, curiosity igniting a fire within me. Why was the woman who once clung to Vincent like her lifeline now fleeing from him?
I caught up with her quickly, grabbing her wrist again.
"You're looking for somewhere to hide, aren't you?" I asked, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself.
Her wide eyes met mine, confusion and desperation written across her face.
"Follow me."
Without waiting for her response, I pulled her down the hallway I'd just come from. Vincent's voice thundered closer, but I didn't stop. We reached a polished section of the wall in the stretched hallway, and I pulled on a lever disguised as one of the candle holders. The wall split open, revealing a dark, narrow secret passageway.
"Inside. Quickly," I said, ushering her in before stepping in myself. The wall closed behind us with a soft click, sealing us in shadowy silence.
Iris collapsed against the wall, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven pants. Only then did I realize I was still holding her wrist. I let go, and she sank to her knees.
"T-thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"You're welcome." I leaned back against the cold stone, watching her catch her breath.
"Damn, I'm really out of shape," she muttered, more to herself than to me.
Amusement bubbled in my chest at her unexpected remark, but I stifled it. The Iris I remembered was poised, almost doll-like in her devotion to Vincent. This candid side of her was… surprising.
"Do you think he's gone already?" she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
"Not sure." I crossed my arms. "Vincent's a persistent bastard."
Her head shot up, her eyes wide with agreement. "Ugh, finally! Someone gets it."
Her exasperated tone made me chuckle quietly. I'd expected outrage at my insult, not validation.
"What did I miss?" I thought, amused.
"Why did you save me?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she asked.
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I watched her—the way she clutched her arms like they were the only thing holding her together, the slight tremble in her breath. A cornered prey. But not broken. Not yet.
"I didn't save you." My eyes narrowed slightly, my tone detached but deliberate. "I saw someone desperate and made a choice. That's all."
Her lips twitched as If she didn't quite believe me.
I shifted slightly, my figure still towering in the dim light, my words laced with a quiet intensity that left no room for argument. "Now, why were you running from him?"
She sighed deeply, rising to her feet and smoothing her gown. "It's a long story," she said, her voice laced with irritation.
My lips pressed Into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought about dropping the subject altogether. But then, words spilled out, curiosity tugging at the edges of my mind.
"I've got time." I straightened, my gaze holding hers. "And I'd rather not waste it with silence."
I made sure my words carried no softness, only a quiet insistence.
"Well… actually it's not really a long story." She began. "I simply no longer want to be wed to Vincent. And I thought he'd happily accept that we end our bond and engagement but now he's acting crazy and refusing to." She continued, her voice rising with a quiet rage.
"Oh?" I thought silently, I had expected any kind of answer except that. The famous Iris Valenhart known for her obsession with Vincent and would cut a maid's tongue for simply looking at him was now sick of him? "This is more interesting than I thought."
Her words lingered in the air, hanging like smoke, and I couldn't stop myself from letting out a low chuckle, humorless and dry. "Of course, he's acting crazy."
My eyes narrowed slightly, studying her as though piecing together a puzzle. "You thought he'd let you go easily?"
"Yes. He has always hated me so it makes sense he'd accept." She answered defiantly, her brows knitting in anger at my reaction.
I studied her carefully, letting the weight of her words sink in. Hate her? Vincent? It almost made me laugh—almost. If there was one thing I knew about Vincent, it was that he didn't let go of what he thought belonged to him just like his father.
"Hate you?" I repeated, my tone low and measured. Still leaning against the cold wall, my arms crossed over my chest as I continued to watch her, like I was trying to read a book written in a language I didn't know.
"Vincent doesn't hate what's his. He's not built to let go of anything, no matter how much he cherish or breaks it and I don't even think he knows that himself." I continued.
A flicker of shock crossed her flushed face painted with dozens of questions as she held my gaze.
I stepped forward, just enough to close the gap slightly, my voice dipping into something quieter, darker.
"You could've told him you were running to the ends of the earth, and he'd still find a way to drag you back."
Her expression shifted, conflicted, but I pressed on, curious despite myself. "What I don't get is why you're so desperate to get away."