Chapter 8: The Gilded Prince

Chapter 8: The Gilded Prince

Chase’s confinement lasted precisely thirty-seven hours. Thirty-seven hours of pacing his cage, the ghost of his sister’s voice warring with the memory of the shadow creature's whispers, until the two became an indistinguishable symphony of his own damnation. He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the workshop, the flash of unmaking, the fine grey ash.

The realization that the magic was the same hadn't brought clarity; it had brought a terrifying, personal imperative. This wasn't just a job anymore. It wasn't penance. It was an infection, and he was the source.

He’d called for Mordred on the thirty-eighth hour. When the enigmatic leader of the Lexmordant appeared, Chase didn't waste time with pleasantries. He laid it all out: the accident, the unique energy signature of the spell-slag, the perfect, horrifying match with the creature from the ruins.

Mordred listened without interruption, his ancient eyes unreadable. When Chase finished, the silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the spire.

"This is a significant development," Mordred said, his voice a low murmur. "It confirms my suspicions. The rot is not merely a force; it is a contagion. A sentient grief. And you, Mr. Ambrose, are uniquely attuned to it."

"I'm not attuned to it," Chase snarled, the words tasting like acid. "I think I made it. Or a version of it."

"Origin is irrelevant for now," Mordred replied, a hint of something that might have been sympathy in his gaze. "What matters is that you've given us a vector for investigation. A weakness. These creatures are drawn to resonant trauma. They feed on it. To understand them, we must understand their first meal in this realm. We need to know where and how this grief-mana is coalescing."

"And who would know about the city's secret heartaches?" Chase asked, a bitter edge to his voice.

"There is only one man who has made a kingdom of New Camelot's secrets, vices, and regrets," Mordred said. "Sir Lancelot."

The mission was authorized against, as Mordred put it, "Sir Kay’s most strenuous and colorful objections." Chase was released from his room and placed under the direct supervision of Commander Elara. Walking beside her and the silent, imposing Borin, he could feel the weight of their mistrust. He was no longer just the unstable new recruit; he was the patient being escorted from the asylum, permitted a brief walk in the yard under the watchful eyes of his keepers.

They didn't travel through the gritty, decaying streets this time. They took a high-speed, silent mag-lift that ascended into the gleaming, sterile heights of New Camelot proper. They disembarked on a glittering promenade high in the city's upper levels, a place of pristine chrome, holographic advertisements, and air that smelled of nothing at all.

Their destination was a club called "The Gilded Lyre." Its entrance was a waterfall of pure light that parted as they approached. Inside, the contrast with the Lexmordant's spartan functionality was dizzying. The air was thick with the scent of exotic incense and spiced wine. The sound was a symphony of soft music, tinkling laughter, and the subtle chime of crystal glasses. Illusions of fae-lights danced in the air, and patrons in silks and jewels lounged on plush velvet couches, their faces masks of genteel hedonism. This was Lancelot's domain: the glittering, beautiful, and deeply rotten core of New Camelot's elite society.

They were led to a private balcony overlooking the main floor. A man stood with his back to them, gazing down at the revelry. He was tall and lean, dressed in a suit of shimmering silver silk that seemed to drink the light. When he turned, Chase understood why he was a legend.

Sir Lancelot du Lac was impossibly, ethereally handsome. His face was all elegant lines and charismatic angles, framed by a cascade of silver-blond hair. But it was his eyes that held you captive—a warm, liquid gold that promised paradise and damnation in equal measure. He radiated an effortless grace, a stark contrast to Sir Kay’s rigid brutality and Mordred’s coiled stillness. His smile was a work of art, brilliant and utterly devoid of warmth.

"Commander Elara," Lancelot purred, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "And the mighty Borin. To what do I owe the pleasure of this official visit? Have I failed to pay my tithes to the Knights' Benevolence Fund again?"

"We're here on Lexmordant business, Sir Lancelot," Elara said, her voice all sharp professionalism. "We require information."

Lancelot's golden eyes slid past her, past Borin, and landed on Chase. They widened, not with surprise, but with the delight of a connoisseur discovering a rare and dangerous vintage. His smile deepened.

"Ah," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over Chase from head to toe. "And you've brought Mordred's latest stray. I've heard the whispers. The man who shouts so loudly the stones themselves fall down." He took a step closer, circling Chase slowly. "They do you a disservice. It's not a shout. It's a resonance. The delicious, terrifying scent of unbound chaos. You smell of ozone… and ash."

The final word was a stiletto, slipped precisely between Chase's ribs. This man knew. Of course he knew. He made it his business to know everything. The Lex System on Chase's arm flickered, flashing a tiny amber warning. [Stress levels rising.]

"We're investigating the nature of the entities appearing on the Old Town perimeter," Elara interjected, trying to regain control of the conversation.

Lancelot waved a dismissive, elegant hand, never taking his eyes off Chase. "Phantoms. Grief-eaters. Boring. They've been a nuisance for decades. But they've been stirred up recently, haven't they? They've grown bolder. More focused. Almost as if they've scented a kindred spirit."

He stopped directly in front of Chase, his proximity unnerving. "Tell me, Ash Wizard," he murmured, the nickname both a compliment and a profound cruelty. "When you broke your new toy," he gestured vaguely toward the Lex System, "what did it feel like? That moment of pure, untainted release. Did it feel like freedom?"

Chase met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "It felt like a memory," he said, his voice a low rasp.

Lancelot's eyebrows shot up in genuine appreciation. "Honest. How refreshing." He laughed, a charming, musical sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Very well. You've amused me. You want to know where the grief-eaters are nesting? Where the rot is deepest?"

"That is the objective," Elara said, her patience clearly wearing thin.

Lancelot turned his back on them, returning to the edge of the balcony. He gestured down at the glittering city, at the pristine towers and sterile promenades. "You all look up here, at this shining lie we've built. You look at Mordred’s grey fortress of laws, and Kay’s steel cage of order. You're all looking in the wrong direction."

He then pointed a single, elegant finger downward, toward the very foundations of the gleaming spire they were in.

"All rot has roots," Lancelot said, his voice taking on a cryptic, theatrical tone. "And the oldest roots in this city are the ones holding up the King's throne... or what's left of it. Arthur was a man who buried his mistakes deep. He thought if you built a high enough tower on top of them, no one would ever see the cracks in the foundation."

He turned back to them, his golden eyes glittering with mischief and malice. "Look beneath the stones of the old court. Seek the King's regrets. You might find they look remarkably like your own."

With a final, knowing smirk aimed directly at Chase, Lancelot picked up a crystal flute of champagne from a nearby table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, this has been entirely too much work for one evening. My establishment and its secrets are, as always, at the service of New Camelot. For a price."

He gave them a shallow bow, dismissing them as thoroughly as a king dismissing a courtier.

Elara turned on her heel, her face a mask of controlled fury. Borin grunted, a sound of deep disapproval. As they walked away, Chase glanced back. Lancelot was watching him, a thoughtful, predatory expression on his perfect face. He raised his flute in a silent toast.

They had their clue. But Chase knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that they had just traded one problem for another. He was a piece on the board, and the Gilded Prince had just made his first move.