THE CLOCKWORK CAPTIVE

Chapter 5: Locked In Love

"Now," Serafia said, her voice dropping to a velvet hum. "Let’s discuss your 'lifeforce,' shall we?"

Zavi felt the air leave his lungs. He stumbled back, his shoulder blades hitting the cold, marble-veneer of a decorative pillar. "What? What are you talking about?"

Serafia tilted her head, her gaze sharp, piercing through his feigned confusion. "You mutter in your sleep, Zavi. And you stare at the air as if you’re reading a script only you can see. Do you think I’m blind? You’re counting something. Something that’s running out."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just sleep-deprived. You’d be, too, if people were trying to hunt you down."

She stepped closer, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor. She wasn't just close; she was occupying his entire field of vision. "You’re a terrible liar. But it’s cute. Do you really think I don't know who you are?"

"I'm Zavi. I’m a noble candidate. I'm exactly who you think I am."

"You’re a man who doesn't belong here," she corrected, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Her touch was icy. "You smell like different soap, you use phrases I've never heard, and you look at this entire estate like you’re inspecting a trap you’re trying to disarm. Are you a spy? An assassin? Or are you just… lost?"

Zavi laughed, though it sounded more like a dry wheeze. "A spy? Really? Have you seen my sword skills? I tripped over my own feet, Serafia. If I were an assassin, I’d have taken myself out months ago."

"Maybe you’re just playing the fool to get under my skin. And let me tell you, it’s working."

"It’s not a performance. I just want to survive the next twenty days without ending up in a gilded coffin."

She pinned him with a look of intense, unsettling adoration. "You’re so dramatic. Why would I kill you? I’ve spent months building this world around you. I want you to be the centerpiece, not a corpse."

"Well, you’re doing a great job of making me feel like a taxidermy project."

"I only want you to be mine, Zavi. Is that so hard to understand? I’m the most powerful woman in the city. I can give you everything."

Zavi looked at her, searching for a crack in the mask. She was terrifyingly sincere. "I don't want 'everything.' I don't want the titles, the power, or the weird silver collars. I want a quiet life. I want to be a nobody. You have no idea how much I crave being utterly, blissfully invisible."

She frowned, her fingers trailing down his neck, tracing the pulse point that was hammering against his skin. "Why would anyone want to be a nobody? That sounds like a slow death."

"It’s not a death. It’s freedom. You wouldn't get it. You were born at the top of the mountain. You’ve never had to worry about where your next meal is coming from or if the world is going to delete you because your time is up."

She went quiet, her expression shifting. She leaned in, her forehead resting against his. "If you’re so desperate to be a nobody, why did you let yourself be signed up for this selection? You could have run."

"I didn't have a choice. I woke up here, and the gates were already locked."

"Liar," she whispered again, but there was no bite in it. "You have a history, don't you? A humble one. Something you’re hiding behind all this biting wit."

Zavi saw his chance. He needed a distraction, something to pivot the conversation away from his 'lifeforce' and the ticking clock. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You want the truth? You want to know why I act like this?"

"I’m listening."

"I grew up in the Slag District," Zavi lied, his voice thick with rehearsed sincerity. "My father was a blacksmith who spent his life fixing hinges for people who didn't know his name. I watched him work until his hands bled, and nobody ever thanked him. I swore I’d never be someone who begged for scraps. I act arrogant because if I didn't, the world would just walk over me. I’m not a noble, Serafia. I’m just a guy with a chip on his shoulder who’s tired of being ignored."

Serafia pulled back, her eyes wide with a flicker of genuine shock. "The Slag District? That’s… that’s a ruin. Nobody makes it out of there."

"Exactly. I’m not 'perfect.' I’m just a guy who learned how to pretend that I belong at the table."

She looked at him, and for the first time, her predatory edge softened into something resembling sympathy—or perhaps, a deeper obsession. "You’re not a noble. You’re a survivor. That makes it even better."

"It makes it a mess," Zavi countered, stepping away toward the fireplace. "Which is why you should just let me leave. You don't want a scavenger at your side."

"I don't care where you came from, Zavi. I care about who you are now."

Before he could respond, a sharp, rhythmic tapping echoed from the window. Zavi froze. A snowy owl, sleek and silent, landed on the balcony ledge, a crimson scroll tied to its leg.

Serafia walked to the window, opened the latch, and retrieved the scroll. She broke the wax seal, her brow furrowing as she scanned the elegant, royal handwriting.

She looked up, her expression unreadable. "It seems your 'noble' debut has caught the attention of the palace."

Zavi felt his stomach drop. "What now?"

"The Crown Prince," she said, dangling the scroll in the air. "He’s personally invited you to a private audience tomorrow morning. He says he wants to discuss the 'unconventional' methods you used to secure your victory against Jeremy."

Zavi stared at the scroll, the blue timer in his peripheral vision pulsing a soft, ominous red. [20 DAYS REMAINING.]

"I don't do audiences," Zavi said, his voice cold. "Tell him I'm busy."

Serafia smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "You don't refuse the Crown, Zavi. If you don't go, he won't just invite you—he’ll send the guard to fetch you. And I don't think you’d like the conditions of their hospitality."