Chapter 4 Cage of Proteges

The West Wing of the Sanctum didn’t look like a prison. In fact, it resembled a five-star boutique hotel. The hallways were lined with velvet wallpaper, and every door was carved from solid mahogany. But as I walked down the corridor, I could feel the weight of the air. This wasn’t a sanctuary of luxury; it was a gilded cage where the birds were taught to sing before they were plucked.

“This is your room, Rank 15,” the guard said coldly, swinging open a door at the end of the hall.

I stepped inside. The room was spacious, shared by four girls. As I entered, the laughter and whispering died instantly. Three pairs of eyes locked onto me—eyes filled with curiosity, judgment, and in one case… pure venom.

“So, the trash from the Iron Roots has finally been washed,” a voice cut through the silence.

She was sitting on the largest bed near the window, brushing her long blonde hair. This was Dominique. Even without an introduction, I knew exactly who she was by the way she carried herself. She exuded the arrogance of a woman who had never been told no. I had studied every player in this hell before I ever set foot inside.

“I’m Dominique. Rank 1,” she announced, not bothering to stand. “And you… you look like a stray cat Julian found in a dumpster.”

I didn’t offer a reply. I simply walked toward the only empty bed, clutching my small canvas bag—the only belongings they allowed me to keep from the outside world.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Dominique snapped.

In a blur of motion, she was on her feet, blocking my path. She was taller than me, draped in a silk robe that cost more than my entire life in the slums. Before I could move, she snatched the bag from my hand.

“What’s in here? Scrap metal? Or maybe some leftover rats from the club?” she laughed, yanking the zipper open.

“Give it back,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.

She didn’t listen. She upended the bag, shaking it until my meager possessions clattered onto the floor: an old comb, a small notebook, and a tiny scrap of fabric. It was just a piece of silk—charred at the edges, faded, but still undeniably elegant.

Dominique picked it up, her lip curling in mockery. “Is this it? A piece of rag? This is what you value?”

Before I could reach for it, she gripped the fabric and ripped it down the center. Tear.

The sound of the fabric rending felt like the scream of crows in my ears. The scent of vanilla in the room vanished, replaced by the metallic tang of blood and the heavy, cloying fragrance of white lilies.

FLASHBACK: THE GARDEN OF GHOSTS

I remembered that day. One week after Papa’s arrest. The mansion was silent, save for the crying of the wind. I ran to the garden, looking for my mother. I found her among the lilies—her favorite white blooms. She was wearing her favorite silk robe, the one with the intricate floral patterns.

But the white silk was no longer white. It was soaked in deep, visceral crimson. My mother lay there, her wrists slit, her eyes open but staring at nothing. The scandal hadn’t just taken our wealth; it had taken her soul.

I sat there, cradling her cold body, the blood staining my hands. That was the moment I stopped being a child. That was the moment I realized that death isn’t the enemy—it’s the people who drive you to it. Looking at her, I realized I no longer feared the dark, or the cold, or the end. I had seen the worst the world could offer, and I had survived it.

Dominique laughed as the two pieces of charred fabric drifted to the floor. “Oops. It was garbage anyway.”

Slowly, I knelt to pick up the torn silk. My hands weren’t trembling. They were steady. Too steady. When I looked up, Dominique’s smile faltered. She saw something in my eyes that made her recoil—a void so deep it threatened to swallow her whole.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I whispered.

“And what are you going to do, Rank 15? Rule number five: Insolence is punished,” she challenged, forcing a brave face.

Before the situation could escalate, a small, waif-ish girl hurried over and quickly gathered the rest of my things. “Dominique, that’s enough. Tess might hear us,” she whispered.

This was Lulu. Her eyes were wide and brimming with the kind of fear felt by someone who has seen too much but lacks the power to fight back. She handed me my notebook, her hands shaking slightly.

“I’m Lulu,” she whispered. “Welcome to the West Wing. Don’t mind her… she just wants everyone to know she’s the Queen.”

I nodded at Lulu, a silent alliance forming in the shadows. I tucked the torn pieces of my mother’s robe into my pocket. Dominique huffed and retreated to her bed, but I knew this was only the opening move.

Moments later, the door opened and Tess entered. She was the Mentor of Elegance—a woman who moved as if she were floating on water. She tapped a silver cane against the floor, demanding our attention.

“Line up, Proteges,” Tess commanded. Her English was flawless, her accent the height of upper-class Vesperian. “It is time for the evening recitation. To survive the Sanctum, you must embody the laws that govern it. Eris, since you are our newest… guest, you shall lead.”

I stepped forward. Every eye was on me. Julian was likely watching through the cameras, and Viveca was undoubtedly waiting for me to stumble. But I had memorized these rules the second they were handed to me in the prep room.

I stood tall, my voice clear and cold, echoing off the marble walls.

“The Twelve Commandments of the Sanctum,” I began.

“First: The Death of the Past. Your former self is deceased. You shall not utter nor answer to your birth name. You are an Alias—a ghost in a beautiful shell.”

(I am not Margo Valderama, I thought. Margo died in the garden with her mother.)

“Second: The Silent Observer. A mistress has two ears and one mouth. Listen to every secret; speak of none. Knowledge is the only currency the Sanctum accepts.”

“Third: The Custody of Beauty. Your body is no longer your own; it is the Sanctum’s asset. Any scar, blemish, or unauthorized alteration is a defacement of Thorne property.”

(I felt the burn of the scars on my back—reminders that I was already ‘defaced’ by their fire.)

“Fourth: The Curfew of Shadows. By 10:00 PM, all Proteges must be confined to the West Wing. Crossing into the East Wing—specifically the Conservator’s quarters—without a summons is an act of high treason.”

(The East Wing. Where Julian sleeps. Where the secrets are kept.)

“Fifth: The Hierarchy of Desire. Respect the Ranking Board. The Top Protege claims first right to attire, sustenance, and targets. Ambition is encouraged; insolence is punished.”

(Dominique smirked at this, her eyes darting to her Rank 1 badge on the wall.)

“Sixth: The Prohibition of Heart. Emotion is a defect. You shall not fall in love. Any romantic entanglement with a fellow Protege, staff member, or Mentor will result in immediate ‘disposal’.”

(Love is a luxury I can no longer afford.)

“Seventh: The Debt of Elegance. Poise is your permanent skin. You must move, speak, and eat with the grace of a Queen. Vulgarity is the shortest route to the Cold Room.”

“Eighth: The Confessional Duty. Every interaction with a target must be reported in clinical detail to Madame Viveca or the Conservator. Omission of truth is considered theft.”

“Ninth: No Touch Without Command. Physical contact between Proteges and Handlers is strictly prohibited unless it occurs during a sanctioned Simulation or Refinement Session.”

(I remembered Julian’s hand on my jaw in the prep room. He was already breaking his own rules.)

“Tenth: The Blood Oath of Secrecy. What is seen in Ivy Heights stays in Ivy Heights. To leak the Sanctum’s existence to the outside world is to sign your own death warrant.”

“Eleventh: The Loyalty to the Crown. Your devotion belongs to the High Sovereign and the House of Thorne. They are your creators; they are your only protection from the filth of the Iron Roots.”

(They aren’t my creators. They are my destroyers.)

“Twelfth: The Finality of Graduation. Once deployed, you remain property of the Sanctum. There is no retirement. You are a mistress until you are discarded, or until you cease to breathe.”

As I finished the last commandment, a heavy silence settled over the room. Tess nodded, her expression unreadable.

“Perfect recitation, Eris. You have the mind. Let us see if you have the discipline.”

Tess left the room, the rhythmic click of her cane fading down the hall. The lights dimmed automatically, signaling the start of the curfew.

The other girls climbed into their beds, whispering in the dark. Lulu offered me a small smile before turning over. But I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.

In the darkness of the West Wing, the rules felt like a noose around my neck. They wanted to strip me of my name, my heart, and my freedom. They wanted me to be a perfect, mindless mistress.

But as I lay there, clutching the two pieces of my mother’s robe in my pocket, I realized twelve rules weren’t enough to contain what I had become.

I am the ghost they invited in, I thought.

In my head, I added a thirteenth commandment. One that wasn’t written on gilded plaques or taught by Tess. One that I would live by every single day until this house was nothing but ash.

“Thirteenth: Kill them. Kill them all.”

I closed my eyes, the image of white lilies stained with red flashing behind my eyelids. The game has truly begun. Dominique wants to be the Queen of this cage, and Viveca wants to be the Goddess of this empire.

They have no idea that the girl at the bottom of the rankings is the one who is going to burn the board.

I am Eris now. And Eris doesn’t know how to forgive. She only knows how to wait.

The air in the room was cold, the scent of expensive linen and lavender trying to mask the rot beneath. But I could still smell the Iron Roots. I could still feel the grit under my nails.

Sleep well, Julian, I whispered in the silence of my mind. Sleep well, because the girl you ‘saved’ is the one who’s going to make sure you never wake up from this nightmare.

The clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, steady sound. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a countdown.

Rank 15. The very bottom.

“Good,” I muttered to the darkness. “It’s much easier to pull people down when you’re already at the bottom.”

I fell into a dreamless sleep, the torn silk still warm in my hand. Tomorrow, the training begins. Tomorrow, I start learning how to be the perfect weapon.

And once I am perfect… I will be lethal.