Chapter 11 - Fire on the Upper Floors
The manor groaned like a dying beast. Through the ventilation grates, the acrid, chemical stench of burning fuel and antique varnish poured into the sub-cellar. The assault force, realizing Julian had not reported back, had abandoned subtlety; they were torching the estate to incinerate every witness inside.
Moreva surged to his feet, instantly transitioning from a sworn guardian back to an apex predator. He snatched his weapon back, his instincts recalibrating to survival.
"The main stairs are engulfed," he said, assessing the thick black smoke beginning to curl along the arched ceiling. "They’re using military-grade thermite. In ten minutes, the entire east wing will collapse into the wine vaults."
"There is an old coal chute," Clara coughed, covering her mouth with her torn apron. "Behind the furnace. It leads out to the servant gardens near the greenhouse. When I was locked in the scullery, I used it to slip food to the stray dogs."
Moreva glanced at the rusted, heavy hatch behind the defunct coal boilers. It was narrow, choked with decades of soot, and pitched at a steep forty-five-degree incline.
"You're seven months pregnant, Clara," Moreva said, his eyes scanning her fragile frame. "That climb will tear you apart."
"I survived Julian's fists and your father's poisoners, Mr. Moreva," Clara said, her voice hard as diamond. "A little soot won't kill me. Move the furnace cover."
Without another word, Moreva threw his weight against the iron grate. Muscles bunched across his broad shoulders as the rusted hinges screeched, metal tearing away from brickwork until the dark, vertical shaft lay exposed.
He lifted his father's body once more, laying Don Vittorio gently inside the deep recess of the vault, safe from the flames that would soon consume the manor. He closed the heavy iron doors, turning the manual wheel with a final, somber thud.
"Sleep well, old man," Moreva muttered.
He turned to Clara, boosting her up into the chute first. "Climb. Do not look down. Do not stop until you see the open sky."
Clara gripped the rough brick interior, the coal dust cutting into her scraped palms. Every muscle in her abdomen screamed in protest as she hauled herself upward, inch by inch, through the claustrophobic dark. Beneath her, she could hear Moreva climbing with steady, terrifying power, his boots finding footholds in the crumbling mortar.
The heat was suffocating, rising like an open oven behind them. Clara’s lungs burned; she coughed until her vision spotted with gray. Just as she felt her strength evaporate, cold midnight air rushed across her sweat-soaked face.
She reached out and gripped wet grass.
May you like
Hauling herself over the lip of the chute, she tumbled out onto the lawn beside the ruined greenhouses. The night air was freezing, shock-cold against her burning skin.
She turned to pull Moreva up, but when she looked down into the chute, she saw the orange glow of roaring flames leaping up the shaft—and the heavy silhouette of a man blocking Moreva’s exit from below.
