The room was still vibrating with the shock of Meisha's revelation when Duke Hennis surged to his feet, his composure cracking for the first time.
"Varrick—secure the estate. Now!"
Varrick moved immediately, barking orders to Silas, who stood frozen at the doorway, receiving his orders.
Warren, however, didn't move. He remained exactly where he was — towering over Meisha, eyes narrowed, studying her with a mixture of fury and fascination.
"Well played," he murmured, voice low and venomous. "But this little game isn't over."
His hand clamped around the back of her neck — firm, controlling, but not injuring — and he forced her upright. Meisha stumbled, her legs trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion, but Warren's grip kept her moving whether she wanted to or not.
"You aren't free yet," he added, guiding her toward the door.
She resisted, digging her heels into the floor, but her strength was no match for his. Warren forced her forward, out of the lounge and into the dim hallway.
Varrick and Silas followed close behind, leaving Duke Hennis in the lounge.
"Warren," Varrick snapped, "what are you doing with Meisha?"
Warren didn't slow. He dragged her down the first flight of stairs, his grip unyielding.
"We're locking her in your sleeping quarters," Warren said. "And placing a barrier at the door so they can't sense her presence."
Varrick frowned. "Why there?"
Warren shot him a sharp look over his shoulder.
"Because she hid him right under our noses in the basement with her," he said. "If the Syires brought assassins to retrieve her, that'll be the first place they'd check."
Silas's eyes widened, realization dawning. Varrick's jaw clenched.
Meisha barely heard any of it.
She was too busy fighting Warren's grip — twisting, pushing, trying to wrench herself free. But he was stronger, dragging her down the second flight of stairs with relentless force.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and headed towards the eastern corridor. The pathway she'd taken may times throughout her captivity.
When she realized where he was taking her, panic surged through her chest.
"No—" she gasped, struggling harder. "Not there—"
Her voice cracked, but Warren didn't stop.
"Save your breath," he said coldly. "You've caused enough trouble for one night."
Warren didn't slow his pace as he dragged Meisha down the corridor. His grip at the back of her neck was firm, unyielding, and meant to remind her exactly who held control — for now.
They reached Varrick's sleeping quarters.
Warren shoved the door open with enough force that it slammed against the wall. Before Meisha could brace herself, he propelled her forward. She stumbled, landing hard on the bed, breath knocked from her lungs.
"Varrick," Warren snapped, already turning away, "lock her in. And put up the barrier."
Meisha scrambled to her feet, rushing toward the door — but Varrick was faster. The door slammed shut, the lock clicked, and a faint hum of magic vibrated through the wood as the barrier sealed into place.
She was trapped.
The corridor outside fell silent.
Meisha pressed her palms against the door, her breath coming fast and uneven. Panic clawed at her chest — not because of the room, but because something inside her was shifting.
Igniting.
Her mother's amulet — hidden in the small wooden chest on the mantle — pulsed with a sudden, fierce heat. A surge of energy shot through her, rising from deep within her core like a force that had been waiting years to awaken.
Her arm throbbed violently.
The bracelet reacted instantly, tightening its suppressive hold. A sharp, burning pressure shot up her forearm, fighting the surge with brutal force.
And then —
A cold, sickening sting spread beneath her skin.
The toxins.
The same ones Kaydence had siphoned from her before. The same ones the bracelet released whenever it was pushed too far.
They began leaking into her veins again, threading through her bloodstream like icy fire.
Meisha gasped, caught between three forces now — the amulet rising, the bracelet crushing, and the toxins poisoning.
She staggered back, clutching her wrist.
"No—no, not now—"
The amulet pulsed again, harder.
The bracelet constricted.
The toxins spread faster.
Pain radiated through her arm, her chest, her spine. She dropped to her knees, teeth clenched as she tried to endure the clash happening inside her body.
She banged on the door with her free hand.
"Let me out! Someone—please!"
Silence answered her.
The barrier muffled everything — her voice, her presence, even her magic. No one outside would hear her.
Her breath hitched as another surge tore through her, forcing her to brace herself against the floor.
She needed something — anything — to ground herself.
Her gaze snapped to the mantle.
The small wooden chest.
The one connected to her mother. The one that had triggered her power before. The one now pulsing with heat.
Meisha forced herself upright, limping toward it. Her arm trembled violently, the bracelet burning against her skin as toxins continued to seep into her bloodstream.
She reached the mantle.
With a desperate cry, she knocked the chest off with a violent sweep of her arm.
It hit the floor with a heavy thud.
But it didn't break. It didn't open. It didn't even crack.
It remained sealed — intact, impenetrable.
Meisha stared at it, breath shaking, pain radiating through her arm as the amulet pulsed again from within the chest.
The toxins surged faster now — cold, burning, disorienting — flooding her senses until the room tilted around her. The bracelet and the amulet clashed inside her like two storms colliding, each pulse sending a shockwave through her chest and ribs.
Her breath hitched.
Her vision blurred.
A deep, wrenching pressure built inside her torso, as if her organs were being squeezed from the inside. She doubled over, choking on the force of it, her body reacting violently to the internal strain.
She gagged, a metallic taste rising in her mouth — the unmistakable sign that her body was reaching its limit.
Her strength faltered.
Her limbs trembled.
Still, she forced herself forward, crawling toward the chest — the only thing in the room that felt like it belonged to her, the only thing that felt like safety.
Each movement was a battle.
Each breath a struggle.
The amulet pulsed again from inside the chest, calling to her, recognizing her, trying to rise through her blood even as the bracelet fought to crush it back down.
She reached the chest.
Collapsed beside it.
And with the last of her strength, she curled her body around it, clutching it to her as if it were the only anchor keeping her from being torn apart.
The world dimmed.
Her consciousness slipped.
And Meisha finally went still.
Moments earlier.
The night air outside the estate was tense, charged, and humming with the presence of power that did not belong to Duskmere.
Torches flickered along the walls as soldiers scrambled into position, their voices hushed, their movements uneasy.
At the gate stood a caravan unlike anything the town had ever seen — banners bearing the crest of the Syire family and the unmistakable sigil of the Demon King himself.
The ground seemed to vibrate beneath the weight of their arrival.
And at the front of the procession, cloaked in authority and fury, stood Thalorian Syire.
The caravan's arrival had already unsettled the night, but it was the moment the front carriage door opened that truly shifted the air.
A tall, composed figure stepped down first — Thalorian's assistant, Marcellis Vane. His cloak caught the torchlight, revealing the subtle embroidery of the Syire's crest woven into the fabric. He moved with the kind of disciplined grace that marked him as someone who had stood beside power for a very long time.
He approached the two guards stationed at the gate — one on each side, spears crossed, eyes wary.
Before the assistant could speak, the guard on the left barked, "State the nature of your business."
The assistant paused, offering a respectful bow — not submissive, but courteous, the kind given by someone who knows exactly where he stands in the hierarchy of the world.
When he straightened, his voice was calm and clear.
"My apologies for this late‑night arrival. Our caravan intended to reach Duskmere by daylight, at a more respectable hour. However, the nature of our visit is of the utmost importance. We must speak with the town lord immediately."
The guards exchanged a glance.
The right‑side guard stepped forward slightly. "And who should I report has arrived at such an hour?"
The assistant clasped his hands behind his back, posture impeccable.
"You may report," he said, "that the Demon King's advisor, Duke Thalorian Syire, is waiting for entry and expects to be greeted. I assure you — Lord Hennis is expecting him."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
The left guard stiffened. The right guard swallowed hard.
After a beat, the left guard turned to his companion. "Go. Deliver the message to Silas."
The second guard nodded sharply and sprinted toward the estate.
The caravan waited in the cold night air, torches flickering, tension thickening.
Thalorian stood at the front of the procession, silent and unmoving, his presence alone enough to make the guards shift uneasily.
The assistant returned to his side, bowing his head slightly.
"It has begun," he murmured.
Thalorian's jaw tightened.
"Good," he said. "Let them scramble."
A few minutes passed as the caravan waited for entry, the cold night air settling over them like a heavy cloak. Torches flickered along the walls of Duskmere's gate, but no one had yet returned with permission to enter.
Thalorian dismounted his horse with a controlled exhale, boots crunching softly against the frost‑kissed ground. The tension in his shoulders eased only slightly as he turned away from the gate and walked toward the healer's carriage at the center of the procession.
He knocked once.
The door opened immediately.
"Milord," Nydia breathed, bowing her head the moment she saw him.
"I'm here for a status update on my son," Thalorian said. "Since we are waiting for entry into the town."
"Of course." She stepped aside, holding the door open for him.
He entered, and Nydia closed the door quickly behind them, shutting out the cold.
Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of healing herbs. The other healers stepped back at once, heads bowed, hands clasped respectfully as they made space for him.
Thalorian moved to Kaydence's side.
His son — who had been moments from death not long ago — now lay sleeping peacefully, his breathing steady, his color returning. The sight hit Thalorian with a force he didn't show, but felt deeply.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to Kaydence's.
A long, quiet exhale left him — relief, gratitude, and the weight of fear finally loosening its grip.
He straightened and turned to Nydia.
"He will make a full recovery now that the poison has been expelled from his body," she said softly.
Thalorian gave a curt nod and turned to leave, but Nydia lifted a hand.
"Milord… if you have a moment."
He paused. "I do."
Nydia glanced at the other healers. "All of you — outside. I need to speak with the Duke privately."
They obeyed immediately, slipping out into the cold night.
When the door shut and only the two of them remained — with Kaydence resting between them — Nydia spoke again, her voice low.
"Now that everyone is gone… I wanted to bring something to your attention regarding the poison that dwelled within General Kaydence."
Thalorian folded his arms. "I'm listening."
Nydia hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
"He shouldn't be alive right now," she said. "Not from how potent that toxin was. It is a miracle he survived."
Thalorian's expression didn't change, but something sharpened behind his eyes.
"The reason he survived," he said, "is waiting to be freed from captivity."
Nydia blinked. "Who?"
Thalorian's voice dropped, steady and certain.
"The child of Alyra."
Nydia gasped. "There is no record of Alyra giving birth."
"Yes," Thalorian replied. "Which is part of the reason we're here in the first place."
He looked down at Kaydence again — at the faint traces of exhaustion still clinging to him — then back to Nydia.
"Lieutenant Nichelle returned with a message from Kaydence," he said. "He told her he was alive because of this girl."
Nydia frowned. "How can we trust what she claims?"
Thalorian shook his head.
"This journey was happening regardless," he said. "It was ordered by King Burruk. The discovery of Alyra's surviving offspring has only hastened it."
Outside, the muffled sound of footsteps approached the gate — the guard returning with Silas's message.
Inside the carriage, Thalorian's jaw tightened.
"Prepare yourself, Nydia," he said quietly. "Tonight, will not be simple."
A sharp knock sounded on the healer's carriage door, halting the private conversation between Thalorian and Nydia.
Thalorian opened it.
Marcellis Vane stood outside, posture straight despite the cold, his expression composed but alert.
"Milord," he said with a respectful incline of his head.
Thalorian stepped out immediately, leaving the door open so Nydia could signal her attending healers to return inside and resume their positions around Kaydence.
The night air bit sharply, but Thalorian didn't seem to feel it. He and Marcellis walked side by side toward the front of the caravan, boots crunching softly against the frost‑hardened ground.
As they walked, Marcellis spoke quietly.
"Word has reached back. They are preparing to open the gate."
Thalorian's jaw tightened.
"You don't need to prepare to open a gate," he muttered. "You just open the damn gate."
Marcellis let out a small, knowing chuckle. "Well, sir… you did say 'let them scramble.'"
Thalorian gave a low exhale — not quite amusement, not quite irritation — and reached his horse. He placed his foot in the stirrup and mounted with practiced ease.
Once settled in the saddle, he looked toward the gate.
"And scrambling they are."
As if on cue, the portcullis groaned and began to rise — slowly, unevenly — before stopping halfway, as though the mechanism itself was unsure whether it wanted to obey.
Thalorian signaled his horse forward.
Marcellis hurried to his own carriage, climbing inside as the rest of the procession shifted into motion behind them.
The commotion stirred the townspeople awake. Doors cracked open. Lanterns flickered to life. Faces appeared in windows, whispering among themselves as the caravan of demon and human soldiers entered Duskmere under the cloak of night.
A sight none of them had ever expected to witness.
Thalorian lifted his hand.
"Nichelle."
She was marching behind him, but at his call she guided her horse out of formation and pulled up beside him, matching his stride.
"Sir," she said, bowing her head slightly.
Thalorian leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.
"Send someone to retrieve the girl's father."
Nichelle nodded once, sharp and efficient, then turned her horse toward the rear of the caravan.
She found the two soldiers assigned to her — the same pair who had nearly drawn their swords on Meisha before realizing who she was protecting. They marched in formation, alert and disciplined.
Nichelle called their names.
"Dorian. Renwick."
Both men immediately stepped out of formation, dropped to one knee, heads bowed, fists over their hearts.
"Yes, Lieutenant," they said in unison.
"Rise," she commanded.
They obeyed.
Nichelle leaned down from her saddle, voice low but firm.
"I'm assigning you two to retrieve Meisha's father and bring him back here. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Lieutenant," they replied. Renwick added, "Thank you for entrusting us with another task, Lieutenant."
Nichelle's expression sharpened.
"This is only to redeem yourselves from your earlier blunder."
Both men stiffened, remembering the moment they nearly attacked the girl who had saved their general's life.
She straightened in her saddle.
"Be back before they close the gates."
"Yes, Lieutenant."
After receiving their orders and the location. Dorian and Renwick bowed once more, then broke into a swift, purposeful stride toward the edge of the caravan, setting off into the night to complete their mission.
Nichelle turned her horse and rode back toward the head of the formation, the cold air carrying the weight of what was coming.
The caravan wound its way through Duskmere's narrow streets, torches flickering against stone walls as townspeople peeked from windows and doorways. Whispers rippled through the night like wind through dry leaves.
Demons…Syires…The Demon King's advisor…Why are they here?
The estate gates loomed ahead, lanterns blazing, guards scrambling into formation.
And waiting just beyond the threshold stood Lord Varrick, Duke Warren Hennis, and Duke Hennis himself — all three arranged in a stiff, formal line meant to project authority.
But their eyes betrayed them.
Warren's jaw was tight. Varrick's hands twitched at his sides. Duke Hennis's expression was composed, but his posture was too rigid, too rehearsed.
They were rattled.
And Thalorian saw it instantly.
The moment the caravan halted, Thalorian swung his leg over and dismounted his horse with a fluid, controlled motion. His cloak shifted with the movement, catching the torchlight like a shadow unfurling.
Behind him, three figures stepped forward:
Lieutenant Pharis — tall, sharp‑eyed, a silent blade at Thalorian's back. Lieutenant Nichelle — composed, focused, her presence steady as stone. Marcellis Vane — diplomatic, poised, the perfect counterbalance to Thalorian's intensity.
Together, they walked toward the estate gates.
The Hennis men straightened instinctively.
Thalorian stopped a few paces from them, the cold night air swirling between the two groups like a boundary neither side wished to cross first.
"Lord Hennis," Thalorian said, voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "Duke Hennis. Lord Varrick."
The three men bowed — shallow, hesitant, but bows, nonetheless.
"Duke Syire," Duke Hennis replied. "We welcome you to Duskmere."
Thalorian's gaze flicked to the half‑raised portcullis behind them.
"Your gate seems uncertain whether it wishes to open or close," he said.
A subtle ripple of discomfort passed through the Hennis men.
Warren stepped forward, forcing a polite smile. "We were not expecting your arrival at this hour."
Thalorian didn't blink.
"You were expecting us," he said. "Just not this soon."
Warren's smile faltered.
Nichelle guided her horse closer, stopping just behind Thalorian's right shoulder. Pharis mirrored her on the left. Marcellis stood slightly behind Thalorian, hands clasped neatly, eyes sharp.
The formation alone made the Hennis men tense.
Thalorian continued, "We will speak inside."
Duke Hennis nodded quickly. "Of course. Please—enter."
He gestured toward the estate.
Thalorian turned his head slightly.
"Marcellis."
Marcellis stepped forward. "Yes, milord."
"See that the caravan is settled. No one wanders. No one interferes."
"At once."
Marcellis bowed and moved back toward the procession, issuing quiet commands that rippled through the ranks with practiced efficiency.
Thalorian faced the Hennis men again.
"Lead the way."
And as they turned toward the estate, the tension in the air thickened — because every step brought them closer to the truth:
Meisha was inside. Unconscious. Her magic rising. Her life hanging by a thread.
And Thalorian was about to discover just how much danger she was in.
Nichelle and Pharis dismounted their horses the moment Thalorian did, falling into step behind him as the Hennis men led the way toward the estate doors. The air inside the courtyard felt heavier than the night outside — thick with unease, secrets, and the faint hum of magic that didn't belong to this place.
As they crossed the threshold into the estate, Nichelle's steps slowed.
Something was wrong.
A subtle shift in the air. A faint absence where a presence should have been. A silence that felt deliberate.
She quickened her pace, catching up to Thalorian in stride.
"Sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I do not sense the child of Alyra."
Thalorian didn't break stride, but his eyes sharpened.
"They've hidden her," he whispered back. "She will be found."
Nichelle nodded once, falling back into position behind him, her expression tightening with resolve.
The Hennis men led them deeper into the estate until they reached the grand entrance hall — a wide, polished space meant to impress visitors with wealth and lineage. Tonight, it only made the tension more obvious.
Lord Varrick turned to face them.
"We can conduct our discussion in my lounge on the second floor," he offered, gesturing toward the staircase with a practiced smile.
Thalorian raised a hand — a small gesture, but one that halted the entire room.
"No need," he said. "I do not intend for this visit to be long. So in advance, my apologies for arriving so late in the evening."
Duke Hennis stepped forward, irritation flickering behind his eyes.
"If you do not plan on resting for the night," he said, "what is so urgent that it warrants an audience at such an hour?"
Thalorian looked at him — a slow, unimpressed glance that carried more weight than any spoken reprimand. He stood with the kind of regality that made the Hennis men seem smaller by comparison.
Before Thalorian could respond, footsteps echoed from behind.
Marcellis Vane entered the hall with a swift, purposeful stride. In one hand he held a stack of documents, raised slightly as if presenting evidence before a court.
He spoke before Thalorian could.
"We are here investigating the death of Alyra Emberwynn," Marcellis announced, his tone crisp and cutting. "On orders of Demon King Burruk. With the given permission of King Es'coff."
He stepped forward, now standing at Thalorian's side, and extended the official documents toward Lord Varrick, Duke Hennis, and Warren.
The three men stiffened.
Their eyes flicked to the seals. The signatures. The authority behind them.
And in that moment, the entire estate seemed to hold its breath.
Because this was no courtesy visit. No diplomatic formality. No polite inquiry.
This was an investigation sanctioned by two kings.
And the truth — the truth they had tried to bury — was about to be dragged into the light.
The moment the documents touched their hands, the Hennis men reacted.
Duke Hennis's brows shot up. Warren's jaw tightened. Lord Varrick's eyes flicked across the seals, the signatures, the unmistakable authority stamped into every line.
A beat of silence stretched — thin, brittle, ready to snap.
Then Lord Varrick spoke, his tone sharp and accusatory.
"Lady Alyra has been laid to rest for fifteen years. What cause is there for her sacrifice — her protection of the townspeople — to call for an investigation?"
Marcellis didn't flinch. He simply reached into the stack and handed them another document.
"This," he said, "is evidence stating that Lady Alyra's encounter was with Goblin King Adle in the Garrow Forest — which is well beyond the Ashen Vale."
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water.
Thalorian stepped forward, voice calm but cutting.
"King Adle dwells deep in demon territory. For him to be in Garrow Forest, he would need to cross the Vale. And for him to cross the Vale, he would have been seen."
Duke Hennis slammed his cane against the marble floor.
The crack echoed through the hall.
"This is preposterous!" he barked. "What is it you are implying? Are you making accusations that Lord Varrick is somehow involved?"
The tension snapped.
Guards from both Lord Hennis and Duke Hennis surged into the hall, hands on their sword hilts, ready to draw.
Nichelle and Pharis moved instantly — stepping forward, shifting into defensive stances, eyes sharp and unblinking. The air around them shifted, charged, ready for combat.
Thalorian didn't move.
He stood utterly unfazed by the theatrics — but his gaze locked onto two figures:
Warren.Silas.
Silas lingered in the background, head lowered, shoulders tight. Warren stared directly at Thalorian, the two men silently measuring each other.
And Thalorian noticed something else — something that made his eyes narrow.
Warren carried the same scent Kaydence had when he was brought back to camp.
Lavender and sage.
A scent that did not belong to Warren. A scent that belonged to someone Warren had been near.
Someone Warren had touched.
Someone Warren had harmed.
Marcellis sensed the rising danger and stepped forward immediately, raising both hands in a calming gesture.
"Gentlemen. Gentlemen. There is no need for this," he said smoothly. "This is merely an investigation assigned by both Kings. Our questions should be simple enough for you to answer."
He turned to Lord Varrick.
"This is your territory to govern, is it not?"
Lord Varrick gave an annoyed exhale. "Yes."
"Then," Marcellis replied, "it is under your King's decree that you cooperate."
Lord Varrick handed the documents back to him with a stiff motion.
"I do not know how King Adle ended up in the Garrow Forest. That itself is a mystery. And as for Lady Alyra — her sacrifice is the reason Duskmere still stands today. I am sorry if you traveled all this way only to reach a dead end."
Warren stepped forward, eyes still locked on Thalorian.
"Especially so late in the night."
The words were polite. The tone was not.
And Thalorian knew — without question — that the truth was close.
Very close.
Duke Hennis shifted, clearly eager to end the encounter. "Well," he said, forcing a strained smile, "if that concludes your inquiry, we can arrange for your escort out of—"
Marcellis lifted a hand.
A polite gesture. A firm interruption.
"With all due respect, Duke Hennis," he said smoothly, "the investigation of Lady Alyra is only part of the reason we're here."
Duke Hennis's expression soured. "And what other reason could you possibly be here for? My son has answered all of your questions in full compliance with the order."
Thalorian's patience snapped.
He stepped forward, his presence filling the hall like a sudden drop in temperature.
"Address my attendant with rudeness again," he said, voice low and lethal, "and I will have no issue explaining to your king why I removed your head from your shoulders."
Duke Hennis went pale — the blood draining from his face so quickly it was almost visible.
Warren stepped in front of him instantly.
"I don't take kindly to threats toward my father," he growled, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "Especially from demons."
Thalorian bared his fangs — a silent, primal warning that made several guards flinch.
Nichelle and Pharis moved in unison, stepping forward, hands ready at their weapons. The Hennis guards surged as well, steel whispering against scabbards.
The hall teetered on the edge of violence.
Marcellis thrust himself between the two sides, palms out.
"Gentlemen! Please. Compose yourselves. There are other matters at hand that must be addressed."
Thalorian didn't look away from Warren.
"Out with it, Marcellis."
The sudden command jolted Marcellis, who scrambled through his documents before finding the one he needed. He whipped it out and held it toward Lord Varrick.
"Here."
Lord Varrick took it — and the moment his eyes scanned the first lines, his face drained of color.
Marcellis spoke clearly, each word slicing through the tension.
"This document states that Lady Alyra gave birth to a child. A child who is not on record. Could you explain why that is?"
Warren answered before his brother could.
"It's not on record because she didn't."
Thalorian crossed his arms, authority radiating from him like heat.
"I don't believe you are the governing lord of this town," he said coolly. "So it would be in your best interest to hold your tongue."
Warren's jaw clenched. Rage simmered beneath his skin — but something in him knew he would lose if he pushed further.
He stayed silent.
Marcellis turned back to Lord Varrick.
"Lord Varrick," he said, "could you answer the question?"
Lord Varrick swallowed hard. "It is just as Lord Warren stated. Lady Alyra has no children."
Marcellis's eyes narrowed.
"You swear this under the oath of your king?"
"Yes," Varrick said quickly. "I swear under the oath of my king."
Thalorian stepped forward.
"Then you should have no issue if we ask her widowed husband."
He snapped his fingers.
A sharp, commanding sound that echoed through the hall.
From the entrance, two figures stepped inside — Dorian Vale and Renwick Thorne — assisting a frail, grief‑stricken man between them. His clothes were worn, his eyes hollow, his posture bent beneath years of sorrow.
A man who had lost his wife. A man who believed he had lost his daughter. A man who had been kept in the dark for fifteen years.
The hall fell silent.
Because the truth had just walked through the door.
Thalorian stepped away from the tense standoff and walked toward the frail man supported between Dorian and Renwick. The closer he came, the more the years seemed to fall away — memories of battles fought side by side, of laughter shared around campfires, of Alyra's bright presence weaving them all together.
When he finally stood before him, Thalorian's voice softened.
"Hello, old friend."
Daman lifted his head slowly, eyes squinting as if fighting through fog. His vision wavered… then cleared just enough.
Recognition struck him like a spark.
"T‑Thalorian…" he whispered, a trembling smile breaking through the exhaustion.
Behind them, Lord Varrick stepped forward quickly, voice sharp and dismissive.
"This will be useless," he said. "You won't get a definitive answer out of him. He went senile after Alyra's death."
Thalorian didn't even look at him.
He kept his attention on Daman, speaking gently, slowly — the way one speaks to someone who has carried too much pain for too long.
"I am here on King Burruk's order," he said. "To investigate Alyra's death… and to confirm whether you and Alyra conceived a child."
Daman's breath hitched.
His eyes filled — not with confusion, but with memory.
He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.
"We did… conceive a child."
The hall went still.
Daman continued, each word trembling with grief.
"Three years after she died… the town lord offered me financial assistance. In exchange for our daughter's servitude… to pay it off."
Thalorian's jaw tightened.
Daman swallowed hard, tears slipping down his cheeks.
"But that was years ago… and I haven't seen my precious girl since."
A quiet fury ignited inside Thalorian — cold, controlled, and deadly. To see his old comrade reduced to this… To hear what had been done to his daughter… To know Alyra's child had been bartered away like property…
He inhaled slowly, steadying himself.
"I am sorry, old friend," he said softly. "Sorry I was not here for you in your time of need."
Daman shook his head weakly, but Thalorian continued.
"If you can… would you be able to point out the person who took your daughter into servitude?"
Daman managed a small nod.
Thalorian stepped aside, giving him a clear view of the three men standing at the base of the stairs.
Daman's gaze drifted across Duke Hennis… Across Warren… And then—
It landed on Varrick.
His entire body tensed.
His voice, though frail, carried venom that had been building for fifteen long years.
"Varrick Hennis! Where is my daughter?!"
He lurched forward, trying to move toward him — but his weakened body betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if Dorian and Renwick hadn't caught him.
Lord Varrick's mask cracked.
"You senile old fool," he snapped. "You've truly lost it, haven't you?"
The words echoed through the hall.
And at that exact moment—
Outside the Estate
In the healer's carriage, Kaydence stirred.
His breath hitched. His fingers twitched. His brow furrowed.
Something — someone — was calling to him.
A thread of magic. A pulse of pain. A familiar presence slipping toward darkness.
Kaydence's eyes opened.