The moment the Whitman knights fell and the countess's female attendant collapsed from her wounds, the masked mercenaries moved with chilling precision. Without hesitation, two of the stronger ones hauled Lady Bettina and Jason into a disguised carriage—plain, muddy, and indistinguishable from the dozens that lined trade roads outside the capital.
"The pad is only a short distance away," muttered one, yanking a tarp over them. "Get them quiet."
Jason whimpered but held still as Bettina reached for his hand and squeezed, whispering reassurances despite the iron cuffs around her own wrists. She made sure the two of them didn't make any sound because, the moment she did so once earlier, one of them slapped Jason so hard that all the fight went out of her. The carriage jerked into motion, wheels rolling fast over the uneven road.
By the time a patrol was dispatched to investigate the attack site, the kidnappers had already transferred from the teleportation pad in the town of Thewyn, east of the empire, to the far western merchant town of Darsell on the opposite side of the continent. Heavily trafficked, not yet outfitted with the empire's trade reforms, and used frequently for goods exchange, it was the perfect place to disappear in plain sight.
"Destination?" the teleportation mage asked, without looking up.
"Redport. Cargo transfer, House Renald." One of the masked men slid a forged document across the desk.
"Go ahead. Pad four."
With a flash of light and the hum of magic, the kidnappers were gone—not north, but southwest, far from any suspicion.
In Redport, they switched convoys. The hostages were moved into separate compartments within a merchant wagon already bearing the emblem of a reputable shipping guild. This time, the prisoners were gagged, shackled with enchanted manacles, and sealed within iron-lined compartments to suppress magical signatures.
As night fell, the convoy broke off from the main road under cover of darkness and traveled through a disused smuggler route once used by Valmor loyalists during the early days of the war. The dirt track wound through ravines, narrow mountain passes, and frost-laced terrain. Days of grueling travel that left Bettina and Jason into limp rags.
An old woman met them at a checkpoint near the ruins of Fort Skelder, wrapped in threadbare robes but wielding a staff that shimmered faintly with old magic. She cast three sigils in the air and muttered a foreign phrase. The air rippled.
"That'll send trackers halfway to the Teleri Marshes," she cackled, before disappearing into the shadows.
The leader of the mercenaries, a one-eyed man with frostbite scars, grunted. "Good. Keep moving."
They made no further stops.
The journey felt endless. Without a hope of escape. Mother and son were under close watch 24x7 throughout their travel. She wasn't even allowed privacy to relieve herself. Bettina's desperation grew.
Carried in the back of a cramped, covered wagon reeking of old blood and rotting straw, Bettina's wrists burned beneath the heavy iron shackles digging into her skin. Her head throbbed with a dull ache where she'd been struck, and her limbs protested as the wagon they were in came to a lurching halt. Metal restraints clinked against wood.
She looked down at her son, grateful to see that her and his handkerchiefs, which she wrapped around his wrists, protected the boy's delicate skin from being chafed by his iron chains.
Jason lay beside her, his face pale and smudged with dirt. His tiny frame trembled with every jolt of the wagon, but he hadn't cried—not since the first hour which felt like a lifetime ago. His wide eyes kept flitting to hers, clinging to her like a lifeline.
Bettina curled protectively around him, using her skirts to cover him up, shielding him from the cold that seeped through the canvas like icy fingers, whispering words that, she hoped, could help calm the boy down. Snowflakes drifted through a gap in the flaps as the wind howled around them. They had been traveling for what felt like days—no sunlight, no bearings. Only the growing chill, the thinning air, and the increasing frequency of foreign-accented curses told her they were heading farther north.
The wagon finally came to a stop with a sickening lurch.
Rough hands yanked the flaps open. Masked men barked foreign commands, their faces shadowed beneath fur-lined hoods. One of them grabbed Jason by the arm.
"No—don't touch him!" Bettina snarled, lunging, but was kicked back against the boards. Jason screamed for her, struggling.
A boot slammed into her ribs.
"Try that again and you'll watch the boy lose a finger," one of them sneered.
Bettina froze, breath stolen from her at the force of that boot. Jason whimpered again, tears flowing freely in his eyes.
They were dragged out into a storm, the metal chains imprisoning their hands fell with a clang on the icy ground. A gale whipped snow and ash in every direction. The sudden exposure to harsh, snowy light made her squint—but what she saw stole the breath from her lungs.
They had arrived at a place out of time—an ancient ruin blanketed in snow and ice. Towering stone spires leaned precariously, blackened by age and war. Massive doors hung crooked from their hinges, as if forced open by siege long ago. It was a majestic palace once, now stripped of grandeur.
Now, it was a blackened skeleton.
Crumbling towers. Walls split open like broken teeth. Ivy and frost had reclaimed what remained, and yet, there was still something grotesquely regal about it. A final gasp of a kingdom now long dead.
The Valmor Palace.
Bettina had read about it in history books—the northern kingdom that had fallen two decades ago, under the leadership of her husband who was, back then, a military general. The fallen kingdom was absorbed into the Boleus Empire after that bitter war and was then declared as Valmor, the northernmost province of the empire. But she'd never seen it in person, and never imagined she would enter it like this: bound, broken, and dragged like a criminal.
A masked figure barked a command. The soldiers—mercenaries, perhaps, in mismatched armor with no insignias—hoisted her and Jason to their feet. Chains bit into her ankles as she stumbled on the icy ground, but she forced herself upright when Jason whimpered beside her.
They were pulled by their chains toward a cracked archway leading beneath the palace ruins. Two stone gargoyles flanked the entrance, their faces chipped and moss-covered, frozen in permanent screams, while faded royal banners were brutally torn by harsh northern wind. A stairwell led into the depths of the earth.
Down, down, down.
The air grew colder the deeper they went. No fires warmed the halls—only the stink of damp stone, rotting wood, and something more sinister. Decay. The stench hit them first—dank, mold, and human waste. The torches along the damp walls flickered dimly, casting monstrous shadows. Every drip of water echoed like a scream in the vast silence of the cavernous space.
Down staircases slick with frost.
Through passageways so narrow even the soldiers ducked.
And finally, through an iron gate that groaned like a dying beast.
The dungeon.
It stretched into darkness, lit only by intermittent torches. Thick iron bars lined the walls, many cells empty, some holding skeletal remains of long-forgotten prisoners. And at the far end—one large cell. Their destination.
The guards shoved them forward.
The prisoners were not silent.
From deeper chambers came muffled weeping, shouts of rage, and quiet moans of pain. The bandits didn't flinch. They moved with purpose, like they'd walked these paths many times before.
Bettina and Jason were brought into a wide, vaulted chamber with rusted bars and high ceilings. A single torch burned in a bracket by the door. The stone was slick with condensation. Old chains dangled from the walls.
"Mama!" Jason screamed when they chained him to a bolt embedded on the wall across from her—close enough to see each other, far enough that they couldn't touch.
"No! He's just a child!" Bettina begged. "Chain me alone. Please—I'll cooperate, just don't—"
One of the masked men snarled, backhanding her so hard her knees gave out.
Jason screamed. "Don't hurt her! Please, stop—!"
Another masked figure stepped forward, and with a quiet hiss, pressed a blade to Jason's neck. "Silence, brat. Or we make you watch her suffer."
"No! No—take me! Take me instead!" Bettina screamed hoarsely. "I'll do whatever you want! Just don't touch him!"
The men laughed.
She was dragged into the cell after they secured Jason'. The clang of the iron gate slamming shut behind them echoed like thunder.
Chains were bolted to the far wall—rusty, heavy. Bettina was forced against the cold stone; her wrists locked in place above her head. Across the cell, Jason was restrained the same way—chained up, eyes wide with terror, his small frame trembling.
"If you want money," Bettina pleaded. "I'll give you everything I have. At least let my son go—"
Instead of responding, they just laughed at her derisively.
"I'll kill you for this," Bettina hissed. "I swear it. If you harm him—"
A masked man tilted his head, amused. "You talk like someone important."
"I am someone important," she growled. "And very, very wealthy. I suggest you think about how much would make you the happiest, and then come back to me with a figure."
But they only laughed again and turned away, leaving the torchlight behind as they exited the dungeon corridor. The heavy door groaned closed.
Darkness returned.
Cold settled into her bones. The chains were too tight, and her shoulders screamed in protest. But worse was the sound—Jason's quiet, stifled sobbing. She could barely see him in the dark, but she felt his terror.
"Jason," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, strong, even though her own tears pricked. "I'm here. I'm right here. Just…listen to my voice, alright? We'll get through this."
"Mama, I wanna go home," Jason's voice trembled. "Why… why are they doing this?"
She couldn't lie to him. She couldn't offer false hope.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I promise you this—no matter what happens, I won't let them hurt you again. I'll protect you. Always."
She tugged at the chains, testing them—iron biting into her already bleeding wrists. Her body shook, not just from the cold, but from the creeping shadow of fear she thought she had already buried. That old, helpless vulnerability wanted to claw its way back, whispering lies she'd once believed: You're still that scared, powerless girl, in front of your abusive stepfather.
But as Jason's sobbing echoed in their prison cell, she found herself clenching her jaw.
She wasn't her old self now. Not anymore.
She had fought too hard to find her courage, too long to nurture that fragile spark of strength. With every small victory, with every kind word and gentle gestures—especially Anthony's—she had grown. And now, that strength was under siege, threatened by the ghosts of her past.
She would not let them win.
Outside the cell, faintly, a scream echoed from some distant corridor—followed by a sickening thud.
Jason sobbed harder.
Bettina's trembling was slowly subsiding, not because she was giving up—but because of building fury.
Whoever had done this—whatever twisted purpose they had—would pay.
She didn't know who they were yet, or why they'd brought them to this place of death and ghosts.
But soon, she would find out.
And when she did…
Hell would follow.
*****One heart, one mind, one path divine*****
Four days. It's been four days.
The front gates of Whitman Manor creaked open, but there was no flurry of movement from within. No servants rushing to greet the carriage, no stable boy darting out with a grin, no Jason dashing out from the foyer with arms wide and questions spilling from his mouth. Only the wind stirred, lifting the early evening mist that had begun to settle across the cobbled drive.
Anthony descended from the carriage alone.
His coat was damp from the drizzle; shoulders hunched beneath the weight of a day fruitlessly spent chasing shadows. He hadn't spoken for hours—not to Henry, not to the guards who trailed behind him, not even to himself. His silence had become a fortress. But even fortresses could feel like tombs when the heart was missing.
Clive, the butler, waited at the door, face drawn and anxious.
"No word?" Anthony asked, voice raw from disuse.
Clive shook his head solemnly. "None, milord. We…we've kept the hearth in their rooms lit. Just in case they—"
Anthony brushed past him, the words slicing deeper than they should have. He passed through the main hall where silence had become deafening. The servants who remained moved quietly and kept their heads down. Even the children of the servants, who often scampered in the shadows, had been sent away.
Grief floated in the manor like fog clinging to every corner.
He climbed the stairs slowly, the banister cool beneath his palm. At first, he turned toward Jason's wing. The boy's room was slightly ajar. Anthony opened it gently.
The room was exactly as Jason had left it—books stacked on his desk, one of his tiny boots lying forgotten under a chair. The air still held the faint scent of parchment and the herbs Bettina had insisted on placing on his bedside tables to ward off illness.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the little pillow, indented from where Jason's head used to lie. He didn't know how long he sat there, just stroking the pillow as if stroking a phantom child's head.
Then he rose and crossed the hall.
The door to her bedchamber was shut. Anthony opened it slowly.
It was warmer in here—the fire Clive had mentioned still crackled in the hearth, but it could not warm the hollow space inside him. The room smelled of her—lavender and roses and a trace of the lotion she used to rub into her hands before bed.
He stood in the middle of the room, numb.
Her robe still hung from its hook. The hairbrush with strands of her dark hair lay on the vanity. Her slippers sat by the bedside.
He reached for the pillow and pulled it to his face, inhaling deeply. Her scent was still fresh. It undid him.
He sank to the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his hands. His body shuddered, once, then again.
He had failed them.
He, the Earl of Whitman. Strategist, commander, reformer. A man who once faced down enemy platoons, criminal rings, outwitted smugglers, and rebuilt an empire's trade routes.
But he hadn't protected the two people he loved most in the world.
There were no signs, no ransom letters, no demands. Just silence. And Jane's bloodied return and her hoarse whisper: "They took them. I don't know who. I—I'm sorry…"
He had paced the teleportation hubs. Questioned port officers. Brought in mages to check the records for anomalies—any sign of unregistered jumps or suspicious travelers. Nothing. He had grilled three harbor masters until they trembled, but the trail had gone cold before it ever began.
Henry was still working with the Mage Tower. The Grand Duke had already promised to move discreetly with his men. But everything moved too slowly. It wasn't enough.
They were gone. And time was slipping.
Downstairs, the entire household had fallen into a solemn rhythm. Cooks prepared meals that remained untouched. Maids wept silently behind doors. The gardeners tended to the roses with dull eyes and heavy hands.
The entire manor grieved with him.
He rose again, fingers brushing over Bettina's comb, then the shawl she always draped over her shoulders when reading. He couldn't stay here—not yet. He couldn't lie in this bed, warmed by the fire but cold from her absence.
As he turned to leave, his gaze caught the small framed portrait on the dresser—one that Jason had drawn with charcoal. A family sketch: crude, childlike, and painfully dear. Him. Bettina. Jason in the middle, smiling, holding both their hands.
His heart twisted violently.
He walked out.
There would be no sleep tonight. Not until he tore apart every lead, every record, every corner of the empire until he found them.
Even if it killed him.
Anthony stood in the hallway, the door to her chamber closed behind him.
He didn't move at first. His fingers were clenched at his sides, blood pounding in his ears. But the tears were gone now, burned away by something colder. Sharper.
Resolve.
He inhaled through his nose—slow, steady. Then he opened his eyes.
Enough.
He could grieve later. He could shatter later. Once Bettina and Jason were safe.
He descended the stairs with quiet purpose, his footsteps no longer dragging but echoing with deliberate weight. In the shadows near the entrance, the staff lifted their heads. Clive stepped forward uncertainly, but Anthony only nodded once, calm and commanding.
"Summon every knight. Wake them if you must," he said, voice low but unshaking. "Tell Mage Henry I'll meet him at first light. I want a full list of unauthorized teleportation pad use and every suspicious caravan that left any major city in the last three days."
He paused.
"And Clive," he added, turning just slightly, eyes tired but burning. "Start drafting letters. Discreet ones. The Crown Prince, the Grand Duke, the Mage Tower council. I want eyes in every province."
"Yes, milord," Clive murmured.
Anthony turned away.
He did not know who had taken his family.
But he would find them.
And the moment he did, Gods help them.
*****Still thy soul*****
The days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the last save for the growing stench of rot and the suffocating damp. Bettina's back ached from sleeping on cold stone. Her chains rattled every time she shifted, and the iron cuffs had rubbed her wrists raw, the flesh beneath blistered and bloody. Her gown, once pristine, now hung in tattered folds, clinging to her body with the staleness of sweat and grime.
Across from her, Jason sat slumped in his own set of shackles, his legs awkwardly bound to the wall by thick iron manacles that bit into his ankles. His usually rosy cheeks were pale now, hollowed, his lips chapped and crusted with blood. The boy had not cried since the first night, and that—more than anything—frightened Bettina.
He just sat there. Silent. Still. Watching the shadows as if they whispered things to him that she couldn't hear.
"Jason," she whispered hoarsely, her voice dry from thirst. "Baby, talk to me."
He stirred, just barely, his lids lifting enough for her to see the dull glimmer of his eyes. "Mama," he said, though his voice was nearly a croak.
The water they were given came once a day, foul and metallic, ladled from a rusted bucket by a silent man in a hood. Their food—a handful of moldy bread and a scrap of something that might have been meat—was tossed on the floor like scraps for dogs. It took everything in Bettina not to scream when Jason stooped to eat it off the dirt-covered stones.
She had stopped crying on the second day. Not out of strength, but because her body simply had no more tears left to give. She cried for the immense helplessness that she felt for not being able to protect her little boy, unable to run over to him and kiss him and embrace him. But then, she realized that she had to keep her mind alert and devoid of emotions, and perhaps she might find a way out of here.
But then, time seemed bent on tormenting her.
There was no telling the hour; the dungeon was buried so deep within the ruins that not even a sliver of light pierced through. She marked time by the sound of the guards changing and the coldness of the stone that settled deeper with each passing cycle.
Sleep was rare. Pain and worry refused to let her mind rest.
But most of all, the frustration just kept mounting up inside her. She picked up the rusted wire and bent nail she found amongst the straws and threw it angrily across the cell.
Fuck those movies and online novels!The books and films I used to devour always made it look so easy—heroines slipping free of chains with a hairpin, wriggling through bars, or knocking out guards with a single swing. Lies. All lies.
And then came the footsteps.
Boots on stone, measured and slow. Too sure to be one of the usual guards. A second set of feet followed—lighter, deferential. Bettina sat up straighter, her entire body going rigid. Jason stirred as well, his hollow gaze flickering toward the iron-barred door.
It creaked open with the groan of rusted hinges, letting in a strange, diffused lamplight. A tall man stepped through, dressed in black, his face concealed beneath a fine silver-threaded mask.
He paused. Studied her.
Then, with the kind of ease that unsettled her more than violence, he removed the mask.
Bettina's breath caught.
The man who smiled at her had brilliant dark hair the color of a raven's wing, skin pale from years spent out of the sun, and eyes like frozen steel—cold, calculating, and deeply unhinged.
"I trust the hospitality has been…adequate," he said smoothly, voice rich with mockery.
She didn't respond.
The man stepped forward, gaze sliding from her to Jason and then back again.
"I am Prince Darius Caelen Valmor," he said. "But you, my dear Countess, may call me Darius. We are going to become very well acquainted."
His smile widened.
Jason whimpered.
And Bettina's blood ran cold.
------***-----
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