The hall outside the war room was filled with a hush more ominous than chaos.
Earl Anthony Whitman stood by the window, his gloves in hand, back straight as steel. The hearth was lit, but the fire did little to push away the biting cold of dread that had seeped into the stone walls. Around the long table, senior knights of the Whitman estate, a dozen commanders from various private detachments, and a few trusted high-ranking agents of the Mage Tower filled every seat and corners.
Amidst the maps, parchments, and arcane instruments, Jane's torn cloak, still stained with drying blood, had been left folded on the edge of the table like a silent witness.
Anthony spoke first, his voice low but clear. "What do we know so far?"
Mage Henry rose from his seat; the dark silver sigils stitched on his robe gleaming. "I've initiated a request with the Mage Tower's Travel and Transfer Division. All teleportation pads in the region are mandated by law to record logs—time, weight, number of passengers, and magical signature. We're reviewing the records of the last week." He paused. "But…nothing unusual has come up yet."
"No leads?" Anthony, their former military general asked sharply as the rest of them meticulously looked through the documents on the table.
Former platoon leader Beckham piped in. "We've scoured every port in the eastern, southern and western routes. Questioned every station chief, merchant, and mage who monitored the teleportation pads. Nothing. It's like they vanished."
Henry added, "The pad near the academy shows a group departure less than an hour after Lady Bettina and young Master Jason left. The reading shows a cluster consistent with a party of five or more, but the magic signature was masked. We're estimating the weights and magical echo patterns to triangulate who it could be—but it was professionally done. Possibly someone from a military background."
Anthony's jaw tightened. "Can we trace where they went?"
"Unlikely. They may have jumped to another region to throw us off. If they made a western hop and traveled manually after that, their true destination would be near impossible to guess."
"Unless they left a mistake behind," Anthony said coldly.
One of the knights, Commander Ronell, leaned forward. "We've begun combing the road near the teleport pad and the alternate road to Arcanos town. Jane's blood trail was located nearly three miles from the ambush site. She must've crawled, trying to reach help."
"And Jane?" Anthony asked.
Henry shook his head. "Concussed. Fevered. She doesn't remember who they were. Says they were masked and used spell-dampening relics. She's blaming herself."
Anthony's fists clenched around his gloves. "She held her own against trained kidnappers. No one here has the right to blame her."
A murmur of agreement passed through the room.
Then the door opened. Grand Duke Chambers stepped in without ceremony, followed closely by the Crown Prince, his face uncharacteristically grim. Everybody executed a quick salute in light of the grim situation.
"Anthony," the Grand Duke said, "Any progress?"
Mage Henry moved forward, tossing a rolled scroll onto the table. "We have confirmed that Lady Bettina and young Master Jason exited the public teleportation pad in Edevane, the westernmost province of the empire. But there's no reentry nor arrival recorded at every possible next official station. Either the records were tampered with, or they used an unregistered pad."
The Grand Duke's brows furrowed. "There are only a few in the empire powerful enough to create or hide teleportation pads. Anyone outside the Mage Tower would require black-market assistance."
The prince spoke next. "Special Operations under the palace has been notified. We've activated our shadow network." He tapped his fingers on the map. "What about Jane's report? She said they were attacked on the road just before reaching the teleportation hub. They must've taken control of them before the jump."
"Which means," Henry said grimly, "they used a fake pad. One not linked to the Mage Tower's registry. I've sent my people to trace lingering arcane signatures in the area, but any decent mage would've masked their tracks."
Anthony's fists curled tightly. "And Jane never saw their faces. No banners. No insignia. Just organized, masked fighters with knowledge of our route and guard rotations."
Chambers murmured, "That speaks of inside knowledge or someone with resources. Nobility, perhaps. Or an old faction returning from the dark."
Anthony stared at the map on the table. "They're hiding them. Which means they don't want them dead—yet."
Henry added, "And they may have wanted the boy."
The Crown Prince's eyes narrowed. "Young Jason?"
Anthony nodded slowly. "Targeting him…is how they break her."
A heavy silence fell again.
Anthony finally said, voice low and cracked, "My wife and son were taken. But we haven't received a single demand. No ransom. No message. This wasn't about money. We need to think of another possible motive other than money."
Chambers leaned in. "Then what was it about?"
Henry looked up from his glowing scrying mirror, his voice speculative. "What if it's revenge?"
Prince Alaric snapped his head around. "From whom?"
Henry hesitated. "Nothing concrete. But I am looking into something odd—Minister Darius Valmoras. He's been declared missing ever since he was named by Marcus Whitman as one of the key players in their smuggling and money laundering ring."
"You think he may be involved in this?" Asked Anthony.
"Lady Whitman and Young Master Jason have no enemies that we know of," reasoned Mage Henry. "The only notable incident that we could remember," he added, gesturing to Anthony, "was that bloody package she received several weeks ago which contained broken pieces of her inventions."
"Yes," Chambers nodded. "We concluded back then that it must have been sent by those affected by the trade sigil she created which crippled the operations of smuggling rings."
"Exactly," Mage Henry continued. "Former Minister Darius Valmoras has strong connections with those smuggling rings and may have enough funds, connections, and most especially motive to commit this kidnapping. And so, I looked into his background."
"That sounds logical," Prince Alaric said. "He may be holding a grudge against the Whitman family for your contributions in the ongoing dismantling of the smuggling rings here in the empire."
"But that's not all, your highness," said Mage Henry. "The odd thing was, the background information I found on Valmoras seems to be fake."
"Fake? What do you mean?"
"Well, his citizenship records state that he was registered as someone who was born 30 years ago in the frontier town of Mintos on the northernmost province of the empire. But, when I looked closely on our Department of Citizens and Family Registry, there was never any record of any person nor family with the last name Valmoras who lived in Mintos at, nor around, the recorded date of his birth. I even visited that province myself yesterday to check on their local records. I found nothing to confirm his birth."
"He must be assuming a fake identity, then. Or he bribed someone to create a false record of citizenship," agreed Prince Alaric. "Otherwise, you would still find records if he had just legally changed his name."
And with that, Henry pulled out small box from his pocket, one that he acquired after searching the Earl's home for clues. He opened it to show everyone its content.
Inside was the ring that Anthony and his men found, along with the charred documents, after the arson that was committed on one of his warehouses recently—elegant, finely wrought. A stylized serpent coiled around a flame, encircled by three stars.
Edward Chambers picked up the ring to examine it more closely. "Valmoras…is not his real last name."
"What is it, then?" Anthony asked, almost ready to lose his patience with all these talks.
"Anthony, do you really not recognize this signet ring?" Asked the Grand Duke, eyes darkening. "This is the crest of the Valmor royal line."
The room stilled.
Anthony was rooted to his spot.
"No one survived the royal family of Valmor," the Crown Prince said, but there was an unease in his voice. "That family line was destroyed after their kingdom was conquered. The records list the entire royal family has perished during the fall."
"Except…" the Chambers said slowly, "bodies of the younger son and one of the cousins were never recovered."
Anthony's gaze darkened. "He was barely eighteen when the empire took the Valmor Kingdom. A child prince, presumed dead. But if he survived…"
Henry exhaled. "If he survived and grew up nursing a hatred for everything Boleus stood for—then this might be his opening move."
Anthony's voice dropped to a whisper. "And he served in Foreign Trade and Defense. He would know the teleport grid. The weaknesses. The remote locations."
A beat passed. The pieces clicked.
A tense silence wrapped around the room like a noose.
Anthony stared at the map again—at the cold, uncharted north.
"I want every lord, every retired soldier who ever served in the Valmor border region questioned. Every mercenary, every smuggler, every transport operator flagged. If they're hiding in ruins, we'll smoke them out."
The Grand Duke turned to the prince. "It's time we officially reopen the northern intelligence files. Discreetly."
The prince nodded. "And check the underground smuggling networks. He'd need coin, protection, passage. Mercenaries, rogue mages—track them all."
Henry spoke out once more. "We need to be careful, though. As former Minister of Defense, Darius would most likely anticipate that we would put two and two together and immediately head for the north. We should expect every possible trap he could lay out – magical or otherwise."
Prince Alaric straightened. "We must still keep an eye out for alternative places he could have brought them, Anthony. He may have chosen the north to hide them in or perhaps used it as a decoy."
Anthony turned to leave, face carved in steel. "I want every trace followed. My wife and son are out there. I'll burn the continent if I have to."
Henry caught up with him in the corridor, voice low but resolute. "We'll find them, Anthony. We will."
But neither man said aloud the truth that was gnawing at the edges of their thoughts: the north was vast, abandoned, and full of ghosts—both literal and political. And if the fallen prince had made it his fortress, then time was no longer on their side.
*****And hush thy mind*****
Bettina's lips were cracked. Her throat was raw. The last time she'd had water was yesterday—a chipped bowl of brackish fluid that smelled of rust and decay. Her chains clinked softly as she shifted, metal biting into her scabbed wrists. Beside her, Jason lay curled against the wall like a little mouse in the winter—knees drawn to his chest, arms limp. He hadn't spoken in days.
The cell was dark. And reeking. Not entirely black, but enough that shadows danced against the blackened stone walls like ghosts. Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed—a short, gasping shriek—before being cut off. Then silence.
Jason whimpered in his sleep.
Bettina wanted to reach for him, hold him, protect him. But the chains anchoring her wrists above her head stretched too tight. Her shoulders burned constantly. The only thing she could do was whisper, over and over again, like a prayer. "You're safe. I'm here. I won't let them take you again."
But she didn't believe it anymore.
On the second day, the guards had come. Five of them. All masked. One had grabbed Jason by the hair and yanked him forward. Another had backhanded Bettina across the face when she screamed. Her lip was still split. The taste of iron was familiar now.
They didn't beat Jason—no, not yet—but they made sure she saw how easily they could. That was worse. The threat. The waiting. The whispered laughter as they left her weeping.
And the food. If it could be called that.
A few cold scraps of what might have been meat and old gruel tossed at them once every twelve hours—meant to keep them alive, not fed. She'd chewed and spat out the mold-covered crusts rather than feed them to Jason.
The only relief she had in this entire madness was their captors allowing Jason to be chained beside her. At least they could now both sit on the cold floor and the boy was allowed to lie down and curl on her lap. Thank God for small favors.
Her body had grown weaker, colder. Yet her mind...stayed burning.
She'd been trained all her life to bow. To shrink. To survive.
But now? Now she was a mother. In heart, if not by blood. And the little boy beside her was the only family she had.
And that was when the door creaked open.
The cell was silent. Jason stirred awake, blinking at the sudden brightness of a torch. Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate. More than one man entered. The guards came first, faces concealed by thick scarves and hoods. But the last man…he didn't wear a mask.
It was him.
The man who introduced himself last time. There was something noble in the way he carried himself. Aristocratic. Old blood.
Bettina's breath caught as he stepped forward into the light, and smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.
It was slow. Measured. Practiced.
"I apologize for the poor hospitality," he said, voice smooth, gentle—like a balm pressed over a deep wound. "This place isn't what it once was. But it holds...memories."
Jason instinctively shrank behind Bettina's leg. Her legs instinctively moved to shield him, because the chain binding her arms was firmly attached on the wall, keeping her plastered there, the metal rattling above her head.
"Ah, maybe your days spent here have rendered you a bit dumb, my lady." The man gave a small bow. "Darius Caelen Valmor, at your service. Former minister of the Boleus Empire. Last surviving son of the true royal house of Valmor—until your beloved empire decided it was easier to erase an entire kingdom."
He smiled again, but it never touched his eyes.
"Now, of course, I am many things. An exile. A traitor, perhaps. But more than anything... I am your host."
Bettina swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. "Why us?"
"Why not?" he replied softly, approaching until he stood barely a foot away from her. "Your husband is The Right Honorable Earl Anthony Whitman, is he not? Son of Lord Marcus Whitman—who funded the southern invasion of my kingdom. Who profited from our silver and steel, from the blood of our soldiers and children. Your house grew fat while mine burned."
"I had nothing to do with it," Bettina said. "This young, innocent boy, had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, I know," Darius said gently. "You were just caught in the ripples. That's the cruelty of fate, isn't it? One man throws a stone…and people like you drown in the waves."
He crouched in front of Jason, speaking almost kindly. "Do you know what your father did to my people, little lord?"
Jason stared at him, frozen.
The man looked up at Bettina again. "He burned my kingdom. He razed my home and murdered my family."
"Do you know what my father said the night before he died?" Darius turned back to the boy. "He told me, 'If ever you are made to crawl, make sure they remember how you stood.' That's why I lived. That's why I came back."
"Don't touch him," Bettina growled, dragging her short chains forward until they screamed in the sockets of her shoulders. "You want to punish someone? Punish me."
"Oh, I will," he said mildly, straightening. "But slowly. After all, the mind breaks long before the body."
He turned to leave.
"Guards," he said over his shoulder, "increase the chain length again for the child. Let him roam the cell. But leave the food outside the bars."
"Yes, your highness."
"If the boy wants to eat, let's see if he learns to step away from her protection. Let's see how much hunger it takes to make him crawl."
He paused just at the door.
"Oh, and why don't we lengthen Lady Whitman's chains as well? We don't want her to think we're such barbarians now, do we?"
And then he was gone.
The door slammed shut.
Jason began to cry.
And Bettina—helpless, chained, exhausted—could only whisper again, "I'm here. I'm here," even as her voice cracked and her heart was breaking as she heard little Jason's silent sobs.
Deep within her, something hardened. Even if she can't free them both to escape, she still has her body that she could use to shield her precious one. Anthony would never stop until he gets his son back. And so, until Anthony comes, she will protect Jason for as long as she lived.
That resolve made her face her son and look him squarely in the eyes. "I need you to be brave, my little knight. Your father would never sleep until he finds us and rescues us from here. But I need you to be a little bit strong for now, okay?"
At those words, Jason's whimpers stopped, and he slowly nodded, looking straight back into her eyes for quite a long while. They held hands, tightly, sharing the last bit of strength they have with each other. And hopefully, it would last until she either found a way out or die trying.
This wasn't just cruelty. It was strategy. A war of attrition.
And she would not lose.
*****Through threads unseen*****
The study of Lord Hildebrand Everett was dimly lit by a trio of enchanted crystal lamps, their soft amber glow catching the gilded lining of old tomes and casting long shadows across the massive oaken map table. The estate, located near the border of the long-fallen Valmor Kingdom, had once been the final haven for refugees and political exiles from that ancient, icy realm. Now, it served as the staging ground for an elite covert operation.
Lord Everett sat behind the table, his fingers tracing the cracked, yellowed edges of a sprawling architectural blueprint—a diagram of the old Valmor Royal Palace. Across from him stood Earl Anthony Whitman, cloaked in dark travel leathers, eyes narrowed and jaw set. Beside Anthony stood Grand Duke Edward Chambers, arms folded, posture unreadable but presence imposing.
"This copy was smuggled out by my wife's uncle, a former royal architect of Valmor," Everett said, tapping the faded parchment. "Much of the palace has crumbled, but the eastern wing and the underground chambers are still intact—according to surviving refugees. This here," he gestured toward the lower left quadrant of the blueprint, "is the most likely location of the royal dungeons. If Darius has them anywhere, it's here."
Anthony leaned in. "Entrances?"
"Three known ones apart from the official entrance. One under the throne dais, another disguised within the east servants' quarter, and a third through the collapsed wine cellar. Only the second is remotely accessible without triggering a cave-in."
The door creaked open.
Two scouts stepped into the study, brushing snow from their shoulders. One of them—a lean man with hawk-like eyes and a bandage on his forearm—bowed.
"My lords," he said, nodding first to Anthony, then to Chambers. "Scout-Commander Rhys. We've mapped the terrain east of the palace ruins. There are still functioning villages—insular and bitter. Many retain loyalty to Valmor's bloodline. Avoid the main western road and northern ridge unless you want to face ambushes or stir up local resistance. Best route in is from the southeast under cover of the pine forest."
Anthony nodded grimly. "Thank you. What of the second team?"
The other scout, a younger woman with soot on her cloak and a leather satchel slung at her side, stepped forward.
"We interrogated two captured smugglers. They'd been paid in Darius' minted silver—Valmorian design, but newly pressed. Prince Darius' men have laid traps at key ruin entrances: runes that mimic snowdrifts but trigger cave-ins or burning hexes. They've also strung scent-based wards keyed to human sweat, so even minor movement will trigger alarms unless countered."
Chambers let out a low whistle. "Clever bastard. But at least now we know."
He walked toward the map, placing his gloved hand over the dungeon entrance. "With the Emperor and Alaric's support, I've managed to keep this mission under wraps. Officially, you're all on a security audit for the northern trade routes. In reality, the northern military garrisons are being discreetly mobilized. If this escalates, we'll have forces ready to respond swiftly."
Anthony didn't speak. His eyes remained locked on the blueprint.
Chambers added, voice quieter, "Jane has recovered. She'll join the infiltration team—she insisted, actually. And she'll be supported by the Crown Prince's own covert unit. They arrived last night under cover."
Anthony's expression twitched, the faintest relief in his steel demeanor. "Good."
Chambers looked around. "Where's Mage Henry?"
Lord Everett chuckled dryly. "Last I checked, he'd taken over one of my towers and hasn't come down since sunrise. Something about needing uninterrupted arcane alignment to triangulate Prince Darius' aura signature as well as Lady Whitman's."
Anthony allowed himself a breath. It wasn't a laugh, not yet, but it was the closest thing to one he'd managed in days.
The map table grew quiet again. Snow tapped faintly against the arched windowpanes, and the wind howled through the northern pines.
Soon, they would move. Into frozen ruins, into traps, and into the heart of a kingdom that refused to die. But now—they prepared.
And this time, they would not fail.