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This novel contains depictions and/or strong implications of the following:
Mature Themes including
Violence Against Women and Children
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The cell door creaked open with an ominous groan, the rusted hinges screaming a warning that sent shivers crawling down Jason's spine. He had just begun to doze off, curled against the frigid stone wall with Bettina's chain-bound arm draped protectively over him, when the footsteps echoed in.
Torchlight licked the damp walls, casting monstrous shadows as Prince Darius Caelen Valmor entered.
He was smiling from ear to ear.
His smile was that of a deranged clown who was about to witness more forms of enjoyment. His chiseled face bore the harshness of a man long consumed by hatred and loss. His black coat, embroidered with a tarnished crest, hung like a funeral shroud. His presence sucked the warmth from the room.
Bettina instinctively pulled Jason behind her, though her limbs trembled from days of cold, thirst, and unrelenting fear. Her lips were cracked; her cheeks sunken.
Still, her eyes sharpened. Since she failed to find a way for her and Jason to escape, she'll at least use her body to shield her boy from harm.
"I see the boy lives," Darius said, tone mild, as if commenting on the weather. He stepped forward, boot heels tapping on the wet stones. "I was almost afraid you'd let him die too quickly."
Jason flinched as Darius knelt before him, lifting the boy's chin with the back of his gloved fingers. The child's lip quivered; his breathing turned shallow, erratic.
"Don't touch him," Bettina said.
Darius looked at her. "Why not? You've both already endured for almost an entire week. Perhaps it's time he learns what his empire does to others."
She saw it in his eyes—the same hunger she'd seen in her stepfather's: the glee in domination, the sick anticipation.
She couldn't let him have Jason.
"Because it won't break me," she said.
He turned.
She straightened as much as her chained arms would allow. Her voice was hoarse, her body broken, but her gaze didn't waver. "But if you hurt me in front of him... if you brand me, he'll break. Him, the boy who carries Earl Whitman's own blood. I'll scream. He'll cry. And you'll finally get your show."
Darius stared at her. The torchlight shimmered in his eyes.
"You presume to tell me how to extract pain?"
"I know men like you," she said, the words slicing past her dry throat. "Men who enjoyed having power over helpless people. You want to control. You want to humiliate. What joy is there in harming a boy who doesn't understand what's happening? If you really want me to suffer—make me watch him suffer. Or...make him watch me."
Darius was quiet. He pondered. Then he smiled. Cold, cruel.
He turned. One of his soldiers stepped in, carrying a thick iron rod, glowing orange at the tip from a portable coal brazier.
Jason's eyes widened. He backed up against the wall, his small fists clenched on her arm.
"No! Stop! Don't touch her!" he screamed.
Bettina twisted around and cupped Jason's face between her shackled hands.
"Brave knight," she whispered so only the boy could hear. "Just like we talked about. Look at me. Look at me and remember—Papa's coming. You're not alone. I'm right here."
But Jason's face was contorted in fear. He tried to push forward, to get between her and the prince, but one of the guards held him back. Then, quite easily they pulled her, turned her around, and tore the back of her already tattered gown.
Bettina closed her eyes and steeled herself.
The iron pressed against her back.
There was a split second of sizzle, then—
A scream tore from her lungs, raw and animalistic.
Jason shrieked too. His body convulsed as if he was the one being branded, tears pouring down his face as he thrashed against the guard's grip.
Bettina collapsed forward, the stink of her burning flesh mingling with smoke and sweat and urine. She couldn't breathe. Her entire back seared in agony.
But he wasn't finished.
After reheating the branding iron in the flaming coals, Darius once again, pressed it deep in another spot, much higher, in the fleshier part of her back. The sounds of sizzling meat reached her ears.
Her shrieks filled the chamber and must have reverberated throughout the entire dungeon. She couldn't help it.
Jason wailed. "Mama! NOOOOOOOOOO!"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her face was buried in the cold stone, her body twitching as her mind fought to stay conscious.
Darius stood over them, the brand cooling in his hand.
"You were right," he murmured. "Aaah, this is far more satisfying. I'm punishing Whitman's woman while, at the same time, torturing the mind of his son! Let's do this again later, hmm?"
Then he turned and left, his cloak swishing behind him.
The guards followed, slamming the heavy door shut.
Darkness returned.
Jason collapsed beside her, sobbing uncontrollably. "Mama...I'm so sorry..."
She reached out with shaking fingers and touched his arm.
She didn't speak. She couldn't. But the touch said enough.
She was still here.
Still holding on.
*****Let fates entwine*****
The snowstorm raged like a phantom across the pine forest, burying the tracks of the living while whispering promises of concealment. Anthony James Whitman moved silently beneath nature's fury, his breath shallow behind a white thermal mask that broke his features into shadows. He was one with the snow now—his long white coat blending with the snow-covered environment, a perfect camouflage uniform designed for the very terrain they were traversing.
Their movements were like a ghost procession: hushed, deliberate, predatory. To the untrained eye, they would be no more than whispers in a blizzard. Jane flanked his left, her face emotionless beneath her hood, eyes sharp with lethal calculation. Mage Henry hovered just behind, fingers lightly brushing the air as if sensing vibrations in the magic-laced wind.
With each step forward, Anthony's mind recalculated. He was aware that Grand Duke Edwards and the imperial army were waiting with perfect precision. They had personally selected three platoons, consisting of at least 50 men per platoon, who would be following his covert team at their appointed time. And if this rescue spiraled into a war, there was also a fleet of soldiers all ready to storm the ruined borders of Valmor. This mission had to be swift. Silent. Clean.
He glanced at Henry, who nodded. The man had triangulated Bettina and Jason's locations using traces of soul resonance—subtle, barely detectable unless one was extraordinarily gifted. Henry had even managed to prepare compact teleportation pads that could be deployed for emergency extraction. He didn't know Mage Henry was that talented of a magician, he could probably replace the Mage Tower's Grandmaster. And he was very grateful for his presence in this rescue operation.
As the forest broke, the jagged silhouette of the ruined Valmor Palace loomed before them—its once-proud towers buried in snow and shadows, frost clinging to broken walls like scars. It wasn't simply a ruin. It was a trap-laden fortress, transformed from its historical grandeur into a lair of desperation and brutality.
Anthony's team halted near the southern wall, where the side entry connected to what used to be the servant passages—a discreet path that led to the dungeons with minimal exposure. A rusted iron grate sat half-buried beneath a mound of snow.
Under the shadow of the looming edifice, they silently removed their bright outer uniforms, and left it on a pile by the wall, to reveal their dark set of uniform underneath. They will now be part of this ruin's shadows.
With swift precision, Jane picked the lock while one of the covert operatives, a war-seasoned mage, scanned for sigils.
Henry raised his hand, murmuring inaudible spells to disable the first series of magical barriers—ancient glyphs laced with detection triggers and illusionary veils. The team held their breath as he dissolved them one by one. No alarm rang. No flicker of resistance. Henry's skill was unmatched.
With the grate opened, they descended.
Inside the palace's innards, the air turned heavy. The snowstorm above became a muffled hum as they passed through ice-bitten corridors and mold-eaten stones. The deeper they went, the clearer the tension in Anthony's chest became. He could feel Bettina's fear. Jason's quiet courage. Their presence—like flickers in the dark.
They split into three teams once inside. Each had at least one trained mage. Anthony's team—himself, Henry, Jane, and two others—would handle the direct dungeon breach. Team Two circled toward the upper ramparts to secure Prince Darius' command posts. Team Three moved to the throne room area to investigate possible escape tunnels and collapse points.
Despite the careful planning, Prince Darius had not made this easy. Misdirection runes led into loops. Fake passages bled magical heat signatures to fool trackers. One hallway flickered with an illusion of emptiness when in fact it held a wall of dormant archers behind an invisible barrier. Only Jane's sharp eyes and Henry's sensory spells prevented catastrophe and allowed them to avoid or move around these obstacles. Slowly, but surely, they were able to move forward to their targeted destination.
Then it happened.
Near the lower chamber, as they passed beneath a sloped corridor that opened toward the old servant's execution hallway, Henry whispered, "Wait."
Too late.
A quiet crack echoed in the silence.
One of the operatives—Soren—had brushed his gloved palm against the curvature of a broken pillar, where a sigil no larger than a child's hand had been etched in ancient Valmoran script.
The floor trembled.
"Move!" Anthony barked.
The ceiling collapsed in a roar of stone and dust. They dove backward as rubble caved in, blocking their rear path and shaking the very foundation of the ruined palace.
Far above, a low, warbled hum echoed like a horn.
Alarms.
They'd been discovered.
A burst of magical energy surged like a flare.
Somewhere within the palace, Prince Darius turned his head toward the noise.
"Fetch the prisoners," he said coldly.
And with that, Phase Two of Anthony's rescue plan exploded into chaos.
*****The justice thou sleekest*****
A dull ache pulsed across Bettina's back as she lay curled on the damp stone floor, lost somewhere between pain and fevered dreams. After the branding iron, Darius went back two more times, in the span of…ah, she didn't know how long the time interval was…she'd already lost her sense of time…just to torture her again in front of the boy. The second time, he drew out a thin dagger and made shallow cuts on her exposed skin, making sure Jason saw her dripping blood everywhere. But the third time was the most painful of all—Darius sat back and made sure Jason watched as one of his men placed a low stool in front of her, forced her to lay her hand down flat on it, and used a plier to pull out two of her fingernails.
The moment the nail tore free, pain exploded like a bolt of lightning shooting straight from the fingertip to the spine. It wasn't a sharp cut or a dull ache—it was a raw, searing burn, as if the entire nerve bed had been flayed open. Blood welled instantly, hot and slick, but it couldn't wash away the throbbing agony radiating from the exposed nail bed. The finger pulsed with each heartbeat, every throb a new wave of torture—like fire licking at raw flesh. Even the slightest brush of air felt like being stabbed with ice and glass at once. A nauseating mix of pain and shock twisted in her stomach, and the hand instinctively curled inward, trembling and useless, trying to protect the screaming wound. Her screams sounded like music in Darius' ears.
But, in all those times, she was still thankful they never hurt the boy. She would take and endure all the pain in the world for him.
And then, blessedly, he left them alone for a longer stretch of time.
Today, as usual, the cold had gnawed into her bones. Her breathing rasped in her throat; each inhale a labor. She wasn't sure if the wetness on her face was sweat or tears anymore. She wasn't even sure if it was her own sweat and tears or Jason's as the boy lay curled up beside her.
Then—
BOOM!
The sound cracked through the silence like a cannon. Stone shuddered above her. Dust rained from the ceiling. Her eyes snapped open.
Jason stirred beside her, his little body flinching in his sleep before sitting up with a jerk.
"Wh-what was that?" he whispered, eyes wide, voice trembling.
"I—I don't know," Bettina croaked, blinking away the haze of sleep. Her heart began to pound.
The heavy door to their cell flew open, slamming against the wall. Lantern light spilled in, blinding after days in darkness.
"Get them out!" barked a rough voice. "Now!"
Two guards stormed in. Before Bettina could react, call out, or shield Jason, gloved hands grabbed her arms. Another pair seized Jason.
"No—! Jason!" she shouted, struggling, but her body was too weak. Chains clinked as they were yanked to their feet.
"Don't touch her!" Jason screamed as they pulled him back. His voice cracked. "Leave her alone!"
"Let us go! Please—!" Bettina cried, but the guards didn't stop.
They were dragged from the cell, chains still on, up hundreds of winding stairs and corridors slick with condensation. Torches along the walls blurred past. Every step jarred her feverish body, but the panic for Jason kept her alert. Where are they taking them?
At the top of the stairs, they emerged into a massive, shadowed hall. The air here was cold, stale, but filled with a strange tension.
The throne room.
It was cavernous—far larger than she imagined, the ceiling lost in darkness. A crumbling majesty still clung to the towering pillars and the elevated dais where the old Valmor throne loomed like a relic of defiance.
And there he was.
Prince Darius stood at the center of it all, surrounded by a handful of his men. One of them—an older woman with long black hair and ceremonial robes—was muttering a string of words in an ancient tongue as she waved her hands across a magical circle etched in chalk and blood on the floor. The witch's eyes glowed faintly. She looked frazzled. In a hurry.
Darius's gaze slid to Bettina and Jason as they were shoved in. He didn't smile. He merely tilted his head and barked, "Separate them."
"No!" Jason shrieked. "No, don't—!"
"Stop—stop it, please!" Bettina begged, twisting against the grip on her arms. "He's just a boy!"
The guards didn't care. They pulled her to the right, through a low arched doorway just off the dais. As she was dragged through, her eyes locked with Jason's across the throne room. He was still screaming her name, trying to fight, until one guard forced him down and snapped his shackles to the throne's obsidian base.
She screamed his name as the door slammed shut behind her.
Inside the smaller chamber, darker and chillier than the main hall, rusted hooks and shackles decorated the walls like macabre ornaments. She was slammed against the wall—metal clanged—and shackles were locked around her wrists; arms raised slightly above her head.
The air reeked of old blood.
Then, Darius stepped in.
"Since our guests have arrived," he said coolly, brushing dust off his sleeve, "I expect you to deliver a performance worthy of my patience."
Bettina swallowed hard, trembling. "What—? Why are you doing this?"
"To remind them," he said, turning his back. "That I'm still the true hand of vengeance in this empire."
She gasped softly, her gaze flickering to a hot iron poker heating in a small brazier near the wall. Her stomach clenched.
"Do scream loudly, Lady Whitman," Darius added, pausing at the doorway. "Your knight must hear every note."
And then he was gone.
*****Shall awaken in time*****
The ceiling came down in a roar of crumbling stone and splintered wood, sending clouds of dust and icy wind cascading through the narrow corridor. Shouts rang out as Prince Darius's guards, previously oblivious to the infiltration, now surged forward in waves. The trap had done its job: alerting the enemy to their presence.
Anthony rolled to the side, shielding his head from the falling debris, before pushing off the ground and drawing his blade in a fluid, practiced motion. The steel glinted under the pale torchlight flickering from the broken sconces along the ruined hallway.
"Move! Protect the corridor!" he barked.
Mage Henry, cloak swirling, stepped forward with a glowing sigil hovering over his palm. He murmured a spell under his breath, voice sharp and deliberate. A blast of condensed air and shimmering frost erupted from his outstretched hand, slamming into the first wave of enemy soldiers. Their cries were swallowed by the sudden freeze that left them encased in ice from head to toe, immobilized.
Jane, crouched low beside the broken archway, launched into motion like a shadow come to life. She slipped between the staggered enemy lines with unnerving precision. Her fists moved in a blur—a crack to the temple, a twist of a blade from one guard's grip, a disabling strike to a knee. Her every motion spoke of years in the shadows, the muscle memory of an assassin long buried but never forgotten.
Anthony surged forward into the melee, his blade flashing with deliberate aggression. He parried a strike from a long spear, twisting to the side, then drove his elbow into the attacker's jaw before plunging his sword between another man's ribs. He didn't pause. He made sure no one who attacked him was left alive. Another guard lunged; Anthony ducked low, sweeping his leg to unbalance him, and followed up with a precise strike that ended the threat.
"They're blocking the lower tunnel! We need to push north!" one of the covert operatives shouted.
"No," Anthony said, slashing through another opponent. "Darius will expect that. We hold this ground until Henry opens the secondary route."
Henry, still shielding the team with bursts of magic, nodded once and raised both hands. Runes carved into his gauntlets pulsed. A glowing line etched itself across the sidewall, forming a hidden doorway that began to hum with power.
Just as the last rune ignited, the air vibrated with a low, resonating hum. The magic came… not from Henry—but from above. A voice, distorted and magnified, boomed across the crumbling palace.
"Anthony James Whitman," it rang, eerily calm. "I had hoped you would be clever enough to reach me."
All movement paused. Anthony looked up, tension winding tight through his body.
"Stay your weapons. Follow my men. If you don't… well, I think you know who will pay the price."
"Darius," Anthony growled under his breath.
Jane looked to him, breathing hard, blood on her knuckles. "He's baiting you."
"I know."
The corridor ahead lit with torchlight as cloaked figures appeared at the far end. They bore Darius's crest and held their weapons low, a false gesture of parley.
Henry stepped closer to Anthony. "He's trying to stall us…possibly to escape. But if he's revealing himself now, he has something to prove."
Anthony clenched his jaw, lowering his sword only slightly. "Then let's end it on our terms."
The team reformed, weapons still in hand but cautious, and followed the torch-bearing guards into the dim, echoing belly of the ruined palace—toward the throne room.
Toward Bettina. Toward Jason.
Toward the end.