The throne room had become a warzone.
Shattered chandeliers smoldered on the marble floor. The pillars of black stone bore deep cracks from Mage Henry's magical barrage. Arrows, swords, men, and blood littered the ground, and the air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the iron tang of death. And somewhere in the distance, the sounds of bugle and soldiers' war cry could be heard coming closer.
Anthony Whitman's breath came heavy through clenched teeth as he squared off against Darius Caelen Valmor.
The fallen prince's once-regal clothing was torn, blood-soaked, and singed. Yet his stance was poised, his blade steady despite the cut along his brow that trickled crimson into his eye. His mouth curled into a sneer. "It seems the general of Boleus has come to bury the last of Valmor."
Anthony gripped his sword tighter, his stance low and balanced, eyes locked on the man who had tortured his wife, terrified his son, and dragged the ghosts of empire into the present.
"This isn't for Boleus," Anthony growled. "This is for me."
Darius lunged first—fast, a blur of steel and fury. Anthony parried with a clang that echoed through the hollow chamber. The force of it numbed his forearm, but he spun with it, using the momentum to slide around Darius and strike low.
Darius pivoted, blade arcing in a vicious diagonal slash meant to open Anthony from shoulder to hip. Sparks flew as their swords clashed again. Anthony gritted his teeth, knees buckling from the impact, but he held firm. He had to.
Behind them, Jason still crouched, trembling behind the throne. Bettina lay unconscious, chained to the wall, her skin covered with blood and bruises.
Anthony's fury was no longer fire—it was steel. Cold. Focused.
Darius feinted left, then thrust for Anthony's ribs. Anthony barely sidestepped in time, feeling the blade nick the leather at his waist. He retaliated with a diagonal strike that carved across Darius' shoulder, tearing through fabric and flesh.
The fallen prince hissed in pain, stumbling back, eyes blazing.
"Your Empire slaughtered my people," Darius spat. "And you—you smiled through it all, didn't you? Peacekeeper? You're a butcher in noble cloth."
Anthony advanced. "I was there when your parents chose death rather than face justice. I offered them peace. They refused. You're fighting ghosts, Darius. And you're turning into the tyrant you claim to hate."
Darius roared, unleashing a flurry of strikes driven by pain and desperation. Anthony gave ground at first, parrying each blow, his boots sliding across blood-slick stone. But he didn't falter.
With a sudden pivot, Anthony ducked under a swing and slammed the pommel of his sword into Darius' jaw. The prince reeled, dazed—just enough.
Anthony surged forward, blade raised—but Darius twisted away, throwing down his sword, blood dripping from his chin, and bolted toward the throne.
"No—!" Anthony charged after him.
Behind the throne, Darius dropped to his knees, frantically pulling up a hidden panel in the dais. Beneath it the chalk- and blood-etched sigil glowed, a rudimentary teleportation pad.
Mage Henry, fighting with the last enemy mage across the throne room, had seen enough.
His voice rose above the chaos, thunderous and precise. "Fulmen, verum feri!"
A crackling bolt of lightning ripped through the air, from Henry's hand, and struck the teleportation pad—just as Darius activated it.
The explosion was instantaneous.
The pad blew apart in a searing burst of light and force. The throne shattered. Darius was flung back, a scream torn from his throat as fire and arcane energy engulfed his arm and side. He crashed into the marble floor, convulsing, half of his body charred and steaming.
He tried to crawl away, gasping in agony, but Anthony was already upon him.
Sword raised. Heart burning.
Darius rolled onto his back, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips, defiance flickering in his gaze even through the pain.
"You think...this ends it?" he rasped. Still smiling grotesquely through his own pain. "You've only...buried the fire. It will rise again."
Anthony looked down at the broken prince. "Not today."
Steel met flesh—clean, final.
Darius' body stilled, the last breath escaping like a whisper through scorched lips.
Valmor loyalists who were still fighting somehow became aware of the death of their prince—their intense focus shattered, and was further decimated by the crash of boots as the Grand Duke's soldiers cut down the last of Darius' men. Jane dropped from the rafters in a graceful arc, wiping blood from her blade, then quickly making a beeline for Jason. Mage Henry staggered forward, smoke curling from his hands. And one of the covert operatives—bloodied, limping—was already rushing toward Bettina's chained form.
The thunder of battle slowly faded into a hush broken only by the crackle of lingering flames, the dripping of blood, and the groans of the dying. The air was thick with smoke, magic, and the acrid tang of scorched stone. What remained of the once-imposing throne room of the ruined Valmor palace was now a battlefield choked in silence.
Anthony lowered his sword at last, the blade stained red and still vibrating faintly with the force of his final blow. Darius lay crumpled near the throne, half his body melted, and a gaping maw on his chest still spurting the last ounces of his blood.
The spell-scorched tiles beneath Anthony's boots echoed as he stepped back, his breathing ragged. His gaze, bloodshot and sharp, immediately shifted toward the far wall—toward the place where Bettina still hung in chains.
"Henry," he rasped.
Mage Henry, already approaching with a limping gait, nodded once and waved his hand, releasing a soft incantation that cracked the mana-bound shackles open without further harm. Bettina's body slumped forward—
Anthony dropped his sword and ran.
He caught her before she hit the floor, arms enveloping her trembling, bloodied form. She was half-conscious, her fevered body hot even through the freezing sweat clinging to her skin. Her cheeks were wet with tears she hadn't known she shed. Blood oozed from welts and cuts across her back and shoulders, clinging to Anthony's own arms and torn uniform, and the brand at her ribs was still angry and red.
"Bettina," he breathed, sinking to his knees and wrapping her in his arms. "It's over. You're safe now. I'm here."
He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, and everywhere else he could reach. Wanting physical assurance that she's in his arms again.
She stirred against his chest; head nestled under his chin like a frightened bird. "Jason…"
Anthony looked up. Jason.
But the boy was already running toward them, arms outstretched, his cheeks streaked with soot and tears. He didn't wait for permission; he threw himself into their embrace, clutching his father and stepmother with all the strength his small body could muster.
"I thought you weren't coming," he sobbed into Anthony's shoulder. "I thought…I thought she was going to die—!"
"I would never leave either of you behind," Anthony whispered hoarsely. "Never."
Behind them, Mage Henry and Jane kept vigilant watch, allowing the Whitman family their moment. Around the throne room, the Grand Duke's men were rounding up any of the enemy's surviving stragglers. Bodies were being cleared, the wounded stabilized. The scent of battle was slowly giving way to the sharp, clean smell of snow drifting in through the shattered windows.
"Lord Whitman," one of the knights called respectfully. "We've secured the palace. The last of Darius's forces are surrendering. The outer perimeter is fully controlled."
Anthony nodded, but his focus never left his wife and son.
"We need a stretcher," Jane said, stepping up beside Henry. "Now."
"No stretcher," Bettina whispered, her voice barely audible. "I want…to walk out. Please…"
Her hands clutched at Anthony's tunic. He held her closer, unsure whether to comfort or object. Mage Henry crouched beside them, laying a glowing hand gently against her spine.
"She's strong, but she's still badly hurt. I'll dull the pain enough to get her through the next few hours," Henry said gently, eyes soft. "But she'll need real care, soon."
A heavy silence fell again—this time not from tension, but from a wave of relief washing over everyone. The storm outside had eased. The wind still howled in the distance, but here, in this ruined heart of a broken kingdom, the siege had ended.
And they had won.
Anthony stood slowly, lifting Bettina upright carefully, fully supporting her with his arms. Her head lay against his shoulder, one hand curled into his chest, the other grasping Jason's hand tightly. The boy walked beside them, holding his mother's free hand, solemn and protective, as if he were guarding them instead of the other way around.
As they exited the throne room, the Grand Duke met them with a deep nod and a proud, weary smile. "You've done the Empire a great service, Lord Whitman. We'll make sure the world remembers it."
He gave a nod.
"Let them remember her," he said. "She's the one who endured." His eyes were full—not with pride, but with exhaustion and fierce, unshakable love for the family he held.
And with that, the three of them walked out of the ruined throne room.
Dawn was rising. Pale golden light spilled across the mountains as the sun broke free from the storm's grip.
And for the first time in days, the world was still.
*****From time unbound, through realms unknown*****
The cold wind stung as it swept through the ruined pine forest bordering the Valmorian fortress. Ash from burning towers danced in the air like snowflakes, settling across broken stones and fallen men. The battle was over, but the war within their bodies was not.
Just as she wanted, Bettina walked as upright and as proud as she could out of the throne room, down flights of stairs, past corridors and courtyard. Of course, with the help of her husband.
Once they stepped out beyond the outer gates, Bettina stumbled, her bare feet sinking into the snow-muddied ground. Her tattered chemise hung loosely over skin marred with lashes and burns, and her head tilted forward like a wilting flower. Anthony's hand, wrapped around at her back, tightened instinctively.
"Bettina—"
Her knees buckled. Without a sound, she collapsed against him.
Anthony caught her before she hit the ground, his arms scooping her close to his chest. Her breath was still there—shallow, fragile—but her consciousness had slipped away completely. He cradled her tightly, wrapping her in his discarded cloak, heart hammering as if it were still back in the throne room.
"Stay with me," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Mage Henry was already at their side, eyes sharp beneath his blood-smeared spectacles. His own wounds already self-healed. "She's fading. We need to get her to warmth. Now."
Jane, carrying Jason on a second horse, nodded in grim understanding. Jason clung to her tightly, his eyes blank and unseeing, the edges of his consciousness frayed by everything he had endured. His fingers dug into Jane's coat like he was afraid she, too, might disappear.
Anthony swung himself onto the saddle and adjusted Bettina carefully into his lap, pressing her cheek against his chest. She was burning up, feverish from blood loss and overexposure. "Ride!" he barked.
The group spurred forward, snow and frost breaking beneath pounding hooves. The pine forest swallowed them in its frozen embrace as they galloped toward Lord Everett's estate—toward safety, healing, and time.
Back inside the fortress, the scent of blood was heavy in the air. The Grand Duke stood at the center of the shattered throne room, surrounded by officers and knights. The once-glorious hall was littered with the bodies of Valmorian loyalists and broken furniture. The symbol of the old kingdom—the same crest as in Darius' signet ring—lay trampled underfoot.
"Sweep every wing of this fortress," the Grand Duke ordered, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Search the dungeons, the barracks, the stables, the servant quarters. Leave no tunnel unsealed. Detain anyone left breathing."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
His eyes narrowed as he watched each platoon fan out into the deeper wings of the keep. He turned to a mage, the senior among those stationed with his forces.
"You will gather any enchanted artifacts, alchemical contraband, and documents. Anything found is to be sealed and sent directly to the capital. No exceptions."
The mage bowed. "Understood."
Another knight stepped forward. "We've captured those who surrendered, Your Grace. What are your orders?"
"Disarm them and interrogate. I want names—co-conspirators, financiers, foreign allies. If they were part of this treason, we'll bleed their network out by the roots."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Turning to his adjutant, he added, "Dispatch messengers to our border detachments. They are to remain on alert. Valmorian sympathizers may attempt retaliation or sabotage. Inform the Emperor that the prince is dead, and the northern rebellion has ended."
The adjutant saluted and turned to carry out the orders. The Grand Duke stood alone for a moment, gazing at the smoldering remnants of the throne.
It was over.
But now came the harder task: ensuring it stayed that way.
*****A soul untethered, lost and alone*****
The wind was sharp, and the snow stung his cheeks like tiny needles.
Jason barely felt it.
He was wrapped in a thick cloak, his hands tightly gripping Jane's sleeves as they rode together. Her arms were firm around him, and her body was warm despite the bitter cold. She'd said his name only once—softly, right after they left the ruined palace—but hadn't spoken since. She didn't have to. He didn't want words. He wanted Bettina.
His eyes searched for her constantly.
She was just up ahead, slumped in his father's arms.
Jason's throat ached from crying. Not from the cold, but from earlier. From when he thought they'd be too late.
From when her screams rattled his own bones.
He buried his face into Jane's shoulder, but even then, he could not forget the sound that had pierced through the stone walls and filled his ears like a blade slicing through his chest.
He hadn't let go of Mother's hand until they forced him to.
Even now, he kept searching for her. Her skin had been hot to the touch, fevered, and still somehow deathly pale. Her blood had soaked through her torn dress and painted Father's clothes red where he carried her.
Jason didn't understand most of what had happened.
But he understood enough.
They were safe. They were going home. Mother had been hurt. A lot.
And his father had come.
He tilted his head upward, blinking against the snow.
Father rode ahead of them, jaw clenched, eyes locked forward, his posture stiff even as Mother sagged against him. Jason didn't know what he was thinking—but part of him, deep down, was proud. Proud that his father had come through storms and mountains to find them.
They rode for what felt like hours.
The next time he looked up, lanterns glowed ahead through the snow. Towers. A gate. A large manor built of heavy stone loomed like a mountain in the storm. He heard the words whispered near his ear.
"We're safe now. That's Lord Everett's estate," Jane said.
Jason didn't know who Lord Everett was. He didn't care. All that mattered was Bettina.
As they approached the entrance, people ran outside to meet them—servants, guards, men in thick robes. Two of them opened the great doors wide, another took the reins from Anthony. A group of healers waited just inside, some of them already rolling up their sleeves, their eyes locked on Mother's limp form.
The moment they entered the warmth of the foyer and they started guiding Father upstairs, Jason reached toward her.
"I want to stay with her," he said.
No one answered.
Father passed by, his boots echoing on the marble floor as he carried Bettina toward one of the guest chambers. Jason rushed forward—but a healer stepped in front of him, kneeling to his height.
"You need to be healed and to rest as well, young lord. We'll—"
"No!" Jason pushed past him, only to be gently but firmly caught by Jane.
"Young Master," she said softly. "They need space to help her."
"NO!" He shrieked. "I want to stay with her!"
He struggled, eyes wide, lip trembling, and pushing their hands away. He wasn't even embarrassed by the way his voice cracked.
"Let me go! I want my Mother! What if she dies?!"
"She's not going to die," Jane said, kneeling in front of him, holding his face in her hands. "She won't die. They're going to save her. But you need to be strong. Let them do what they need to."
He heard doors slam shut down the corridor.
He was too late.
Jason collapsed into Jane's chest, fists pounding weakly against her arms as he sobbed.
He didn't know how long they sat like that.
But at some point, one of the healers walked back out, speaking to Lord Everett in hushed tones that still reached Jason's ears.
"They're starting. The branding sites show signs of necrosis…we'll have to reopen the wounds."
"Will she survive it?" Lord Everett asked quietly.
"If she lasts through the fever and doesn't go into shock during the debridement…there's a chance."
Jason didn't understand every word. But he understood enough.
Reopen the wounds. They had to cut her open again.
He squeezed his eyes shut, ears ringing.
*****By fate's decree, by justice sworn*****
The room was warm—too warm. The hearth blazed in the corner, steam rising from the water basins. The scent of alcohol, herbs, and copper blood clung to everything like smoke in a battlefield tent. Anthony sat on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up and hands coated in drying blood, some his, but mostly hers. Bettina's.
She lay still. Naked from the waist up, her skin was bruised and bloodied, dotted with wounds old and new, a brutal tapestry of cruelty. Her wrists were still raw from the shackles; the flesh chafed to open sores. Her arms were a crisscross of lash marks, the edges of some still oozing dark pus. Others had begun to scab, warped and raised like angry ridges.
"Branding scars. Slave marks," muttered one of the doctors, wiping at one circular burn just beneath her collarbone with a soaked cloth. "At least three, none are healing well. The surrounding tissue's necrotizing. If we don't excise them—"
"We will," said Mage Henry firmly, his voice thin but unwavering. He stood near the foot of the bed, his robes scorched and his fingers blackened with arcane soot. "Once the dead flesh is cut away, I'll use a layered reconstruction spell. But the incisions must be precise, and the wounds opened again."
The healers looked at the mage. And then they looked at each other. They only knew him as Henry, a mage who was on retainer with Grand Duke Chambers, and was loaned to Lady Whitman in her creation and invention stints. Could he really help them in this complicated healing procedure?
One of the healers was about to step forward and ask Lord Anthony about the mage, but then he stopped as he looked at the Earl of Whitman.
Anthony's jaw locked. He couldn't look away. Even unconscious, Bettina flinched at the cloth against her skin. Her breath hitched and caught.
"Two fingernails gone," murmured the second doctor, who was solely focused on their patient, gently swabbing her hand, voice grim. "Yanked straight from the nail bed. Infection's started. We'll need to leech the blood, drain the pus."
"Six deep whip gashes—here, across the back and sides," said the older healer who went back to their patient, her tone steady, clinical. "Two of them almost reached the scapula. The right side of her ribcage shows bruising—likely cracked ribs. Possibly splintering. Her feet are bloodied too—forced marches barefoot, perhaps."
"She thrashed during the last fever," Mage Henry said, placing a glowing hand on her temple. "We had to bind her legs until the fever broke. Her body's hanging by threads now. No healing spell will work unless we carve out the rotting flesh."
Anthony took a breath. And then another. No air seemed to be coming in.
He had marched across battlefields, driven back armed men, and watched friends die in war. But this—this was the worst. Watching her suffer without swords drawn, without an enemy to swing at—this was agony.
He leaned close to her. "Do what you must," he whispered, brushing hair from her sweat-drenched brow.
"Anthony," the healer warned gently. "Hold her tight. We will begin now."
He nodded, rising just enough to brace her shoulder and hold her arm to the bed.
The first incision came—slow, clean, deliberate—cutting into the rim of the brand. Bettina convulsed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat even in unconsciousness. Her hand grabbed at air—her eyes fluttered open for a heartbeat.
"Shh," Anthony breathed into her ear, holding her tighter. "It's me, darling. You're safe."
Another cut.
She screamed.
The sound shredded him.
Mage Henry chanted under his breath. Latin and power. Old words, laced with mana. "Vulnera vetera recludantur. Sanguis fluat, sed renascatur." The arcane script hovered in the air like molten gold, feeding into her skin.
A burning, pulsing light flared under the healer's hands as the rot that was scraped away initially by the doctors' knives, were scraped out again entirely and the spell began to weave new skin over the damage. Henry kept his stance to ensure the continuous flow of mana.
"Is…is he—?" One of the healers murmured to another, looking wide-eyed at Mage Henry.
"Shh," muttered the older healer. "He is," he confirmed.
But Anthony barely heard. His only focus was on preventing his wife from causing more injury to herself. He held her as she whimpered and arched and thrashed against the pain. Her forehead beaded with sweat. Her lips cracked open, murmuring something too faint to hear.
His grip tightened, more to keep himself steady than her. "You're not alone anymore. I'll never leave you again."