Anthony stood frozen as Bettina went limp beneath the healers' hands, her body falling into an absolute stillness that churned dread in the pit of his stomach.
"Bettina?" he whispered, panic cracking his voice. The once white sheets were now deep crimson due to all the blood. He couldn't take it.
The healer beside her—the older one whose calm, practiced hands were stained red from hours of tending to wounds—looked up and placed a steady hand on his arm. "She's unconscious, my lord. Her body couldn't sustain more pain. It's not death—she's simply exhausted. It's a mercy, truly."
Still, Anthony's chest felt tight, and for a long moment he couldn't breathe. He stared at Bettina's pallid face, her lashes damp with tears that hadn't been wiped away, her brow slack now in sleep—or stupor. Her bruises, welts, and open wounds were still being packed and treated under Mage Henry's supervision. The scent of blood, burnt flesh, and salves clung thick to the room.
"She'll survive?" he asked, barely able to utter the words.
Mage Henry turned to him, his face streaked with soot and sweat, but his eyes held the steadiness of a man who had seen death and outwitted it.
"She'll live," Henry said solemnly, his voice low so as not to disturb the woman on the bed. "She needs time. We'll finish closing the rest of the deeper wounds with magic now that the infected flesh is gone. All the branding will scar if we don't reweave the bones and reknit the flesh before morning."
"But… can we really do it Sir Henry," asked the youngest of the healers worriedly.
"Even I feel it is impossible," added the older one. "Almost her entire body is too damaged. Only a healer with a tremendous amount of mana may be able to do it."
"There is a way," assured Mage Henry. "If you can steadily transfer your mana to me rotationally, I can perform the healing continuously until we finish."
"What?!" Exclaimed the oldest of the healers. "Transferring mana is but a theory, I've never heard of anyone doing it before."
"There's a simple way of doing it. I shall teach you all," said Henry. "We'll need plenty of healing and rejuvenating potions. Go."
Three of the four healers ran out of the room in search of as much potions as they could gather while the last one went back to examining Lady Bettina, ensuring that all wounds have been properly tended to. Meanwhile, Mage Henry faced Anthony once again.
"She's past the worst of it. I'll ensure she's fully healed," he patted the earl on his shoulder. "I'm afraid, though, that there may be some scarring and some fingernails—those hat were fully removed cannot be returned."
Anthony nodded slowly, though the tension in his shoulders refused to ease. He didn't care whatever his wife would look like after they healed her, as long as she returns to him alive and well. He reached down and gently tucked a damp strand of hair behind Bettina's ear. "Stay with me my love," he whispered, lips brushing her temple. "Don't you dare leave me now."
"She heard you," Henry said softly. "Go. You need rest. More importantly, your son needs you. He's been screaming your wife's name for the last hour."
Anthony stiffened, eyes darting toward the door.
"Jason?" His heart twisted again.
Henry waved him off. "We can finish here. Go to him, Anthony."
With a final brush of his knuckles down Bettina's cheek, Anthony stood and turned toward the door. The moment he stepped out into the hallway, Jason broke free of Jane's exhausted hold and launched himself into his father's arms.
"Papa!" Jason's voice cracked with tears. "Is she…is she dead? I want to see her! Please, Papa—please!"
Anthony caught him easily and dropped to one knee, hugging him tightly against his chest. "No, no, my son," he said, voice thick with emotion as he pressed a hand to the boy's hair. "She's not dead. She's alive. The healers are taking care of her now. She just…needs to sleep."
"I don't want her to sleep alone," Jason whispered, shaking in his arms. "She was screaming…and bleeding…and I didn't do anything."
Anthony pulled back to look into his son's tearful eyes. "Jason, you were so brave. You held on. You even tried to fight—Jane told me. You gave us enough time to save her. And you'll get to see her soon. Once the healers finish, I promise, you'll stay by her side for as long as you want."
Jason nodded into his shoulder, finally sobbing freely.
Anthony carried him back to the hallway bench and held him there, rocking him slightly, murmuring words of love until the boy's breath slowed. Jane leaned against the wall near them, her clothes singed, her lip split, but her eyes grateful.
Then, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
"Lord Whitman."
Anthony looked up to see Grand Duke Chambers approaching, armor smeared with blood and soot, but otherwise whole.
"The Valmorian hold has fallen. My men are sweeping through every wing. We rounded up the remaining loyalists. Those who resisted were put down. We've secured the castle and are establishing a perimeter to hold it for the Empire."
Anthony slowly stood, Jason still in his arms.
"They're finished?"
"Almost," the Grand Duke confirmed grimly. "I left a contingent to occupy the keep. We've begun scouting nearby villages for stragglers and insurgents. I'll be returning to the capital with the captured prisoners and all collected evidence. The Emperor and Crown Prince will receive my full report by week's end."
Anthony nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace. I…don't think I could have—"
"You don't need to thank me. You've done enough, Anthony. You fought for your family. You saved them." He glanced down at Jason, whose grip on Anthony had not loosened. "Stay here. Rest. Heal. We'll deal with the rest."
"When should I return to the capital?"
Chambers hesitated. "The Emperor will want to see you. And your wife—when she's strong enough. But take your time. You have my word. No one in the court would dare question your honor nor your tardiness after what you've done."
Anthony exhaled slowly. He turned toward the door to Bettina's chamber.
"I'll bring them home. When she's ready."
The Grand Duke placed a hand on his shoulder in quiet understanding before taking his leave.
And so, Anthony returned to his wife's bedside, his son still held close, the nightmare finally over—yet the healing only just beginning.
*****One life fade, another reborn*****
Bettina Anne Whitman lay resting within the stone-clad halls of Lord Everett's estate in the north, tucked safely into a sun-drenched bedroom that smelled faintly of lavender and old pine. The air was peaceful now.
Her body, though still weak, had begun the long journey back to wholeness. Her mind, though, was another matter. Nightmares seemed to plague her at almost every moment of her sleep, never truly giving her the chance to fully rest. It became so bad that the healers had to induce her into a deep state of comatose. Mage Henry and two of the healers, on the other hand, had to stay in bed for the next few days after they finished healing her. Two days and nights of steadily expending and replenishing their mana took a toll in them indeed.
Jason never strayed far from her side. Anthony visited often but never disturbed her rest, only brushing her knuckles with his lips and watching the steady rise and fall of her chest with quiet reverence. Though all he wanted was to stay beside his wife all day, he was still needed to assist in concluding this entire fiasco. At night, though, the two Whitman men would always make it a point to sleep on either side of her.
But while Lady Bettina quietly recovered behind closed doors, the world outside had erupted.
At first, it began with whispers—rumors traded in quiet markets and wine-drenched taverns. Talk of a hidden prince unmasked. A kidnapping. A forbidden palace in the north laid to ruin during the continental war by the Earl of Whitman and his allies.
Then the Grand Duke returned to the capital.
Within hours of his return, the imperial bulletin towers rang their ceremonial bells. A royal proclamation followed: the Valmorian loyalists had been rooted out in a decisive joint operation between the Mage Tower, the Crown Prince's military troops, and the Grand Duke's elite guard—led by none other than Earl Anthony Whitman himself. And that's when the people learned the whole thing.
The instigator: the royal prince of the former Kingdom of Valmor, Prince Darius Caelen Valmor, long believed to have perished with his own royal family in a ritual act of suicide during the previous continental wars, was dead.
The emperor's public address followed suit. Crown Prince Alaric stood beside his father and Grand Duke Chambers before a sea of press, nobles, and common people. They laid bare everything—Darius's long-standing infiltration of the Boleus government, the stolen funds, the smuggling rings beneath the ports, the corruption sewn deep into noble houses.
But more importantly, they named the heroes.
The newspapers couldn't print fast enough. The following headlines were just some of the ones they printed hot off the press.:
"Earl Whitman's Daring Raid Topples Hidden Threat to the Empire!"
"Countess Bettina Lives – Survives Abduction and Torture, Rescued with Son in Stunning Operation"
"Crown and Mage Tower Unite – The Whitman Family's Bravery Saves Empire from Civil War"
"Lord Everett's Men Mobilized—The Border Lords Hold Firm in Defense of the Realm"
"Reliable Accounts Confirm: Countess Bettina Whitman, Though Bloodied and Tortured, Walked from the Ruins with Unshaken Dignity."
Merchants in the capital printed commemorative broadsheets with portraits of Anthony drawn in dramatic flair—cloak billowing, sword drawn—while children begged for storybooks of "Jason the Brave." Others sent gifts to the Whitman estate: embroidered blankets, crystal pendants, oils and tinctures, and so many jars of jam and fruits that the Whitmans' kitchen nearly overflowed.
All products of the Sutherland Trading Company and the Ministry of Merriment Toy Emporium sold out in markets overnight. From toys and fragrances to herbal teas, every item with these two companies' seals became a mark of honor. Business partners sent letters full of gratitude—some sincere, others opportunistic—requesting new deals and restructured trade routes now that the ports had been purged of bribery.
Even far-off kingdoms, islands, and provinces sent messengers bearing letters:
"To the Countess Whitman: You are the kind of woman we teach our daughters to look up to."
"To Lord Jason Whitman, Young Defender of the Realm – Your courage humbles us all."
"To Earl Anthony: Thank you for standing when no one else could."
Some letters were clumsy and ink-blotted. Others were written with a shaking, practiced hand from people who knew what it meant to live in fear under corrupt rulers. One letter from a small town in the southern coast read only:
"You saved us. We didn't even know how much danger we were in until you burned it out."
Meanwhile, within Lord Everette's estate…
The Whitman family, unaware of the wildfire spreading across the empire, remained cloistered in recovery.
Bettina had yet to regain full consciousness, just occasionally woken up to be fed fortifying soups and liquids, then automatically going back into healing slumber. Jason, though encouraged to rest, often curled beside her in bed, Lady Everett's bed actually, drawing or napping nearby. Anthony, on the other hand, still exhausted from the battle, split his hours between overseeing their slow return home and writing quiet reports to the Crown.
Lord Everett insisted they stay as long as needed. He kept the estate well-guarded but peaceful, with trusted guards patrolling the outer gates. His wife even took over managing correspondence, quietly screening the letters so nothing upsetting would reach Bettina too soon.
Mage Henry remained, though exhausted, to monitor Bettina's healing progress and to fortify magical wards around the estate—just in case.
One question kept bugging Anthony:
Once Betty's strength was restored should they return to the capital?
In Anthony's mind, it would mean facing the emperor. Facing the court. Facing the reality that the world now viewed them differently. The whispers had turned into roars. The empire had crowned them heroes.
But they were still a family trying to heal.
And though Anthony tried not to let it show, the thought of dragging his wife into courtly intrigue so soon after her trauma filled him with anxiety.
Still, the emperor had already sent them his summons. Said he was patiently awaiting their triumphant return to the capital.
And the world, it seemed, was waiting.
*****By blood, by will, by kindred fate*****
The first sensation that reached her was the dull ache pulsing through every inch of her body. It wasn't the agony she remembered, not the sharp lancing pain of lashes or the searing kiss of branding irons—it was a deep, marrow-heavy exhaustion, a fatigue that gripped her bones and muscles like lead. For a long moment, she couldn't open her eyes. She simply lay still, breathing, existing.
Then, warmth.
There were hands—gentle, trembling—cupping hers. A smaller pair of hands clutched at her forearm tightly, possessively. A hush of voices floated around her, low and muffled, but unmistakably familiar.
She forced her heavy eyes to open, wincing at the light. The ceiling above her wasn't one she recognized—gold-veined panels, delicate carvings, a noblewoman's bedchamber. Not the dungeon. Warm. Not the snow-chilled stone floors or the stench of blood.
She was safe.
"Mother?"
The voice cracked like dry leaves. Jason. He was right beside her, clutching her tightly with tear-rimmed eyes. His cheeks were red and chapped, but his little hands held her with ferocity.
"Jason," she whispered, and the sound was more breath than voice. "You're… you're alright?"
He burst into tears. "You scared me. I thought you'd never wake up—"
"I'm here," she whispered hoarsely. "I'm here, sweetheart."
Another figure leaned over the bed, large and trembling. Anthony. His eyes, usually steeled and unreadable, shimmered with wetness.
"You're awake," he breathed, brushing strands of matted hair away from her forehead. His voice cracked. "Bettina, you—gods, I thought—" He bent down to kiss her on the forehead, then once again.
She reached up weakly, touching his jaw. "You found us."
"I never stopped looking," he whispered, voice ragged.
She remembered flashes now—his voice murmuring into her ear through the haze of pain. The iron grip of his hand on hers. Lips against her forehead. The healers, the slicing. The smell of antiseptics and burning flesh when Mage Henry had to cauterize parts of her wounds. She should have screamed more, but she'd slipped in and out of consciousness, floating between agony and peace.
Mage Henry.
Her breath caught.
She'd seen him.
Before.
Way before.
Amidst the pain, there had been someone cloaked in deep robes, his voice low and commanding as he chanted incantations, hands glowing with blue light. She remembered now—before, long ago—on the night the original Bettina jumped from the balcony, as she hovered between life and death. That same voice. That same shape. That same quiet authority that pulled her, Mary Jane's consciousness, into the body that she's now in.
Could it have been him?
Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked past Anthony, the thoughts coiling tight in her chest.
Before she could speak, Anthony leaned in again.
"You don't have to say anything yet," he said gently. "Rest. You've done enough."
The sound of the wind brushing against the window reminded her how far they were from home. And yet…she was still alive. Jason was still alive. They were whole, somehow.
"Are we…" she croaked, "going home?"
Anthony smiled faintly. "Whenever you're ready."
They left almost a month later.
Bettina was still too weak to walk unassisted, but she insisted on being dressed properly, her hair combed, her hands clasped with Jason's as they boarded the carriage. Lord Everett and his wife saw them off personally, bowing with more formality than necessary. Mage Henry gave her a simple nod from the gates, his face unreadable. Bettina met his gaze and held it for a long moment, but said nothing.
The journey was long, tracing the snowy edges of the northern regions, winding through valleys where green had just begun to peek through winter's grip. The further they rode, the more the chill retreated and warmer winds embraced them. Bettina found herself looking out the carriage window often, watching Jason's reflection as he pressed against her side.
He never left her.
He refused to sit apart, refused even to sleep in the bunk below unless she promised she would stay awake or Anthony took her place beside him. He held her skirts, her sleeve, sometimes even her hand until sleep finally dragged him away. Bettina said nothing. She let him.
She understood.
After all, she herself had only just stopped having her own nightmares after receiving weeks of reassurances from her loved ones.
When they finally arrived in the capital, nothing could have prepared them.
The capital's northern gates hadn't even closed behind their carriage when they heard it—the sound of cheering.
Crowds had gathered along the roads, spilling into the streets, faces lit with anticipation. Flower petals were thrown from balconies, fluttering like confetti in the sun. Banners hung from windows bearing the Whitman crest, and some even bore crude portraits of Anthony, Bettina, and Jason together—drawn hastily, no doubt, but filled with warmth and admiration.
Anthony's hand slipped into hers as they peered out of the carriage, stunned.
"What is this…?" Bettina murmured.
"Looks like word got out," Anthony muttered, dazed. "About everything."
Bettina sat straighter despite the dull ache in her back. She tightened her grip on Jason, who was too astonished to speak. His eyes were wide with awe as children his age ran alongside the carriage, waving small paper flags and cheering his name.
A sense of surreal peace began to descend, like morning light seeping into a long-dark room.
Home.
She was really, truly about to be back home.
And though the empire had nearly lost them, it now welcomed them not just with relief, but with pride.
The carriage wheels creaked over familiar stone, and Bettina leaned slightly forward, her heart quietly thudding behind her ribs. The journey from Lord Everett's estate had taken nearly a week—a slow, careful pace with plenty of stops for rest and healing. Her body still ached in places she didn't want to name, but the worst had passed. She was home.
And she wasn't alone.
Jason was curled beside her, his little hand gripping the fabric of her skirts with stubborn determination. He hadn't left her side once—not even to sleep. Anthony sat beside them, one arm protectively around her shoulders, his warmth constant and grounding. Bettina could feel how tense he was. Not with anxiety, but anticipation.
The moment the manor gates opened and the grand stone walls came into view; Bettina caught her breath.
They were all there.
From the upper-floor maids to the garden boys, the stable hands, kitchen staff, and even the elderly laundresses—every single person employed by House Whitman was gathered along the cobblestone path that led to the front entrance. Some were waving, others clutching handkerchiefs. She spotted Thomas, the young footman, wiping his eyes discreetly behind a tall hedge. The head chef had gone as far as to wear his Sunday apron. And at the forefront, standing tall and composed with glistening eyes and stiff dignity, were Mr. Ferguson the steward, Mr. Clive the butler, Nanny Jones, and Mrs. Potts the head maid.
The carriage rolled to a gentle stop. For a moment, no one moved.
Bettina's throat tightened. She hadn't expected this. Not the tears. Not the joy. Not the way her home—her people—had waited for them with open hearts and clasped hands.
As Anthony stepped out first and turned to offer his hand, she hesitated only a second before placing hers in his. The weight of the journey behind them, the silence of the crowd, the scent of early spring flowers hanging in the air—it was all so real. With Anthony carefully assisting her, her feet touched the ground, and the air shifted.
Applause erupted—polite, restrained, dignified—yet powerful.
Mrs. Potts was the first to move, her brisk footsteps echoing lightly. "Welcome home, milady. Welcome home, my lord," she said, her voice thick. Then her eyes drifted down to Jason. "And welcome home, young master."
Jason looked up warily, clutching Bettina's hand now instead of her skirt. He was quiet, observant. He didn't speak, but he nodded slightly at Mrs. Potts before stepping closer to Bettina's side.
Mr. Ferguson gave a deep bow, eyes shining. "We've kept the manor exactly as you left it. Even the white roses in your private parlor have been freshened daily, Lady Whitman."
"I—" Bettina tried to speak but her voice wavered. She cleared her throat softly. "Thank you. Truly."
"We are simply grateful," Mr. Clive added with uncharacteristic emotion, "that you've all returned safe and whole."
Nanny Jones stepped forward then, her eyes fixed on Jason. "Would you like me to draw you a warm bath, young master?"
Jason glanced at Bettina, then slowly shook his head, curling closer against her. Bettina placed her hand atop his hair, brushing it gently.
"It's alright," she murmured. "We'll take care of it together."
As they entered the manor, Bettina took in the subtle signs of care everywhere—fresh flowers in every alcove, the curtains dusted and changed for the cooler season, the faint scent of her favorite chamomile and cedar oil mixture burning gently in the hall.
And when they reached her bedchamber, she stopped just inside the doorway.
Whose idea was this?
The staff had moved a second bed into the room, but not as an afterthought. The original master's bed had been expanded and joined with a custom-made frame that extended the sleeping space to fit all three of them. There was a small child's cot near the hearth, but Jason bypassed it entirely, crawling into the center of the main bed with a soft sigh, inhaling her favorite scent deeply from the covers.
Her gowns had all been cleaned and carefully laid out in her dressing room. Anthony's desk was now set near the sunlit window, and Jason's favorite toy knight figurines were already resting on a polished tray atop the nightstand.
Bettina stood still for a long time, simply absorbing it all.
"Did you order this?" she whispered.
Anthony came behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "I figured we need this for now."
She closed her eyes, letting herself lean back into him. "I didn't think I'd see any of this again."
"But you did," he murmured. "You walked out of that ruin, Bettina. You lived."
Jason, now nestled under the sheets, called sleepily, "Mama…come."
Bettina smiled faintly and turned in Anthony's arms. "We're home," she said softly.
They crossed the room together—and as the door closed behind them, the Whitman manor quietly resumed its heartbeat, strong and whole once more.
-----000-----
A/N: Ah, this was the longest chapter yet, in my opinion. What do you think guys? Let me know in the comments hehehe.
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