The basement was deep beneath a crumbling estate, half-swallowed by time and rot, far from Faolinshire's regal stone and sunlight. Moss bled from between the bricks, and the air reeked of mildew, iron, and the bitter stench of old cruelty.
A dozen torches flickered in the gloom, casting elongated shadows of a small private army—mercenaries in black garb, their weapons dull but deadly, faces wrapped in cloth, as if ashamed to be seen doing what they did. They lined the damp walls, silent, eyes trained on the girl at the center of the room.
Catherine.
Her arms were shackled above her head, cold iron biting into her wrists. A thick leash, lined with small steel barbs, hung cruelly from her neck and wrapped down toward the base of the pillar where she knelt. Her dress was torn at the hem, streaked with dirt and blood from where she'd resisted being dragged down the hidden steps. Her hair, once neatly tied, spilled in tangles across her shoulders. She was pale. But not broken.
The chains groaned softly as she shifted.
And then came the sound of delicate, deliberate footsteps.
Christiana arrived, clad in an opulent gown of midnight green, her hair elegantly styled as if she were attending a ball rather than supervising a kidnapping. Her ruby lips curled in a smirk as she surveyed the bound woman.
Damien followed, silver-blonde hair gleaming like poison in the torchlight, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone with each step.
"Well, well," Christiana purred, crouching before Catherine and brushing a lock of hair from her bruised cheek. "The duchess herself. All wrapped up like a present."
Catherine's eyes rose slowly, blank and calm.
"You've gone through a lot of effort just to lose again," she murmured softly.
Damien chuckled, voice velvety and laced with arrogance. "Oh, my dear, you misunderstand. This isn't about winning or losing. This is about making him kneel."
"Brooklyn?" she said, smiling faintly, despite the pain in her voice. "He doesn't kneel to anyone."
"Then we'll make him," Christiana snapped. "We'll break him piece by piece. And we'll start with you."
Catherine coughed, pain seeping into her lungs. But she lifted her head a little higher.
"You think I haven't been broken already?" she said, a bitter smile gracing her lips. "You think this…" —she rattled the chains gently— "is new to me? You're just picking at scars that have already turned to stone."
Damien's jaw ticked.
"I survived worse. When I was taken from my home. When they starved me. When they carved lies into my skin. When they tried to turn me into nothing," Catherine whispered. "And I waited. I waited until the man with fire in his eyes burned every last one of them."
Christiana's hand raised to strike her—
—but Catherine didn't flinch.
The slap never came.
Christiana's hand froze in the air, trembling.
"You're scared," Catherine said, quietly. "Not of me. Of what I remind you of. You're scared because no matter what you do, I still look at you with pity."
Damien's knuckles whitened on the head of his cane. "You talk bravely, duchess. But let's see how long that spirit lasts. We have days. And a lot of tools."
He turned to the soldiers. "No one is to touch her. Not yet. Let her rot in this filth until he comes."
Christiana glared down at her one last time before turning and walking toward the spiral steps with Damien.
The heavy iron door groaned as it shut behind them.
Darkness returned. The mercenaries faded into shadows. Rats scurried near the walls.
Catherine exhaled slowly.
She leaned her head back against the pillar.
Even in chains, even with pain slicing beneath her skin, she whispered to the silence:
"He'll come for me."
A small tear slipped down her cheek—not of fear, not even of sorrow.
Of certainty.
"He always does."
The wind howled across the open plains beyond Faolinshire, harsh and wild, scattering dust over hooves and steel. The air was heavy with tension as the first light of dawn struggled to rise above the hills.
Brooklyn sat tall upon his warhorse, a black stallion armored in light plate, its nostrils flaring with every breath. His cloak whipped in the breeze, the crest of Faolinshire emblazoned boldly on his shoulder. Around him stood a hundred men—his personal guard and the remnants of his border garrison—gathered in loose formation, eyes restless, their mounts uneasy.
He held the reins tightly, jaw set. His amber eyes were sharper than any blade.
"She was taken through the western ridge," he said firmly, pointing toward the faintest traces of tracks fading into the dry soil. "But if they've split into smaller paths, we don't have enough men to cover all directions."
Captain Rhyse, the lead scout, frowned. "We'll lose precious time choosing wrong paths. And if we split too thin, we risk walking into an ambush."
Brooklyn's brows furrowed. "Damn it…"
He looked out across the horizon, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each moment. Catherine was out there, chained, alone, and every second felt like a knife twisted deeper into his ribs.
"I need more men," he muttered. "Or divine intervention."
Just then, the distant rumble of hooves reached their ears.
Brooklyn turned sharply, every man around him drawing their weapons by instinct.
Over the ridge thundered a stream of cavalry—clean uniforms, raised banners fluttering in gold and sapphire. The royal standard of the Kingdom of Leclaire.
Leading the charge was a stout man with a silver beard, astride a white destrier. His voice boomed above the clamor.
"Hold your swords! We ride for Faolinshire!"
Brooklyn's eyes narrowed. "Baron?"
The man pulled up beside him with the practiced ease of a veteran.
"His Majesty sends reinforcements, Your Grace," Baron said, offering a quick salute. "Three hundred mounted and another hundred on foot. Scouts and hounds included."
Brooklyn gave a quiet sigh of relief. "You made it just in time."
Baron leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The King and Queen are worried. They've mobilized every hidden hand they could find. But there's more…"
Another distant sound. This one louder, heavier.
A second wave of horsemen crested from the southern trail.
A laugh echoed before the riders even slowed.
"Oi, you bastard! You thought I'd sit around sipping wine while she's missing?"
Brooklyn turned, almost disbelieving.
Sebastian.
Riding a chestnut steed, cloak thrown haphazardly across his shoulder, sword slung across his back, and right beside him rode Luciane, dressed in combat leathers.
Behind them surged at least sixty men in silver and crimson—Sebastian's personal guard.
Brooklyn blinked. "You brought your wife?"
Luciane smirked. "She insisted," Sebastian replied, sighing dramatically. "Said she'd slit my throat if I left her behind."
Luciane rolled her eyes. "Someone had to keep him from charging like a lunatic. And I owe Catherine."
Brooklyn couldn't help the twitch of a smile that formed—brief, but sincere. For a moment, the ice in his chest melted.
Baron stepped forward, surveying the growing army. "With this, we can split in three groups. North ridge, marsh pass, and lowlands."
Brooklyn nodded. "I'll lead the lowland division. I know Damien's tactics. He likes isolation and elevation—he'll avoid open terrain unless desperate. The marsh is a trap. We send decoys there."
Sebastian grinned. "I like this look on you. All cold fury. Catherine'd be flustered."
Brooklyn looked ahead. "She better be," he said quietly. "When I find her…"
His voice dropped to a low growl.
"I'll burn them to ash."
The basement was damp and oppressive, as if the air itself recoiled from what was happening within its stone walls. Shackles creaked with every shallow breath Catherine took, her arms trembling from the strain of being held up too long. Her dress, once a soft ivory, was stained with sweat, dirt, and the echoes of suffering.
Christiana stood over her, her presence sharp like a blade. "When will you break?" she hissed, voice cracking under the pressure of her own expectations. "When will you surrender that spirit of yours and give us what we want?"
Catherine's head was lowered, strands of her hair clinging to her cheeks, matted and tangled. Her eyes—faintly open—were dulled by pain, but not extinguished.
After a long pause, she answered softly.
"...It's never happening."
Her voice was fragile but firm, her words not loud but laced with something defiant.
"You can try whatever you want," she whispered, barely audible over the flickering of torches. "But I won't become what you were hoping for. I'm not hollow. I was saved once. That doesn't fade."
Christiana's hands tightened at her sides. She turned away with a growl, pacing the room like a wolf losing patience.
Damien, sitting nearby in an armchair carved from rough wood, had a different reaction. He stood with sudden force, knocking the chair backward.
"She's still resisting?" he muttered, disbelief coating his voice. "Still not broken?"
He stared at Catherine as though trying to read a riddle written in another language.
"She's holding onto him," Christiana snapped. "That man—Brooklyn—he's her anchor. That's what this is."
Damien slammed his palm against the wall, causing a sharp echo to bounce through the basement.
"He always ruins everything."
Silence fell again. Heavy. Still.
Catherine opened her eyes just enough to look up at them. "You can keep me here," she murmured, "but what matters isn't here with me. I left it with him. And you can't touch it."
That shook something in them.
Neither Damien nor Christiana responded. For a moment, all they could do was stare at the woman they had captured, expecting to see fear and emptiness—only to find something quiet and unyielding in its place.
She lowered her head again, breathing softly. Her body ached, and her strength was waning. But somewhere deep inside, she was untouched.
Outside, a storm was brewing.
And somewhere not far from that basement, the sound of galloping hooves was growing louder.
The door slammed above her, echoing down the stone steps like thunder in a hollow mountain. Silence followed.
Catherine exhaled, slowly, shakily. She was alone.
The chains didn't rattle anymore; her body had gone still—too exhausted to fight, too hurt to move. Her cheek rested against the cold floor, and even that felt distant now. The pain was there, yes—but it had become part of her skin, familiar, constant.
But her mind—her mind was still hers.
So this is how it feels… the body surrenders but the soul… the soul doesn't.
She closed her eyes. She could hear her own heartbeat now, slow and tired but steady.
They think I'll shatter. They think I'll scream or beg or forget who I am. But I remember. Even through this ache. Even with these bruises. I remember…
A faint smile flickered at the edge of her lips—barely there.
Brooklyn… your face… your voice…
She could picture it now, like a painting in the dark. The way his hand brushed her hair, the way his voice dropped just slightly when he said her name. That dry, teasing smirk. That silent gentleness in his gestures. The weight of his coat when he wrapped it around her.
You'll come.
Her eyes opened, staring into the dim torchlight licking the walls.
You always do.
There was blood drying on her wrists. Her ribs throbbed with every breath. But even as her body trembled, her mind whispered steady things to her.
They tried to hollow me out. But they forgot…
I've already walked through darkness. And I found light on the other side.
I'm not the same girl they once saw as weak. I am the woman you helped rebuild. I am the one who survived everything they never will understand.
A tear rolled down, soundless, unforced.
Not from fear.
But because in the deepest, coldest place… she still held warmth.
Even if I never escape… even if I vanish here…
I am not broken.
The silence grew heavier. But now it wrapped around her like a shield, not a noose.
Her thoughts whispered once more before sleep began to drag her under:
Come find me, Brooklyn… I'm still here.
Catherine could barely keep her eyes open. Her body trembled with every breath—shallow, labored, too faint. Even the echoes of dripping water and the creak of her chains felt like they belonged to someone else.
It was too quiet.
Her head lolled forward. Her lips, cracked and dry, trembled as she tried to stay awake. But her mind floated… drifting further from the agony, into a white blur of sleep.
Then—
"Catherine!"
A familiar voice.
Light footsteps. The jingle of keys. Arms, warm and desperate, around her shoulders.
"Cathie… please…" Luciane whispered, her voice cracking. "Stay with me. Please, open your eyes…"
Catherine barely stirred. Her lashes fluttered. A flicker of recognition.
Anderson's heavy boots followed. He wasted no time, his eyes grim as he knelt by the chains. "The bastards… what the hell did they do to you…"
The metal clinked sharply as he unfastened one lock after another.
"She's burning up," Luciane muttered, placing a trembling hand on Catherine's forehead. "We have to get her out now—"
But then—
A loud clatter. The creak of rusted hinges being thrown open.
Footsteps. Boots. Many.
And then—
"Leaving so soon?" came Christiana's voice, cold and full of venom.
Damien stepped in beside her, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched. Behind them, an army filled the hallway, torches ablaze, swords glinting.
Luciane turned, shielding Catherine with her body. "Don't take another step," she hissed.
Damien's voice was thunder. "You break into our stronghold and think you'll just take her back like some stolen gem?"
Christiana's laugh echoed. "You really believed this would end with a rescue? No… this is the end of your little fairytale."
The tension rose—swords drawn, gasps sharp, Luciane's fingers tightening around Catherine.
And then—
A rumble.
A deep, trembling shake coursed through the walls.
Cracks began forming behind Christiana.
"No… what the—"
With a BOOM, the stone wall behind them burst open. Dust exploded. Bricks scattered like hail.
And from the smoke—
Brooklyn Harperwood emerged, amber eyes burning, his cloak whipping behind him like a shadow.
Sword unsheathed, his voice rang like steel.
"Step. Away. From her."
Beside him, with a cocky smirk and twin blades glinting, Sebastian dusted off his coat. "Apologies for the dramatic entrance. We were going to knock, but someone forgot the manners."
Soldiers followed them—dozens. The royal army, dressed in crimson and silver, spilled into the basement with precise coordination, weapons drawn and shields up.
Damien stumbled back. "Impossible! This place is protected—"
"You forgot who trained me," Brooklyn growled. "And more importantly—you forgot who she belongs to."
Christiana's lips curled in fury. "You think we'll surrender?"
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "No. I'm counting on you fighting back. I missed some good action lately."
Luciane turned, tears spilling down her cheeks as she held Catherine close. "She's alive," she said. "But she needs help. Now."
Brooklyn was already at her side, sword lowered, fury melting into anguish.
"Catherine…" he whispered, falling to his knees. "I'm here. I'm here now."
Her eyelids flickered. Barely.
"…Brook…"
He touched her cheek gently, eyes burning. "You held on. You did it."
Sebastian's voice rang out behind him. "Get her out of here. We'll deal with these snakes."
Brooklyn scooped her into his arms, eyes never leaving her bruised face.
"You're safe now," he said softly. "You're mine. And I'm never letting anyone touch you again."
Behind him, steel clashed.
The war for her had begun.
Rain fell like needles from the sky, stabbing the ground with a cold fury that matched the mood of the battlefield. Thunder cracked above, lightning flickering across shattered ramparts and muddied stone.
The once-proud fortress of Damien and Christiana had become a war zone.
Screams. Steel. Horses. Blood.
The royal army poured through the courtyards like a crimson tide. Baron's command echoed through the air, his soldiers flanking and smashing through the ragged defenders without mercy. Beside him, Sebastian grinned like a wolf as he spun through enemy lines, blades flashing in twin arcs.
"Is that all?" Sebastian taunted, kicking an enemy into the mud. "You call this a fortress? I've seen better defences in garden sheds!"
Baron's sword pierced through the chest of another attacker as he shouted, "Secure the upper floor! Protect the rear gates! Leave no one hiding!"
The resistance collapsed like sand underfoot.
Brooklyn stood at the heart of it all—soaked to the bone, blood-streaked, amber eyes burning through the haze of rain and smoke.
In front of him stood Damien—defeated, panting, clutching a sword that trembled in his hand.
His once-proud eyes were hollow now. His mouth twisted in rage and desperation.
"I should have been Duke," Damien hissed. "Father saw it! I should've been the one!"
Brooklyn's face didn't twitch. "You tortured a woman who had nothing. You built your pride on her screams."
"You never deserved her—!"
"I never claimed to deserve her," Brooklyn cut him off, stepping forward. "But I protect her. I love her."
Damien lunged in a final desperate move—but it was clumsy.
Brooklyn sidestepped cleanly.
"I've always known," he said coldly, "that you were a disgrace. Not just to me. Not just to the family. But to the very name 'human.'"
With one clean swing, Brooklyn's blade ran Damien through.
Rain mixed with blood as the younger brother collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with disbelief.
Brooklyn stared at him as he fell into the mud.
"…Goodbye, Damien."
Just a few yards away—
"Don't look so surprised, Christiana," Luciane said softly, eyes cold.
Christiana, soaked and panting, had nowhere to run. Her soldiers had fled. Her blades were knocked away.
"You always thought you were better than me," Luciane continued. "You mocked me. Beat me. Starved me. But you were wrong about one thing."
Christiana spat blood. "And what's that?"
"That you'd be the last one standing."
Luciane's hand didn't tremble as she drove the blade through Christiana's chest.
The older sister staggered, eyes wide in a mix of fury and disbelief. Her lips parted… but no words came.
Luciane stepped back, watching her fall.
Rain washed the blood from her face.
"…Goodbye, Christy."
—
Far across the courtyard, beneath the ruined archways where the fighting had calmed, Brooklyn sprinted toward the group of soldiers gathered around a small figure wrapped in cloaks and blankets.
Catherine was sitting upright now, resting against a stone, Luciane beside her, holding her hand.
Brooklyn dropped to his knees.
"Catherine."
She turned toward him. Her smile was weak—bruised lips trembling—but it was a smile.
"Hey," she whispered.
He touched her face gently, brushing wet hair away. "Don't… don't be broken. Please."
She stared at him for a moment.
And then—
"I'm not broken," she said softly. "Just a bit of pain. It's alright."
Her fingers laced through his. "You came… again."
"Always," he whispered, his throat tightening. "I always will."
She leaned her forehead to his, their eyes closing against the weight of the moment.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Sebastian's voice echoed distantly, shouting orders. Anderson moved swiftly through the wounded. The rain still fell.
But for the two of them, in that small space, there was only silence.
Only breath.
Only the warmth of a battle survived.
The sky that had once wept blood now glistened with light.
Storm clouds drifted apart like tattered veils drawn away from a mourning sky. In their place, a prism shimmered—soft yet vivid—arching over the shattered fortress, over the wounded earth, and over the quiet figures left behind.
A rainbow.
Its colors painted the ruin with gentle mercy.
Catherine, cloaked in a soldier's coat, leaned against Brooklyn's chest, her body battered but not broken. Her eyes—despite the swelling and bruises—glistened with a quiet awe as they lifted skyward.
She tugged lightly at his arm. "Brooklyn," she whispered, her voice rasped from pain and exhaustion. "Look…"
He followed her gaze, and saw it.
A wide arc of color stretching above the aftermath. Over fallen blades, broken walls, and mud-trodden floors now at peace.
Her voice was barely louder than a breath.
"You're my rainbow."
Brooklyn blinked, tilting his head toward her.
She smiled up at him, trembling. "You bring colors to my life. I don't even know when it happened... but you did. Before you… everything was grey. Heavy. Dark." Her voice cracked. "But now I see light even in ruins."
He stared at her for a moment, heart pounding, raindrops still sliding down his jawline.
Then, without a word, he pulled her closer—gently but firmly—into his embrace.
His arms circled her carefully, as if she were made of porcelain, but his grip held the ferocity of a man anchoring himself to his only world.
"It's the same for me," he said, voice muffled in her shoulder. "You… gave me something to protect. Someone to live for. You're not just my light, Catherine."
She felt him tremble—just slightly.
"You're my reason to stay human."
She buried her face in his neck, letting tears slip without shame.
Around them, the army tended to the wounded. Baron directed triage. Sebastian barked something sarcastic about "romance on a battlefield," but his tone was light.
Luciane stood watching from a short distance, a faint smile on her lips despite the blood on her hands. She held Catherine's discarded chains in one hand and dropped them at last into a burning pile. The flames hissed as the last remnants of her sister's cruelty turned to ash.
And above them all—unbothered by pain or sorrow or loss—arched a rainbow.
Fragile. But real.
Color in the aftermath.
Hope.
The rain had lessened to a soft drizzle, and the worst was behind them.
The ruins of the battlefield steamed in the wet silence, like a monstrous beast breathing its final sigh. The blood-stained stones and trampled grass bore witness to the cost—but also to the survival.
A modest black carriage, reinforced for protection, had been stationed beside the field. Inside, Catherine lay bundled in thick furs and soft linen bandages. Her eyes were shut, her breathing weak but steady. Luciane sat beside her, gently brushing strands of damp hair away from her face.
"Sleep," Luciane whispered, her voice soft with guilt and protectiveness. "He'll be with you soon. We'll take you home."
With a light signal, the carriage rolled forward, escorted by a few of Brooklyn's most trusted guards. Baron rode ahead, his armor clinking softly, rain sliding down the silver insignia of the king's crest on his chest.
Brooklyn stood at the edge of the field, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. His amber eyes were fixed on the fading shape of the carriage in the distance. Rain slid down his face, or perhaps it was something else entirely.
From beside him, Sebastian leaned lazily against a broken wall, flicking blood off his coat.
"Still watching?" he asked.
Brooklyn didn't respond immediately. He kept staring at the road. "I almost lost her," he said finally. "Again."
Sebastian gave a snort. "You're still annoyingly dramatic."
Brooklyn turned toward him at last, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "Thank you… for coming. For everything."
Sebastian groaned and stood upright, throwing his hands up. "And there it is! The cursed 'thank you.' Ugh, you sentimental bastard."
Brooklyn blinked.
Sebastian grinned. "Look, you're my childhood friend. My idiot brother-in-arms. You being miserable means no one sends me wine. And you know how I get without wine."
Brooklyn blinked again. Then… laughed.
A real laugh—hoarse, low, but genuine. It shook from his chest like a sound he hadn't made in months.
Sebastian jabbed a finger at him. "So instead of thanks, just send me the damn wine. Two bottles. No. Make that three. I saved your duchess, I want interest."
"Done," Brooklyn muttered with a grin, running a hand through his wet hair. "You've earned it."
Sebastian sighed dramatically. "Honestly, I should start charging you by the emotion."
A brief silence stretched between them.
The drizzle continued. Behind them, soldiers cleared remnants of the battle. The storm had passed—but its marks would remain for a long time.
Brooklyn looked up again. "She smiled, you know."
Sebastian tilted his head. "Huh?"
"When I got to her. She was broken and bleeding. But she smiled." He exhaled. "She's stronger than me."
Sebastian gave him a side glance. "Well, she has to be. She's the one stuck with you."
Brooklyn chuckled again.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity, the weight in his chest lightened—just enough to breathe.