Jeffery leaned lazily against a marble pillar, arms crossed over his chest, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. The sunlight filtering through the tall stained-glass windows cast fractured colors across the polished floor—but he looked completely at ease in the cold splendor of the hall, like he belonged there.
"Rowan Vexlaar, huh?" he said, his voice light, almost playful. "Tell me… what is it you want to know?"
Rowan didn't hesitate. His voice was steady, too calm for the fire building in his chest. "Where is my mother? Why was she taken away?"
Jeffery's smile deepened—like he'd been waiting for that question. "Well," he said, pushing off the pillar, "we realized she could still be... useful. You know, a Nirathali princess doesn't just fade into the background." He began to circle Rowan slowly, like a vulture with too much time on its hands. "She's in prison. Comfortable enough. Alive. And perfectly placed to serve as a hostage." He paused, his tone almost casual. "Used to pressure the Nirathali king, of course."
Rowan's hands tightened into fists. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn't look away. "Why now? After all these years? And how do you even know it'll work?"
Jeffery stopped and turned to face him directly. "You really don't know, do you?" He tilted his head, pity and condescension dancing in his eyes. "That's expected, I suppose. You never had any right to know." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut like a blade. "Let me enlighten you."
He let the silence hang, just long enough to draw blood. "The current king of Nirathal is her brother. Your uncle. And unlike your cold-hearted grandfather… he actually favored her most."
Jeffery's voice gained momentum, each word another nail driven in. "The old king—your grandfather—died last year. If he were still on the throne, we wouldn't have even considered using your mother. He wouldn't have blinked." He chuckled, almost kindly. "But her brother? He's… softer. Sentimental, especially when it comes to family. That's his flaw."
Jeffery paced again, slower now, savoring the moment. "Your uncle is bleeding his nation dry—dragging it through a pointless war that only ends one way: defeat. Sooner or later, he has to surrender. We're just speeding the process along by giving him one more reason to stop. One more reason to bend. To accept our terms."
Rowan didn't speak. He couldn't. The rage, the grief, the horror—they tangled in his throat like thorns. Jeffery looked at him, something smug and satisfied curling at the corner of his mouth. "So yes," he said softly, like he was explaining the final move of a winning strategy, "we're playing a game now." He leaned in, voice dropping. "And your mother?" A pause. A cruel smile. "She's one of the pieces."
The silence after Jeffery's words stretched thin. Something in Rowan cracked. His voice rose, sharper than before, laced with a fury that had been building for years. "How could you do this?" he said, stepping forward. "She's your family. Your own blood. And you cast her aside like she was nothing." His hands trembled, but not from fear. "You didn't help her when she was sick. You ignored her when she needed you most. The least you could've done… the very least... was let her live in peace."
Jeffery didn't flinch. He sighed—long and theatrical, like he was tired of hearing a child complain. "Family, you say? Funny word. But I've never even seen her. She was never important to us. Just a pawn in a political marriage." He waved a hand, as if brushing away a speck of dust. "Blame yourself if you want someone to hate," he added, his tone hardening. "If you'd shown any real talent in magic… maybe her life would've turned out differently."
Rowan froze. The words struck deeper than he expected. "You should be grateful, really," Jeffery continued. "We could've thrown you out the day your magic potential was tested. But we let you stay. We gave you food. A roof. You were tolerated."
That word—tolerated—burned more than any insult. But something else stirred beneath Rowan's anger now. A memory. A question. His father.
He looked up sharply. "What if he is alive? What if he comes back?" he asked, voice firm despite the tightness in his throat. "What will you tell him then? What will you say when he finds out what you've done?"
Jeffery's smile didn't waver. If anything, it turned colder. "Your father?" he scoffed. "He was never anything special. Mediocre in every way. Always quiet, always in the background. He didn't fit the family." He stepped closer again, voice dropping. "Vexlaar only values power, Rowan. Not names. Not feelings. Power. And if, by some miracle, your father does return—he'll fall in line. Just like everyone else. He'll have no choice."
Jeffery's gaze sharpened, drilling into Rowan like ice. "In fact, he should be thankful to us," he said with finality. "We let his useless son live. That's more than he deserved."
He turned slightly, as if to leave, then paused with a shrug. "And don't worry about your mother," he added. "She's being taken care of. We're not fools—we wouldn't let our hostage die. I'm sure she's… comfortable enough. Fed. Watched. Not mistreated."
His words were meant to sound reassuring, but they landed like stones in Rowan's chest. A lump rose in Rowan's throat. He took a slow breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "Can I at least see her?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "You can lock me in the same prison."
Jeffery looked at him for a long moment, and for once, the amusement in his expression vanished. "No," he said flatly. "That's not going to happen." Then, as if the moment had never touched him, his sneer returned. "Although I really enjoyed watching your little breakdown, that's enough. I've already wasted more of my precious training time on you than you're worth," he said coldly. "Go back and wait for good news like a dog. And don't do anything stupid."
He flicked a glance toward Gaven and the others. "You three. Stay here." Then his eyes slid to a nearby guard, jerking his chin. "Get him out of my sight."
Rowan didn't resist. Didn't speak. He barely heard the guard's footsteps approach. Jeffery turned on his heel without another word, his boots clicking sharply on the marble floor as he walked away—unbothered, unrepentant.
Four months passed. Since that day with Jeffery, he had barely stepped outside. The world beyond his door moved on—soldiers marched, nobles schemed, war brewed—but to Rowan, everything felt frozen.
He trained every day. Alone. Sometimes, he simply sat on the floor, staring at nothing, wondering where she was. His nights were worse. The house was quiet, too quiet. He couldn't sleep—not properly. His mind kept wandering to that dark cell where she might be held. Was she cold? Was she fed? Some days, he hated himself for being so weak. Other days, he burned with the need to become stronger—fast.
And then, one morning, it happened. He was in the courtyard, shirt damp with sweat, sword striking against a worn post, when he heard the knock. He froze. Slowly, heart thudding, Rowan walked to the front door. He opened it without a word.
A guard stood there. Not one he recognized. "You. Follow," the man said curtly.
Rowan didn't ask questions. He followed in silence. They left the estate grounds, passed through lesser-used corridors in the keep, and entered the lower sections of the castle. The air turned damp. Lanterns flickered weakly on the walls. Rowan noticed how fewer people were around—until, eventually, they were completely alone.
Then came a staircase. Then a narrow hall. Then… a hidden door. The guard pressed his hand against a rune-carved stone, and with a low rumble, a section of the wall shifted. Rowan stepped through.
Stone walls greeted him—dark, windowless. The air was still and thick, like it hadn't moved in days. He knew instantly where he was. The prison. His heart began to race.
They walked deeper. Past rows of heavy iron doors, past more guards standing at attention. Nobody spoke. Not even a whisper. Only the sound of footsteps and the flicker of torchlight filled the space.
Finally, they stopped. At the end of a long, empty corridor, a single cell stood apart. Guards surrounded it, more than Rowan had seen anywhere else. The area felt abandoned, almost forgotten—but the presence here was unmistakable.
The cell door creaked open. "Go in," the guard said.
Rowan didn't hesitate. He stepped inside.
And there she was.
His mother.
Elira Vexlaar.