Chapter 50
ALEXANDER
Dawn bled pale light through the shutters at the Golden Hare Inn, but Alexander hadn’t slept. His eyes burned from the night’s search—hours scouring the outskirts of Niewberg, every rider deployed, every path combed until horses ran lathered and raw.
The news of JingYi’s abduction was a knife to the heart, and he couldn’t stop twisting it. He should’ve taken her, kept her close. He should have seen Tedric for what he was—gods, he should have seen everything. But he’d trusted and told her to ride ahead. He let that snake into his house.
Now, she was paying for every single one of his damn mistakes.
They’d found the carriage wrecked, the horses scattered. All but one were recovered, grazing leagues away. The men who rode with her lay where they’d fallen, throats cut. Tracks led deeper into the trees, then vanished.
He’d known it then: Tedric, or someone under him, had doubled back to erase the trail.
Thorough. Ruthless. Alexander’s mind kept returning to one of the fallen—Ellert, a young guard barely past eighteen, who’d once shyly asked JingYi for a salve for his sister’s rash.
He lay on his back, eyes open to the sky, one hand curled loosely around the hilt of his undrawn sword.
He hadn’t even seen it coming.
Now, Alexander stared at the map spread across the table. Tremore’s forests were vast. Old, secretive. A man could be born and buried in them and never walk the same path twice. Without a lead, even a thousand soldiers would scatter uselessly through the dark.
Conrad wheezed behind him. “Did you . . . find her?”
Alexander turned at once. The boy stirred on the bed, brow furrowed with pain, blinking against the dim light.
“Not yet, pup.”
Conrad’s eyes closed. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he managed. “I failed . . . to stop him.”
“No,” Alexander said sharply, crossing to him. “You warned me about Tedric. I didn’t listen. This is on me.”
Conrad tried to shake his head, but Alexander pressed on. “You nearly died getting back to us. And you did it with broken ribs and a puncture close to the heart. I’m the one who—” He stopped himself, jaw clenched. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
There was a pause, then Alexander added, “Darion is already on the move. So is your father.”
“But,” Conrad grimaced, “who protects Lady Yrenna? And Parandor . . . if Sir Darion leaves?”
“Your father is sending your brothers to watch over Parandor until we return.”
That seemed to settle Conrad. He closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw easing slightly.
Alexander squeezed the boy’s hand. “Rest. I’ll bring her home.”
He returned to his maps, but the lines blurred into meaningless ink. The enemy had a name—two names, tangled together: Tedric, Bertrand. It didn’t matter which hand held the knife and which counted the coin. They both had her.
His fist came down on the table, a dull thunder that made the candle jump. He wouldn’t wait for warrants, for audits, for the king’s slow justice—that was the counsel of a man who still had time. He had none.
There was only one path left. He would tear the truth from the source.
“Saddle the horses,” he ordered the men outside, then went back in to pick up his double-edged war axe, the familiar weight settling against his palm as if it had been waiting for this moment.
She was alone in the dark, and the mere thought had his chest clenching in agony.
He would not think the worst. He would search until the forest yielded her back—every hour, every drop of strength, until his body collapsed or he found her.
If she was cold, he would warm her. If she was afraid, he would free her. If she was hurt—
He cut the thought off at the throat.
When he found Tedric, there would be no trial. No mercy. Only blood.
Only an ending.