Chapter 67
The castle had dissolved into chaos. It thrummed through the stone itself, carried in the pounding of boots, in the clash of steel on steel as soldiers snapped to orders barked sharp enough to cut, and beneath it all ran the frantic pulse of fear—barely contained, desperate to masquerade as control.
Alaric and Rhaedor hadn’t wasted a heartbeat. The gates slammed shut. Servants were dragged aside in doorways, their protests drowned under interrogation until even the most loyal flinched at every passing shadow. Patrols circled the grounds in endless, frantic loops.
By the time Alaric and Cedric reached his guest chambers, the worst had already announced itself. All of the guards lay crumpled in the corridor. Necks at an unnatural angle, bodies folded wrong. No clatter of resistance. Whoever had moved through here had done it fast.
Behind him, Cedric slowed, eyes catching on the bloodless wounds. Alaric forced his steps between the sprawled soldiers, every nerve alight, braced for the smell of copper to hit his nose.
It didn’t. Relief was a blade’s width wide, but he took it anyway.
The door sagged on its broken hinges, groaning with every shift of air.
Inside, the chamber was a ruin. A chair lay belly-up by the hearth, one leg splintered.
A silver tray sprawled across the carpet; goblets burst into teeth of glass.
Wine soaked into the rug in black-red stains that looked far too much like blood.
She was fighting.
Alaric ran a hand through his hair, then crouched by the shattered goblets, fingertips brushing the wine-soaked rug.
It was carnage without corpses. A brutal mercy.
And Alaric clung to it with both fists as his eyes raked every scrap of evidence that might tell him who had come—and where they’d taken.
It had been nearly a full day since then.
A day with no sign of her and Thalen. Nor her maid. Just silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
And all he could think was: I should have seen this coming.
While he had been tracing symbols and chasing prophecy, obsessing over echoes and theories, she had been slipping into danger.
Because of him. Because he brought her closer to it, not farther.
Because every question he’d asked had carried a cost he hadn’t calculated properly.
And still, somehow, it was Evelyne and Thalen who were bleeding for the answers.
Vesena had found him by then, falling into step without a word, the way she always did. She’d been handling the carriages that morning. But the bell had rung, and she’d known.
Alaric's chest felt tight. He caught his reflection briefly in the polished steel of a ceremonial shield hanging on the wall of the war room. There were lines on his forehead he didn't remember earning.
But then he thought of her.
And he could almost hear her voice in his mind:
Control. Calm. Focus.
She wouldn’t be panicking. She wouldn’t be wasting breath on fear. Alaric exhaled slowly, forcing the wild thundering of his heart into a steady, measured beat.
Panic would not find them.
Only precision would.
From outside, he could hear guard dogs barking. The king was shouting again, his voice cracking like a whip across the room as he tore into the officers arrayed before him. No one was spared. Captains, advisors, guards—they all stood stiffly, enduring the storm with grim faces and sweaty palms.
In the corner of the Council chamber, half-forgotten in the shadow of the king’s rage, Ysara sat trembling on a low-backed chair.
Her hands were knotted in her skirts, face blotched with grief.
She wept: loudly, without asking for permission.
Her maid knelt beside her, whispering soft, futile comforts as she tried to dab gently at Ysara’s damp cheeks.
“There are bodies,” Cedric muttered, approaching from the room entrance. “Found in two of the outer corridors. Silverwards.”
Alaric’s jaw tightened. “The attack at the parade,” he murmured. “It never made sense. They knew the castle would be full of soldiers. They couldn’t have believed they’d capture her. Not in that chaos.”
“No,” Vesena replied, arms crossed tightly. “That wasn’t their aim.”
“They played us,” Alaric muttered bitterly. “Everyone thought if something were to happen, it would be during the wedding. The moment passed, and we all relaxed.” His voice went hard. “And that was exactly what they wanted. We walked straight into the aftermath.”
No one replied. There was nothing left to say. Only the faint echo of Ysara’s sobs threading through the stone hall like a curse fulfilled.
Then the doors slammed open with a heavy, echoing thud, and a soldier strode into the chamber without waiting to be announced.
“Your Majesty,” he began with a shallow bow. “A new report.”
Everyone stilled, words half-formed, thoughts suspended mid-breath.
“All priests of Rhyssa within the city,” the soldier continued, “have disappeared. None reported back to their quarters after last rites. Their rooms are empty. No signs of struggle.”
A beat of silence followed. Then a cascade of voices:
A chair scraped harshly against the stone as king shot to his feet. “What?”
“Impossible,” muttered another.
“The entire clergy?” demanded a third, face blanched.
The soldier nodded once. “We’ve checked three shrines. Same result.”
Alaric stepped forward, voice sharp. “No sign of departure? No horses taken, no witnesses?”
“None, Your Highness.”
A tense murmur spread across the table. Fingers clenched scrolls. Footsteps echoed as another advisor crossed to the window as if answers might be hiding in the sky.
Alaric stepped forward, both palms pressing flat to the war table’s worn surface. “So what’s next, Your Majesty?” His voice was low, sharp. “We wait? We hope someone stumbles onto a trail while your daughter and her brother are gods know where?”
Rhaedor’s expression darkened. “Watch your tone.”
“No.” Alaric’s voice cut across the room.
“You pride yourself on strength, on order, on Edrathen’s walls holding firm—and yet your heir is gone, and your daughter along with him.
Assassins and zealots walk freely through your gates and you still think fury is beneath you?
You dared to warn me that if I ever misstepped, you would not let it go—and that is fine.
But what’s disgusting is that you have let her down. Her whole life. And now.”
Silence snapped into place like a trap.
Alaric’s gaze swept the table. “Inform every outpost. The ones at the border, the river, the northern pass. Lock down the roads, check every departing caravan, every shrine that’s been emptied.”
King Rhaedor stared at him, unreadable.
“I’m not asking for permission,” Alaric added. “You made this union a matter of state. She is not just your daughter now.”
The Master of Coin swallowed hard, shifting in his seat.
“She is my wife,” Alaric said, voice rising. “A future Empress. And a woman who was never taught to defend herself because you chose to raise her in silence. You warned her the world was cruel, but you never showed her how to fight it. And now she’s gone.”
He slammed a palm down on the table. “She is not helpless. Stars, I know she’ll find a way to buy herself time. But this should never have happened. And it wouldn’t have—if you had just fucking listened to her.”
For a moment, Rhaedor just stared at him. The tension in the chamber pulled tight as a wire. The king’s jaw shifted, and he looked like a man considering whether to strike a traitor or hand him to the Assembly for execution.
Then, without a word, Rhaedor turned and gave a sharp nod to the messenger. The man bowed and vanished through the door.
When the door burst inward again, and Ravik staggered into the chamber. Cedric half-drew his blade before recognizing him. He resembled a man dragged back from the brink—ashen, unsteady—but his jaw was locked, and there was fire behind his stare.
“If you intend to find them, Your Highness,” he rasped, clutching the edge of the doorway for balance, “you’ll need me.”
Rhaedor went still, the lines carved around his mouth hardened.
Alaric pushed away from the table. “You’re certain?”
Ravik gave a single, grim nod. “The tunnels. We need to search them. I know the routes.”
Alaric’s jaw clenched. He knew them too now, memorized from Thalen’s ink-smudged map. Rhaedor looked between them. There were no good choices anymore. Only action and determination.
The king’s gaze settled on Ravik. “You’re wounded.”
Ravik straightened, the effort visible but unshaken. “I can command. My legs still work, my blade still lifts,” he paused. “And they are my friend’s children.”
Something unreadable flickered behind Rhaedor’s eyes. Regret, perhaps. Or memory. Then, at last, he gave a single nod.
“Find them,” the king ordered.
Boots echoed in unison as they all turned sharply.
Ravik led the way, Vesena was pulling her gloves tighter, while Cedric rolled his shoulders.
Alaric said nothing. He just gripped the hilt at his hip and quickened his steps.
The tunnels awaited. And somewhere in that labyrinth of stone and silence, Evelyne was waiting too.
And he would find her.
Or bleed for the privilege of trying.