Chapter 9 #2
“I’m very proud of him,” she says. “Of the person he’s become. But sometimes I wonder if there’s a side to him even I don’t know. A part he keeps hidden.”
The words settle heavy in the air between us. I stay silent, unsure what I could say to her.
Lady Clayborne’s expression shifts. Something softer enters her eyes.
“He smiles more when you’re around,” she says quietly. “I’ve noticed. It’s different from his usual smile. It’s brighter and… true. Whatever you’re doing, it’s good for him. Thank you for that.”
The statement catches me completely off guard. I don’t deserve her gratitude. All I’ve done is follow Garrett around.
Lady Clayborne seems to realize she’s made me uncomfortable. She steps back, smoothing her gown.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude on your evening.” She gestures to the table. “Please, eat before it gets cold. And if you need anything at all during your stay, just ask.”
She moves toward the door. The handmaidens part to let her through.
“Lady Clayborne,” I call after her. “Thank you.”
She smiles again, warmer this time and leaves with her handmaidens trailing behind.
The door clicks shut. I’m alone with enough food for three people and her words lingering in my head.
I cross to the table. The lamb is perfectly cooked, the meat falling off the bone at the slightest touch. I take a bite. It’s delicious, seasoned with care and skill.
This is made with love.
Something twists in my chest.
Garrett has this. A mother who worries about him, who brings him his favorite meals, who notices when he smiles more. A family that loves him even if they don’t understand all of him.
I never had that. My mother died when I was too young to remember her face. My grandfather tried, but the pack was always struggling and always fighting. There was no time for favorite meals or noticing smiles.
The guild certainly never cared.
Shade, Kitty, and Shepherd are my only family now.
A faint smile crosses my face at the thought of them. We keep each other alive and we survive together. But the jealousy remains. I eat slowly, the food turning bitter. Not because it tastes bad, but because of what it represents. Everything Garrett has that I never will.
Does he even realize how lucky he is? The thought makes me angry and sad at the same time.
I finish eating because wasting the food would be an insult to the care that went into it. But every bite reminds me of the distance between Garrett’s world and mine. When the plate is empty, I push it away and return to the bed. The ceiling patterns blur as I stare at them.
Garrett has everything. Family, position, and purpose.
And somehow, he still throws himself into danger like he has nothing to lose. What the fuck is he even doing right now?
Fuck propriety. Fuck boundaries. I need to know he’s safe.
I slip away from the path to Elvarstyne and make my way back through the palace.
Evening is settling over the complex, that liminal time when the day staff has left but the night staff hasn’t fully taken over.
The halls are emptier than usual with guards changing shifts and servants finishing their duties. It’s easier to move unseen.
I check Garrett’s quarters first, taking the familiar route to his wing of the palace.
I knock quietly at his door. Then less quietly.
No answer.
I try the handle. Locked.
Either he’s not there, or he’s refusing to answer.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, debating.
I could pick the lock. It would be easy, my training covered far more complex mechanisms than this.
But if he is inside and simply doesn’t want to see me, that would be crossing a line I’m not sure I can uncross.
Our relationship, whatever it is, is built on trust. Breaking into his rooms would shatter that.
But the alternative is walking away while he’s clearly suffering.
I make my decision and pull out the thin piece of wire I keep hidden in my boot. The lock yields in seconds. I slip inside quickly, closing the door behind me.
The room is dark. Empty.
His bed is made, untouched. There’s no cloak thrown over the chair or boots by the door. He hasn’t been here since we returned.
So where else would he be?
The Hall of Valor? Maybe he went back to review the investigation notes again, searching for clues we missed. I make my way there, moving through the palace silently.
The chamber is dark when I arrive, the eternal flames casting shadows across the memorial stones.
No sign of Garrett.
I check the library next, then the war room, then the training yards. All empty. The palace is settling into its evening routine, and Garrett is nowhere to be found.
Where are you?
Maybe he went for a walk outside the palace walls, or to visit someone I don’t know about. Perhaps he went on a date with Sylmae and Teris.
Fuck him.
I’m about to give up and accept that maybe he just wants to be alone when I see it.
Blood trail.
My Sylverin blood gives me senses sharper than pure elves. This is fresh. Hours old at most.
I examine the stone floor. To anyone else, the corridor would look clean.
The palace servants are meticulous. But there, in the grout between flagstones, a dark speck catches the lamplight.
It’s smaller than a fingernail. Blood that soaked into the porous material and wouldn’t come out with a simple mopping.
I lean closer, breathing in. The scent strengthens.
I stand, following the scent down the corridor. It’s difficult even for me. The drops are sparse, barely visible. Every few feet, another tiny spot on the stone. A smear on a doorframe where someone steadied themselves. A partial footprint, the heel wet enough to leave the faintest mark.
The palace smells like a hundred things. Lamp oil, beeswax from the candles, cooking meat from distant kitchens, perfume from nobles who passed through hours ago. But underneath it all, that thread of copper leads me deeper into the older wings.
Past the grand halls and the guest quarters into sections of the palace that feel forgotten, where the tapestries are faded and dust gathers in corners.
The blood scent grows stronger. Well, it’s not because there’s more of it, but because the competing smells thin out. Back here, there’s less scent and less life.
I pause at an intersection, testing the air. Left or right?
There.
Right corridor. The scent pulls me like a string tied around my ribs.
My hand finds the hilt of my knife. Whatever I’m tracking, I’m getting close. The drops appear more frequently now, though still small enough that palace guards would walk right past without noticing. But I can smell it coating the back of my throat with every breath.
The trail leads me to a section of corridor I don’t recognize.
Servants’ access, by the look of it. Plain doors, narrow halls, no decoration.
There’s a small door here, half-hidden behind a tapestry.
I noticed it weeks ago during my initial survey of the palace but never explored it.
I simply marked it as another servants’ access point.
The door is unlocked. It opens onto a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. The stone steps are worn smooth from centuries of use, and the air that rises from below is stale.
It’s so fucking cold in here.
The palace has extensive cellars and sub-levels. Storage rooms, wine cellars, old dungeons from the Inquisition days of Aelfheim. Most of them are locked up, unused, forgotten by everyone except the servants who occasionally venture down to retrieve stored goods.
I descend carefully, one hand on the stone wall, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Torches flicker at intervals, casting more shadows than light.
Then I hear voices. One of them is Garrett’s.
I move faster now, following the sounds through twisting passages. It opens into a wider corridor with several iron-banded doors set into the stone. One of the old prison cell doors is slightly ajar.
I approach silently, every sense on high alert. My hand finds the knife at my belt.
Through the gap in the door, I see a room lit by several torches mounted on the walls.
Iron rings set into the floor and ceiling.
An elf hangs from chains attached to the ceiling in the center of the room.
His arms are stretched above his head and his toes barely touch the ground.
He’s stripped to the waist. Blood runs down his skin in dark rivulets, pooling on the stone beneath him.
His head hangs forward, and he’s making low, broken sounds of pain.
I recognize the Valorian insignia tattooed on his shoulder. This is one of the missing guards.
I’m about to push through the door to free him and stop whoever’s doing this. Then I see who’s standing in front of the prisoner.
Garrett.
For a moment, my mind refuses to process what I’m seeing. It refuses to connect the dots between the person I know and the figure standing calmly in front of a tortured prisoner.
“I asked you a question, Marcian.” Garrett’s voice is perfectly calm. “How many were there? How many children in the village you burned?”
“I... I don’t...” Marcian’s voice is hoarse, broken. “Please, Commander, I don’t understand—“
Garrett’s fist slams into his ribs. The crack of impact echoes off the stone walls. Marcian screams.
“Don’t lie to me.” Garrett speaks with deadly quiet. “You were there. You participated. The only question is how many children.”
This can’t be real. There’s no way this is Garrett, the golden, kind, compassionate Garrett who comforts widows and plays with kids.
But it is.
“The village of Feywildra,” Garrett continues, circling the hanging man slowly. “You were part of the Valorian unit sent to deal with suspected rebels. You and eleven others. How many children died in that fire, Marcian?”
“It was orders!” Marcian sobs, blood and tears running down his face. “The Aeonians ordered it! We were just following—”
Another punch and another scream.
“How many?” Garrett asks again, his voice still eerily calm.