Chapter 14 #2
The illusion mage tried one more spatial distortion—this time attempting to make the floor itself seem to fall away beneath Valerius's feet.
Valerius dispelled it without slowing.
The green mask's confidence broke.
Visibly.
He turned and ran—not toward the stairs, but toward the corner room, toward whatever escape the gray mask had prepared.
The professional raised both hands.
Light flared at his feet—not defensive this time, but preparatory.
Teleportation script.
The same kind of runic circle Corwin Vale had tried to use.
Fast.
Clean.
Already half-formed.
Valerius moved.
Two strides.
One sharp focus of will.
Then he drove the tip of his light-enspelled blade into the floor directly through the forming circle's center point.
Dispelling force pulsed outward in a brutal wave.
The runes twisted.
Light broke.
The carefully nested geometry collapsed inward with a sharp crack of failing magic, and the teleportation working shattered into nothing.
The gray mask staggered as if struck.
For one instant, his expensive stillness failed entirely, and Valerius saw exactly what he was: a professional who had just realized his exit was gone.
A hired mage who understood he was trapped.
A man who had made a career of calculated risk and had finally found himself on the wrong side of one.
Behind him, the illusion mage stood frozen in the doorway.
The fire mage was down now—Leon had disarmed him with one brutal strike and two guards had him pinned.
The sleep caster was already bound.
Three captured.
One remaining.
The gray mask looked at Valerius.
Then at the ruined teleportation circle.
Then at the corner room behind him where—presumably—Lord Silas Montrose still waited with his sealed trunks of evidence and his utterly useless ship passage.
Valerius raised his sword.
Light ran bright and clean along the steel.
"Yield," he said.
The gray mask's hand moved—
Too fast.
Not toward Valerius.
Toward his own chest.
Where a second prepared working sat hidden beneath his robes.
Personal teleport.
Emergency extraction.
Expensive.
Single-use.
The kind of thing a professional kept for the moment everything went wrong.
Valerius cast immediately.
But the range was too far, the angle wrong, and the personal teleport was already triggering—
Light flashed.
Space folded.
And the gray mask vanished.
Gone.
Damn.
Valerius lowered his blade slowly, light dimming along the edge as he scanned the hallway.
Three archmages down.
One escaped.
Not ideal.
But acceptable.
Leon stepped into the hallway, breathing hard, his enhanced blade still gleaming with residual magic.
"The fire mage is secure," he said.
"Good."
Edric emerged from the left side, shield lowered, expression grimly satisfied. "Sleep caster won't be casting anything for a while."
"Excellent."
Valerius sheathed his sword and turned toward the corner room.
The door stood open.
Inside—
Lord Silas Montrose sat on the edge of the bed, perfectly dressed, perfectly still, with two sealed trunks beside him and the expression of a man who had just watched his last escape route collapse.
He did not run.
Did not shout.
Did not even stand.
He simply looked at Valerius and said, very quietly, "This is excessive."
Valerius stepped into the room.
“You are suspected of arranging for four archmages to kidnap a noblewoman,” he said. “You fled a Crown investigation. You attempted to board a ship bound for foreign territory with sealed evidence.” He looked at Montrose with perfect calm. “I would call this proportionate.”
Montrose’s jaw tightened.
For one long moment, he looked like he might try to argue. Then he sagged, just slightly—but enough for Valerius to see the truth of it.
There it was. Not defiance. Not righteousness. Just exhaustion. The look of a man who had run out of road.
Valerius gestured, and two guards entered at once to secure Montrose properly.
Leon moved to the trunks, examining the seals.
"Warded," he said. "Professionally done."
"Open them," Valerius said.
Leon drew a knife and carefully broke the first seal.
The lid lifted.
Inside—
Papers.
Ledgers.
Records.
All the documentation a fleeing nobleman might bring when he suspected cooperation would no longer save him.
Evidence.
Insurance.
Leverage.
Exactly what Valerius had hoped to find.
He looked at Montrose.
"You kept records."
Montrose said nothing.
Reasonable.
Anything he said now would only make the shape of his guilt clearer.
Valerius turned to Leon. "Secure everything. We leave at first light."
"The ship?" Leon asked.
"Let it sail," Valerius said. "We have what we came for."
He stepped back into the hallway where the three captured archmages sat bound against the wall, watched by four Crown guards who looked deeply satisfied with the afternoon's work.
The illusion mage's green mask had cracked during the takedown.
The fire mage's red sleeves were scorched.
The sleep caster's ward-ring lay shattered on the floor.
All of them looked exactly like what they were: hired professionals who had accepted a contract without properly accounting for the risk.
Valerius stopped in front of them.
"You will be questioned," he said. "You will provide names. You will explain who hired you, who paid you, and who coordinated the kidnapping attempt on Lady Lynara Voss."
The white mask looked up at him. "We were paid not to talk."
"Yes," Valerius said. "I'm sure you were."
He let the silence hold.
"You were also paid to succeed," he said. "And you failed. So perhaps you should reconsider which contract still holds value."
The sleep mage's shoulders slumped.
There.
That was the beginning of cooperation.
It would take time.
Questioning always did.
But they would talk eventually.
Hired mages always did, once they understood that loyalty purchased with gold ended the moment the gold stopped being worth the consequences.
Valerius turned away and walked to the window.
Outside, the harbor spread wide and busy in the late afternoon light. Ships rocked at their moorings. Cargo moved. Sailors shouted. The Serpent's Promise sat ready at dock, waiting for a passenger who would never board.
Somewhere to the east, five days of hard riding away, Lynara was likely managing the estate with her usual terrifying competence and wondering when he would return.
Soon.
With Silas Montrose in custody.
With three archmages captured.
With evidence that would unravel whatever network had thought itself safe behind hired muscle and sealed trunks.
The investigation was not finished.
But the chase was over.
Valerius allowed himself one small measure of satisfaction.
They had won.
Not elegantly.
Not perfectly.
But clearly.
And that, in the end, was what mattered.
Leon appeared at his shoulder. "The inn is secure. Lord Montrose is bound. The trunks are ready for transport."
"Good."
"The guards want to know if we're drinking tonight."
Valerius looked at him.
Leon's expression remained perfectly neutral.
"We just rode for two and a half days straight," Leon said. "Fought four archmages. Captured a fleeing nobleman. And prevented an international incident." He paused. "They feel this warrants ale."
Valerius considered.
"One hour," he said. "Then we secure lodging and prepare for departure at first light."
Leon's mouth twitched. "I'll tell them."
As Leon left to relay the news, Valerius looked once more toward the harbor, then back at the corner room where Montrose sat in silent defeat.
The matter was ended.
Now came the part where consequences arrived in full.
And Valerius, standing in the wreckage of a very short battle and a very long pursuit, found he was looking forward to it.