Nichelle descended through the branches with the silent precision of a trained shadow. The wind barely stirred as she dropped from the final limb, landing in a crouch behind a thick tree trunk near a dense bush. Snow muffled the impact, leaving no trace of their arrival.
Meisha felt the shift in motion as Nichelle set her gently on her feet, the cold air rushing back around her like a reminder of where she was — and where she had to return.
Nichelle scanned the area, her eyes sharp even in the dim moonlight. Only when she was certain no lantern light flickered nearby did she speak.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, keeping her voice low. "I couldn't get you any closer."
Meisha shook her head, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I understand. If you tried, the patrolling guards would catch your scent."
Nichelle nodded once, relieved that Meisha grasped the danger without needing further explanation. "Exactly. They're circling tighter tonight. Something has them on edge."
Meisha's heart clenched — she knew exactly what that "something" was.
The arrival of King Burruk's advisor
The estate was a nest of stirred hornets.
Nichelle placed a steadying hand on Meisha's shoulder. "From here, you'll need to move carefully. Stay low. Stay silent. And don't let anyone see your face."
Meisha exhaled slowly, grounding herself. "I know the way."
"I'm sure you do," Nichelle said softly. "But that doesn't make it any easier."
For a moment, the two women stood in the quiet, the river murmuring behind them, the estate looming ahead like a dark, waiting beast.
Nichelle's expression softened. "You've done more than anyone could have asked of you tonight."
Meisha looked toward the estate, her chest tightening. "I just want him to be safe."
"He will be," Nichelle replied with certainty. "And you will see him again soon."
Meisha nodded, though her eyes shimmered with the weight of everything she couldn't say.
Nichelle stepped back into the shadows, her presence already fading into the forest's darkness. "Go. Before the next patrol circles back."
She took a breath, steeling herself.
Then she slipped from behind the tree, moving toward the bridge — toward the estate — toward the danger she had no choice but to return to.
Meisha crossed the wooden bridge alone this time, her steps light, her breath controlled. The forest behind her felt like a sanctuary she was being pulled away from, and the estate ahead loomed like a beast waiting to reclaim her.
She retraced the path she and Kaydence had taken earlier, moving swiftly but silently. The collapsed portion of the outer wall was still a distance away, hidden behind thick vines and moon‑shadowed rubble.
Halfway there, she froze.
A faint crunch of snow. A shift of weight. A presence.
Meisha ducked into a bush, pressing herself low against the cold earth. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
An elite guard from the Duke's army stepped into view — tall, armored, and moving with the predatory precision of someone trained to hunt. His lantern cast a pale glow across the snow, illuminating the frost‑bitten air around him.
Then he stopped.
His head lifted slightly.
He inhaled.
Meisha's blood ran cold.
He smells it. The faint trace of Kaydence's demonic aura still clinging to her from their journey.
The guard turned sharply toward her hiding place, drawn by the scent like a hound catching a trail.
Meisha's fingers trembled as she reached into her cloak.
The vials.
She pulled out one of the two small bottles of lavender‑sage oil, uncorked it with her teeth, and poured it over her cloak, her clothes, her hands, her face — anywhere the scent might linger.
The aroma bloomed around her, warm and herbal, masking everything beneath it.
The guard inhaled again.
He frowned.
His posture shifted — confusion replacing certainty. His senses, sharp as they were, tangled by the sudden flood of lavender and sage.
He muttered under his breath, turning away.
"Must be the wind…"
He changed direction, moving off the path entirely, lantern light drifting away until it vanished behind the trees.
Meisha waited. Counted her breaths. Listened for any sign he might return.
Only when the forest settled again did she slip from the bush and continue toward the collapsed wall.
The vines parted for her like old friends. She squeezed through the narrow breach, careful not to disturb the rubble, and descended the hidden stairs into the underground corridor. The cold stone welcomed her back with its familiar stillness.
Inside the ignored storage room, she pushed the crates back into place, covering the entrance to the secret passage. Only then did she allow herself to sit — just for a moment — her back against a crate, her breath shaking from the adrenaline.
She closed her eyes.
Kaydence's face flickered behind her eyelids. His weight leaning on her. His whispered vow. His fading strength.
She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying herself.
There was no time to fall apart.
Meisha rose, adjusted her cloak, and slipped out of the storage room. The corridor was empty, the estate quiet. She moved like a shadow, hugging the walls, avoiding every patch of light.
When she reached her quarters, she eased the door open and slipped inside unnoticed.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she exhaled — a long, trembling breath she'd been holding since the forest.
She was back.
Alive.
But her thoughts were still out there, somewhere between the trees and the caravan, carried in the arms of two soldiers and held together by a tonic and a vow.
The forest blurred past in streaks of shadow and moonlight as the two soldiers vaulted from branch to branch, Kaydence's weight slung between them. His armor clinked softly with each movement, the sound uneven — a reminder of how limp his body had become.
His head lolled forward, breath shallow, each inhale a struggle.
"Hold on, General," one soldier muttered under his breath, tightening his grip.
The other soldier scanned the path ahead. "The caravan's close. I see the torches."
Through the trees, warm light flickered — a line of lanterns and fire pits marking the Duke's forward encampment. The scent of burning cedar drifted through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of Kaydence's sweat.
As they neared the clearing, the soldiers dropped from the branches, landing in a crouch before sprinting the last stretch on foot.
"Make way!" one shouted. "General Kaydence is down!"
The camp erupted into motion.
Armored figures turned. Healers rushed forward. A tall, imposing man — the Duke himself — stepped out from the largest tent, his expression shifting from irritation to shock in a single heartbeat.
"Kaydence!" he barked, striding toward them.
The soldiers entered the infirmary tent and lowered Kaydence carefully onto a thick fur laid out by the healers. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of his father's voice, but only barely.
"Father…" he rasped, the word almost lost to the cold air.
The Duke knelt beside him, one hand gripping his son's shoulder. "Save your strength. You're safe now."
Kaydence tried to shake his head — a weak, trembling motion. "Meisha… get her back… before they notice…"
The Duke's jaw tightened. "Nichelle has her orders. Focus on breathing."
Kaydence's eyes drifted shut again, his body sagging as the last of his strength slipped away.
The chief healer pushed forward, already uncorking vials and laying out tools. "The toxins have spread deeper," she said urgently. "We need to purge them before they reach his core."
"Do it," the Duke commanded.
The healers worked quickly — cutting away pieces of Kaydence's armor, placing heated stones along his spine, applying salves that hissed against his skin. One healer pressed a glowing sigil to his chest, and Kaydence arched with a strangled gasp as the magic forced the toxins to the surface.
Dark veins pulsed beneath his skin, writhing like ink being drawn out of him.
The Duke looked away for a moment, unable to watch his son suffer — then forced himself to look back. He would not turn from this.
"Stay with us, Kaydence," he murmured, voice low but fierce. "You still have someone waiting for you."
Kaydence's lips parted, barely forming a whisper.
"…Meisha…"
The Duke's expression softened — just for a heartbeat.
"Yes," he said. "Her."
The healers continued their work, the air thick with the scent of herbs and burning toxins, the night alive with urgency.
Kaydence hovered on the edge of consciousness, clinging to one thought, one promise, one face.
I will return for you.
Thalorian Syire exited the infirmary tent walked tall despite the tension tightening his jaw, his cloak shifting in the cold wind and stop just before the two soldiers knelt before him. Their heads were bowed, fists pressed to the ground in apology.
"Speak," Thalorian commanded, his voice low but edged with steel.
One soldier swallowed hard. "My lord… we made contact with the lady who was assisting the general through the forest."
The second soldier bowed deeper. "We nearly drew our weapons on her in haste. We did not realize she was the one who saved him. We beg your pardon."
Thalorian's eyes narrowed, but his voice remained controlled. "You are pardoned for now. You will be reprimanded later — after this situation is resolved." He flicked two fingers. "Continue."
The soldiers straightened slightly, still kneeling.
"After Lieutenant Nichelle scolded us," the first soldier said, "the lady informed her that the toxins from the general's injury still lingered in his body."
Thalorian's gaze sharpened. "Is this why he is in this state?"
Both soldiers nodded in unison. "Yes, my lord."
Thalorian exhaled slowly, the weight of the truth settling heavily on his shoulders.
"And what of Nichelle?" he asked.
The second soldier answered. "After helping the general drink the tonic, he came to for a moment. He muttered an order to Lieutenant Nichelle. She gave us the command to go on ahead."
Thalorian stroked his chin, thinking aloud. "He must have ordered her to return the lady to the estate before her absence raised suspicion."
The soldiers exchanged a glance — neither daring to confirm nor deny, but both knowing it was likely true.
Thalorian dismissed them with a curt nod and turned back toward the healer's tent.
The moment he stepped inside, the air hit him like a wall — thick with the scent of burning herbs, sweat, and something darker.
Kaydence screamed.
His body arched violently off the furs, muscles seizing as the healers struggled to hold him down. Two gagged from the stench of expelled toxins, while others pressed glowing sigils to his skin, forcing the poison to the surface.
"What is happening?" Thalorian demanded, striding forward.
The head healer didn't look up, her hands moving with frantic precision. "We just administered the antidote, my lord. The toxins reached the veins in his head."
Kaydence writhed again, a guttural sound tearing from his throat.
"If we hadn't given it now," she continued, "the poison would have driven him mad. It would have eaten away at his mind."
Thalorian's breath stilled.
Madness. His son — the strongest commander in his ranks — reduced to a hollow shell.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Will he survive this?"
The healer pressed another sigil to Kaydence's temple, her expression grim. "We are fighting for that outcome now."
Kaydence screamed again, his voice raw, his body trembling violently as the antidote battled the poison inside him.
Thalorian clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to remain steady — to be the pillar his son needed, even if Kaydence couldn't see him.
"Hold on, Kaydence," he murmured under his breath. "You have someone waiting for you."
And as the healers worked, the Duke stood vigil — a father, a commander, and a man who refused to lose his son to the darkness.
Kaydence's screams tore through the healer's tent, raw and jagged, each one a battle cry against the poison clawing through his veins. The healers worked with frantic precision — sigils glowing, salves hissing, hands steady despite the violence of his convulsions.
Then, slowly… the tension in his body began to ease.
The dark veins pulsing beneath his skin receded, fading from black to deep violet, then to a faint bruise‑like shadow. His breathing, once ragged and uneven, settled into a strained but steady rhythm.
The head healer wiped her brow, exhaling a long breath of relief.
"It's taking effect," she murmured. "He's stabilizing."
Thalorian closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the last hour pressing down on him. His son — his second heir — had survived the worst of it.
For now.
Back in her quarters, Meisha sat on the edge of her bed, cloak still damp with lavender‑sage oil, hands trembling from the night's ordeal. The room was quiet, but her heart wasn't.
Something tugged at her chest — a sharp, sudden ache that made her inhale sharply.
She didn't know what was happening in the forest. She didn't know if Kaydence had reached the caravan. She didn't know if he was alive.
But she felt something shift. A ripple. A release of tension she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her eyes softened.
"Please…" she whispered.
She clasped her hands together, bowing her head as she spoke in the Emberwynn tongue — the ancient language of her mother spoke, soft and melodic, carrying the weight of prayer.
"Asha'len veyra… shal'thorin kaydenn… Guide him. Protect him. Bring him back."
The words drifted into the quiet room like embers carried on a breeze.
She didn't know if anyone heard her.
But she hoped the forest did. She hoped the spirits did. She hoped he did.
Thalorian stepped out of the healer's tent, the cold night air hitting him like a cleansing wave. For the first time since the soldiers had arrived with Kaydence's limp body, he allowed himself to breathe fully.
His son had overcome the worst. He was stable. He would live.
His shoulders sagged slightly — the smallest crack in the armor of a Duke, but a crack, nonetheless.
He walked a few paces, lost in thought, when a figure approached with hurried steps.
His amanuensis bowed deeply. "My lord. Lieutenant Nichelle has returned."
Thalorian straightened, the Duke reasserting itself over the father. "Good. Have her report to my tent immediately."
"Yes, my lord."
The amanuensis hurried off, and he made his way toward his private tent — the place where strategy, decisions, and consequences converged.
He needed answers. He needed clarity.
Thalorian pushed aside the heavy tent flap and stepped into the dimly lit interior of his command tent. Maps, reports, and coded missives lay scattered across the central table, but he ignored them for now. His mind was still half in the healer's tent, half with the image of Kaydence writhing under the antidote's burn.
He circled the table slowly, the weight of leadership settling back onto his shoulders, and lowered himself into the high‑backed chair that faced the entrance. He clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the table, and waited.
The silence stretched for only a few moments before the curtain rustled again.
Nichelle entered with crisp precision, pushing the flap aside and stepping in with the posture of a seasoned lieutenant. She stood at attention — feet together, hands behind her back, gaze forward — waiting for permission to move.
Thalorian lifted two fingers in a subtle gesture. "Sit."
Nichelle obeyed immediately, taking the seat opposite him.
His eyes sharpened. "Report. What news of the child of Alyra?"
Nichelle straightened even further. "My lord, the child of Alyra has safely returned to the estate. To ensure that she did, I remained chameleon‑cloaked high in the branches and watched until she entered the grounds."
He nodded once. "Good. Anything else to report?"
Nichelle hesitated — a rare thing for her.
"Well… there is one other matter. Though…" She exhaled softly. "I may be overthinking."
His expression didn't shift, but the air in the tent seemed to tighten. "There is no such thing as overthinking. If it is a thought, it is a consideration. Report your suspicion."
Nichelle bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. "While escorting the lady back, I felt as though I was being watched. I sensed no presence, no aura, no movement — but the feeling persisted."
Thalorian leaned back, weighing her words. Nichelle was not prone to nerves. If she felt watched, even without evidence, it was worth noting.
After a brief silence, he nodded. "I will take your overthinking into consideration. We will pack up the camp and set the caravan in motion. We arrive at the Hennis estate within the hour. Send the word out."
Nichelle's eyes widened slightly — the only sign of surprise she allowed herself. "Understood, my lord."
"Is there anything else?" Thalorian asked.
"No, my lord. And… thank you."
His gaze softened by a fraction. "You are my son's hand‑picked lieutenant. I would be a fool not to trust your judgment."
He waved a hand in dismissal.
Nichelle rose, pushing her chair back into place with disciplined care. She turned to leave — then paused.
"If I may, milord?"
"You may."
Nichelle faced him fully. "What of the general's condition?"
Thalorian's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "He will live."
Relief flickered across Nichelle's face — brief, but unmistakable. She bowed deeply, then slipped out of the tent to carry out her orders.
Thalorian remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the tent flap she had disappeared through.
His son lived. The child of Alyra was safe for now. But something unseen moved in the shadows of the forest.
Nichelle moved with purpose the moment she stepped out of Thalorian's tent. Her boots crunched softly against the frost‑bitten ground as she crossed the camp, calling out orders to the soldiers and healers alike.
"Pack up. We're moving out," she announced, her voice carrying the authority Kaydence himself had entrusted to her.
A few healers looked up from their crates, startled.
"Lieutenant, we've only just stabilized the general—"
Nichelle raised a hand, firm but not unkind. "I know. But Lord Syire has given the order. We move within the hour."
The healers exchanged uneasy glances, but the head healer stepped forward, nodding. "Very well. We'll prepare him for transport."
Nichelle inclined her head in gratitude and slipped into the healer's tent.
The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and cooling sweat. Kaydence lay on a bed of furs, his breathing steady but shallow, his skin pale beneath the dim lantern light. The violent tension that had wracked his body earlier was gone, replaced by a fragile stillness.
Nichelle approached his side slowly.
Seeing him like this — the strongest man she knew, the general who had hand‑picked her, the one who had taught her discipline and honor — lying helpless and sedated…
It nearly broke her.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, fighting the sting in her eyes.
"We're going to find out who did this to you," she whispered, voice trembling despite her best efforts. "And they're going to pay."
She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself.
A faint sound stirred the air.
"…Nichelle…"
Her eyes snapped open.
Kaydence's voice was barely more than a breath, but it was unmistakably his.
"Don't… grieve over me like I'm dead… Nichelle…"
A shaky laugh escaped her — half relief, half disbelief. "Then don't die, sir."
His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. He tried to speak again, but the words tangled in his throat. His brow furrowed, his breath catching.
Nichelle leaned closer. "What is it?"
He struggled — not with pain this time, but with urgency.
"…Mei…sha…"
Nichelle softened. She knew him well enough to understand the question he couldn't form.
"She made it back safely," she said gently. "Unseen. Unharmed."
Kaydence exhaled — a long, relieved breath — and the tension in his body eased. His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the sedatives pulling him under.
Nichelle watched him for a moment longer, ensuring his breathing remained steady.
Then she straightened, wiped her eyes with the back of her glove, and stepped out of the tent to prepare for departure.
The camp moved with swift, disciplined efficiency. Under Nichelle's direction, every soldier, healer, and attendant worked with a quiet urgency that mirrored the weight of their mission.
Kaydence was prepared for transport with the utmost care. The healers wrapped him in insulated furs, secured warming stones along his spine, and stabilized his breathing with gentle pulses of restorative magic. Two soldiers lifted the reinforced stretcher, locking it into the suspension mounts of the central wagon so the movement of the caravan wouldn't jostle him.
Nichelle checked every strap herself.
"Easy," she murmured to the soldiers. "He's stable, but only just."
They nodded, adjusting their grips.
Outside, the caravan's torches flared to life one by one, casting long ribbons of gold across the snow. Horses stamped the ground, snorting clouds of steam into the cold night air. The wheels creaked as the first wagons began to roll.
"Move out," Nichelle ordered.
The caravan set into motion, a river of steel and firelight cutting through the forest toward the Hennis estate. The sound of hooves and wheels echoed through the trees, steady and determined.
Kaydence lay unconscious in the healer's wagon, his breath shallow but even. The worst had passed — but the danger was far from over.
Back in the estate, Meisha lay in her bed, staring into the darkness. Her blankets offered no warmth. Her room offered no comfort. Her mind refused to quiet.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Kaydence stumbling. His breath hitching. His weight collapsing into her arms.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady the ache there.
Please be safe… please…
A sudden knock shattered the silence.
Meisha jolted upright, heart leaping into her throat. She swung her legs over the bed and hurried up the small staircase to the door.
She opened it.
Silas stood there, lantern in hand, his expression tight with urgency.
"Meisha," he said quietly, "Lord Varrick requests your presence in the second‑floor lounge."
Her stomach dropped.
The night wasn't done with her yet.
She nodded, masking her fear with practiced calm. "Of course. I'll go now."
Silas stepped aside, allowing her to pass.
As Meisha walked down the dim corridor, the estate felt colder than usual — as if the walls themselves sensed the storm gathering outside.
And somewhere far beyond those walls, the caravan thundered through the forest, carrying the man whose fate was now bound to hers in ways neither of them could escape.
The corridor felt colder than usual as Meisha followed Silas toward the central staircase. The estate was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that made every footstep echo like a warning. Lanternlight flickered along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to lean in as she passed.
Silas walked half a step ahead of her, his posture stiff with worry. He kept glancing back, as if checking to make sure she was still there… or perhaps to see if she was trembling.
She wasn't.
Her shoulders were squared. Her chin lifted. Her steps steady.
But Silas's voice betrayed his fear.
"Meisha… what exactly are you walking into?" he asked quietly, unable to hide the tremor beneath his words. "Lord Varrick doesn't summon you at this hour unless—"
"I know," she cut in gently.
They reached the first landing, the stairs curving upward toward the second floor. Silas hesitated, then tried again.
"What did you do?" he whispered. "What risk did you take that has him calling for you now?"
Meisha stopped mid‑step.
For the first time in years, she didn't shrink. She didn't bow her head. She didn't apologize for existing.
She lifted her chin, eyes steady.
"I'll put it plainly, Silas," she said, voice low but unwavering. "I gambled with my life because I'm tired of being obedient. I'm tired of this life that I'm living. Could you really call my living?"
Silas froze.
The words hit him like a blow — not because they were harsh, but because they were true. Painfully, undeniably true.
They resumed walking, the second flight of stairs rising before them. Silas remained silent for several steps, wrestling with the weight of her confession.
At the top of the stairs, he finally spoke.
"I hope," he murmured, "that this gamble you've made is well worth it."
Meisha didn't flinch.
"If I live or die," she replied, "it was worth it."
Silas's breath caught, but he said nothing more.
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and quiet. The door to the second‑floor lounge stood at the end — polished wood, golden handle, and the faint glow of firelight leaking from beneath it.
Silas walked her to the threshold.
He straightened his vest, cleared his throat, and knocked twice before announcing:
"Lord Varrick… Meisha has arrived."
Silas pushed the door open with a careful, almost reluctant hand, stepping aside so Meisha could enter first. The warm glow of the lounge's fire spilled across the threshold, but the room itself felt anything but warm.
Meisha stepped inside.
The three Hennis men were seated exactly as before — Lord Varrick in the center, Duke Hennis to his right, and Warren lounging with that predatory ease that always made her skin crawl. Their eyes lifted to her in unison.
Silas lingered only a heartbeat before Lord Varrick flicked his hand in a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"Leave us. Close the door."
Silas bowed quickly and stepped out. The door shut behind him with a soft thud, followed by the unmistakable click of the latch sliding into place.
Silence.
Not the quiet kind — the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed against the ribs and demanded submission.
All three men stared at her.
No words. No accusations. Just the weight of their gaze, testing her, waiting for her to tremble… to fold… to show even the smallest crack.
Meisha didn't move.
Her spine stayed straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to show she wasn't broken. Her heart pounded, but her face remained calm.
Kaydence's vow echoed in her mind like a steady drumbeat.
I will return for you.
That promise wrapped around her like armor.
She met their stares without flinching.
If they wanted to intimidate her, they would have to try harder.
Lord Varrick's eyes narrowed slightly — the smallest sign that her composure was not what he expected.
Warren's lips twitched into something between amusement and annoyance.
Duke Hennis simply watched, expression unreadable, as if studying a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit where he thought it should.
Still, none of them spoke.
They wanted to see if she would break first.
But Meisha stood firm, her breath steady, her resolve unshaken.
Whatever punishment awaited her… whatever accusation they were preparing… whatever trap they intended to spring…
She would face it head‑on.
Because she was done being afraid.
And because someone out there — fighting for breath in a healer's wagon — had promised he would come back.
She would not shame that promise by bowing now.
The silence stretched.
And finally… Lord Varrick leaned forward.
His voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Meisha… do you know why you're here?"
The moment hung in the air, poised on the edge of something dangerous.
She inhaled slowly, letting her breath settle into something calm, measured, and deceptively neutral. Not submissive. Not rebellious. Something in between — a quiet defiance wrapped in careful composure.
When she finally answered Lord Varrick's question, her tone was steady, almost aloof.
"I can only assume I'm here because you believe I've done something wrong, milord."
A flicker crossed Varrick's eyes — irritation, curiosity, maybe even surprise — but he masked it quickly.
"I sent a maid to fetch you," he said, rising from his chair with deliberate slowness. "To prepare more tea."
He began walking toward her, each step echoing across the polished floor. Warren watched with a smirk. Duke Hennis observed with cold calculation.
Varrick continued, voice smooth but edged with accusation.
"And do you know what she came back to report to me?"
Meisha didn't flinch. Didn't shift. Didn't let her heartbeat show in her face.
"No," she replied, tone even. "What did she report?"
Varrick stopped directly in front of her — close enough that she could smell the faint trace of wine on his breath, close enough that he expected her to shrink back.
She didn't.
"The maid reported," he said slowly, "that she knocked on your door… and you did not answer."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy and pointed.
"And since you didn't answer," he continued, leaning in just slightly, "she entered your room out of worry."
A pause.
"To find you weren't there."
The accusation settled between them like a blade laid on a table.
Warren's smirk widened. Duke Hennis's gaze sharpened. Varrick waited — hungry for her reaction.
But Meisha stood tall, shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to show she would not be cowed.
Kaydence's vow pulsed through her like a heartbeat.
I will return for you.
That promise held her upright now, steadying her against the weight of three powerful men who expected her to crumble.
She met Varrick's stare with a calm that was almost unnerving.
And the room waited for her answer.
Lord Varrick's gaze bored into Meisha's, sharp and probing, again searching for the slightest tremor of fear. Yet she gave him nothing. Not a blink. Not a flinch. Not even the courtesy of a breath that betrayed unease.
"Where did you go at this late hour?" he asked, voice low and deceptively calm.
Meisha remained silent.
Varrick's jaw tightened. "Still no answer, Meisha."
She held his stare, her expression unreadable — not submissive, not rebellious, simply unmoved.
The silence stretched, thickening the air.
Varrick's patience snapped.
In one swift motion, his hand shot out and closed around her throat.
Meisha's eyes widened — not in fear, but in something sharper, something that flickered like a spark behind her gaze. Shock, yes… but also a simmering, dangerous clarity.
Varrick leaned in, his grip firm but controlled. "There's a reaction from you. Finally."
Warren smirked from his seat, leaning back as if settling in to enjoy the show. Duke Hennis watched with a cold, assessing stillness.
"Now," Varrick said, tightening his hold just enough to force her chin upward, "why were you out of the estate at this hour?"
Meisha inhaled through compressed air, choosing her words with precision.
"Why?" she rasped. "So you can beat me? You've done that."
Varrick's eyes narrowed.
"Lock me away in the basement?" she continued, voice strained but steady. "You've done that too."
Her left hand lifted, fingers brushing the cold metal of the bracelet clamped around her wrist.
"And place a magic‑suppressing shackle on me so I could never get away?" Her voice sharpened. "It looks as if you've done that as well."
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
Then Warren let out a low whistle.
"Woo hoo…" he drawled, amusement dripping from every syllable. "It seems my brother doesn't have any luck with Emberwynn women."
Varrick's grip twitched.
Warren turned to their father with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You should've bestowed me with this task, Father."
Duke Hennis didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Meisha — not with lust, not with anger, but with a calculating interest that was somehow worse.
Varrick still held her throat, but Meisha's stare never wavered.
She had spoken her truth. She had exposed their cruelty. And she had done it without breaking.
Kaydence's vow pulsed through her like a steady heartbeat again.
I will return for you.
And for the first time, Varrick seemed to realize she was no longer the obedient, frightened servant he thought he owned.
She was something else now.
Something he couldn't quite control.
Duke Hennis finally responded to Warren's taunting remark, his voice smooth and cold.
"It seems that I should have," he said, "but I don't need you recklessly taking the girl by force and ruining our plans."
Warren leaned back in his chair, relaxed in that unsettling way of his, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
"There are methods other than forcing," he said, almost lazily.
Duke Hennis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what would that be?"
Behind him, Varrick stiffened. He had been listening — too closely. His jaw tightened, and he released Meisha abruptly, stepping back as if needing distance to think. The sudden shift sent her stumbling to her knees, breath catching as she steadied herself.
Varrick crouched in front of her, his expression unreadable but his voice low and sharp.
"Do you hear what they're discussing behind me?"
Meisha was still working to regulate her breathing, but she lifted her gaze to him — steady, unbroken.
"My brother," Varrick continued, "is suggesting to our father that an intimacy sigil be placed on you. A binding that would remove the need for your permission. A sigil that would make you… compliant."
His tone was cold, but there was something else beneath it — frustration, desperation, maybe even fear of losing control.
"Now," he said, "tell us where you were."
This time, the question sounded almost like a plea.
Behind him, Warren finished explaining the sigil's mechanics to Duke Hennis — how it could override resistance, how it could ensure obedience, how it could secure a lineage without struggle.
Then Warren turned back toward Meisha and Varrick, catching the tail end of Varrick's repeated question.
He sighed dramatically.
"Brother, it's just as I told you," Warren said. "I saw her from a distance. She emerged from the Nykon Forest… and something was watching her from the trees."
He stood, moving behind Varrick with a predator's ease.
"That is why she won't say anything," Warren continued. "She would reek of demon if she hadn't masked it with those strong‑smelling herbs."
He leaned over Varrick's shoulder, eyes locking onto Meisha's with a wicked, knowing smile.
"Isn't that right, little Meisha?"
She rolled her eyes.
A small gesture — but in this room, it was a spark thrown into dry tinder.
Varrick's eyes widened, fury igniting instantly. His hand twitched as if he meant to seize her again, but Warren placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Loosen your temper, brother," Warren said. "The sigil will be useless if she's broken."
Varrick froze, jaw clenched, breath sharp.
Warren continued, voice smooth and venomous.
"Father is even willing to give you one last chance."
Varrick's head snapped toward him. "And what is that?"
"He wants to move forward with the intimacy sigil," Warren said. "And you are being given the honor of claiming her for yourself. Just make sure you manage to conceive a child."
Meisha, who had finally regained her breath, let out a sudden, sharp laugh.
All three men turned toward her.
Warren — who usually delighted in others' fear — went rigid with fury. The idea that someone in her position would laugh at him, mock him, dismiss him…
It was intolerable.
He stepped forward abruptly, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head up so she was forced to meet his eyes.
"What," Warren hissed, "do you find so funny, Meisha?"
Warren's grip in her hair was tight, demanding, furious — but Meisha's eyes didn't hold fear.
They held fire.
A fire he had never seen in her before.
She inhaled once, steadying herself, then delivered her answer with a cutting, fearless clarity that sliced through the room.
"You may have my mind and body," she said, her voice low but unwavering, "but I will never love you, Varrick."
Her gaze shifted from Warren to Varrick — slow, deliberate, and sharp as a blade.
"My mother didn't love you," she continued, "and neither will I."
The fury that flashed across Varrick's face was instant — a raw, wounded rage he couldn't hide. He had only ever seen that look in her once before… in Alyra.
And Meisha knew it.
As she stared into his eyes, something inside her stirred — a heat, a pulse, a rising force that felt ancient and familiar. It surged up her spine, coiling in her chest, ready to break free—
Then the bracelet ignited.
A sharp, searing pulse shot through her arm, forcing the rising power back down. Meisha gasped, clutching her wrist as the suppressing magic tightened like a vice.
Warren saw it.
And a sly, triumphant smile curled across his lips.
He leaned in, his face inches from hers, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction.
"Not only do we have your mind and body," he murmured, "we have power over it as well."
His eyes flicked to the bracelet — the shackle that kept her magic caged.
Before he could say more, Duke Hennis slammed the tip of his cane against the floor.
"Enough!"
The command cracked through the room like thunder.
Warren straightened. Varrick rose sharply. Both turned to face their father.
"Warren," Duke Hennis said, voice cold and absolute, "you will apply the sigil."
Warren's expression sharpened.
"And Varrick," the Duke continued, "you will do what needs to be done. Is that understood."
"Yes, Father," they answered in unison.
The air thickened with dread.
Then—
A sudden knock at the door.
Warren's temper snapped. He seized Meisha by the collar and flung her aside. She hit the cushioned davenport behind him, the impact jarring but not injuring her. She pushed herself upright, breath shaking, mind racing.
He flopped back into the seat from frustration.
Varrick called out, "State your presence."
The door opened.
Silas stepped in, eyes darting immediately to Meisha. When he saw she was alive, his shoulders sagged with quiet relief.
"My apologies for the disturbance, milord," he said, bowing quickly. "But the soldiers at the gate have informed me—there is a caravan outside the town entrance bearing the crest of the Syires… and the Demon King. They request an audience."
Shock rippled through the room.
Duke Hennis's face twisted with outrage. "They dare to come at this late hour."
Meisha froze.
Then something inside her cracked open — not fear, not pain, but overwhelming, disbelieving relief.
A laugh burst from her — wild, breathless, trembling. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clutched the edge of the davenport.
"He kept his word," she whispered. "He came back. He really came back for me. He came back."
All three men turned toward her.
Warren rose slowly, turning to face her fully. He walked toward her with measured steps, stopping just inches away. Meisha rocked slightly, trying to steady herself, overwhelmed by the realization that freedom was no longer a fantasy — it was at the gate.
Warren tipped her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"What. Did. You. Do."
Meisha's tears shimmered, but her smile was sharp — triumphant.
"I gambled with my life," she said, voice trembling with joy, "and won."
Warren's eyes narrowed. "Explain. Now."
Meisha inhaled, savoring the moment — the first moment she had ever held power in this room.
"You know that faint smell of demon you caught on me the other day?" she said softly. "The one you yourself noticed?"
She paused, letting the tension coil.
Then her smile widened — a conniving, victorious curve.
"It was the scent of the Second‑in‑Command Demon General… Kaydence Syire."
Warren's face drained of color.
"And he managed to get a message to his father," Meisha continued, laughter bubbling up again. "Which is why they're here."
She leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Even if I don't make it out of this," she whispered, "I can rest knowing I've taken all three of you down with me."
The room went still.
The Hennis men stared at her — not with dominance, not with amusement, but with something new.
Fear.