Kaydence shot upright.
The motion was so abrupt it startled every healer inside the carriage. A few gasped. One dropped a bundle of herbs. Another stumbled back, hand flying to her chest.
Nydia spun toward him, eyes wide.
"General—!"
But Kaydence wasn't listening.
His breath came fast, sharp, as though he'd been plunged into icy water. His pupils constricted. His hands trembled against the blankets.
Something was wrong.
Terribly, violently wrong.
A pulse of magic — faint but familiar — throbbed through his chest like a distant heartbeat. A thread tugging at him. A presence slipping away.
Meisha.
His jaw clenched, and he swung his legs over the side of the cot despite the healers' protests.
"General, you mustn't—!" "You're still recovering—!" "Your body isn't ready—!"
Kaydence ignored all of them.
He pressed a hand to his sternum, feeling the echo of her pain reverberate through him like a warning bell.
"She's in danger," he whispered.
The healers froze.
Nydia stepped closer, voice soft but urgent. "General… who?"
Kaydence lifted his head.
His eyes — still clouded with exhaustion — burned with clarity.
"Meisha."
Kaydence's boots struck the marble floor with sharp, echoing steps as he entered the hall. Everyone froze under the weight of his presence.
His eyes swept the room—
Over his father. Over Nichelle and Pharis. Over the guards with drawn swords. Over Daman trembling in Dorian and Renwick's hold.
And then—
His gaze locked onto Warren.
The shift was instant.
A flash of recognition. A surge of instinct. A pulse of rage so fierce it rippled through the air like heat.
Something inside him snapped.
Warren stiffened, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, but his confidence faltered under the intensity of Kaydence's stare.
Kaydence took a step forward.
Then another.
His voice was low, trembling with barely contained fury.
"Where is she."
Not a question. A demand.
Warren swallowed hard but didn't answer.
Kaydence's jaw clenched, his breath sharp and uneven as the bond tugged at him again — a pulse of pain, a whisper of fear, a fading spark.
Meisha.
He could feel her slipping.
He took another step, and the air around him crackled with raw magic.
Nichelle moved subtly, ready to intervene if needed. Pharis shifted his stance, eyes darting between Kaydence and the Hennis guards. Thalorian watched with a calculating stillness — not stopping him, not yet.
Warren tried to stand taller, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him.
"I don't know what you are talking about?"
Kaydence's voice rose, breaking through the hall like a blade.
"Where is Meisha?!"
The words hit Warren like a physical blow.
Lord Varrick opened his mouth to speak, but Kaydence didn't even look at him. His entire focus was locked on Warren — the scent, the memory, the echo of Meisha's fear clinging to him like smoke.
Kaydence took another step.
Warren stepped back.
The hall held its breath.
Because everyone could see it now—
Kaydence wasn't just angry. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just a general.
He was a demon whose bond had been violated.
And Warren was standing exactly where that fury was aimed.
Kaydence didn't hesitate.
The instant his eyes locked onto Warren, the world narrowed to a single point — a single threat — a single man standing between him and Meisha.
He lunged.
The healers at the doorway gasped. Nichelle swore under her breath. Pharis moved instinctively, but even he wasn't fast enough.
Kaydence's hand shot out as he passed his father — fingers closing around the hilt of Thalorian's sword.
The blade sang as it left its sheath.
A clean, lethal sound.
And Kaydence brought it down in a strike meant to cleave Warren where he stood.
But Warren — rattled, terrified, yet trained — sensed the attack a heartbeat before it landed.
He drew his own sword in a desperate arc, steel clashing against steel with a violent crack that echoed through the estate.
Gasps erupted around the hall.
Kaydence and Warren stood locked together — blades pressed, muscles straining, faces inches apart.
One trying to overpower. The other trying to survive.
Kaydence's eyes burned with a feral, unrestrained rage.
Warren's eyes widened with the dawning realization that he was facing a demon general — not weakened, not dying, but alive and furious.
The marble beneath their feet trembled as Kaydence pushed harder, the force of his strike driving Warren back a step… then another.
Guards froze mid‑draw. Duke Noren and Varrick stood rooted in shock. Even Thalorian's expression tightened — not with fear, but with the knowledge that his son was seconds away from killing a noble in front of witnesses.
Warren gritted his teeth, trying to hold his ground.
"You—" he hissed, voice strained, "—you're supposed to be half‑dead!"
Kaydence snarled, fangs bared.
"You touched her."
The words were low. Deadly. Accusatory.
Warren's grip faltered.
Kaydence shoved forward, their blades screeching as Warren stumbled back, boots sliding across polished marble.
The hall erupted into shouts — guards moving, Nichelle and Pharis stepping in with lightning reflexes.
But Kaydence didn't hear any of it.
All he could feel was the bond — fraying, weakening, screaming for him.
Meisha was dying.
And Warren smelled like her fear.
Steel screeched as Kaydence and Warren pushed against each other, blades locked, fury radiating off both men like heat from a forge.
Pharis moved first.
With a sharp pivot and a burst of speed, he wedged himself between the two, knocking their swords apart with a forceful sweep of his arm. The clash rang through the hall like a bell.
"Enough!" Pharis barked, planting himself between them.
Kaydence lunged again, but Nichelle was already there.
She swooped in from behind, arms locking around his torso, bracing her weight to restrain him. Kaydence snarled, muscles straining, but Nichelle held firm — barely.
"General, stand down!" she hissed.
Thalorian knew immediately that Nichelle alone wouldn't be enough.
He turned sharply toward Dorian and Renwick, who were still supporting Daman.
"You two," he commanded, voice cutting through the chaos. "Assist Lieutenant Nichelle. Restrain your general — and talk some sense into him before this becomes a war."
"Yes, sir!"
They gently transferred Daman into Thalorian's care, then sprinted toward Nichelle. Together, the three of them managed to hold Kaydence back, though he fought like a man possessed.
Thalorian steadied Daman, helping him stand upright.
"Come along, my good friend," he said softly, guiding him toward the exit. "I'll escort you to a carriage outside."
As they moved, Thalorian called over his shoulder:
"Marcellis — wrap this up."
Marcellis, who had been frozen in shock like everyone else, jolted back to life.
"Yes, sir!"
Thalorian leaned closer to Daman as they walked.
"We're not leaving without your daughter, my friend."
Daman's breath hitched, and he whispered a heartfelt, trembling, "Thank you…"
Inside the hall, Kaydence and Warren were finally separated.
Kaydence — held back by Nichelle, Dorian, and Renwick. Warren — forced up the stairs by Pharis, sword still trembling in his grip.
The two men shouted over the distance:
"If I ever see you on the battlefield," Kaydence snarled, fangs bared, "your head is mine."
"I'd love to see the day," Warren spat back, a sly smile twisting his lips.
Nichelle snapped.
She slapped Kaydence across the face — hard enough to shock him still.
His head jerked toward her, fangs still bared.
"Bare your fangs at me all you want," she said, voice sharp as steel. "Have you forgotten why we are here?"
Kaydence froze.
The tug in his chest — the bond — pulsed again.
"Meisha…" he breathed.
"Yes," Nichelle said firmly. "Meisha."
"She's in danger," Kaydence said, the realization crashing over him. His fury melted into urgency. His body stilled. His breathing steadied.
He pushed forward, and Nichelle let him go.
Kaydence strode toward Marcellis, who was still gathering himself.
Nichelle hurried to keep up. "What do you mean she's in danger?"
Kaydence didn't answer.
He stopped in front of Marcellis, leaning in so close the attendant instinctively leaned back. Kaydence shoved Thalorian's sword into the marble floor with a crack that echoed through the hall.
"Hurry up with the diplomatic way," he growled, "or I'm doing this my way. And as you witnessed… I don't think you'd like my way."
Marcellis swallowed hard and nodded quickly.
Kaydence yanked the sword free and stepped back, giving him space.
Marcellis straightened, cleared his throat, and turned to face Duke Hennis and Lord Varrick — both pale, both shaken.
"As you watched the mayhem unfold from your uncooperative behavior," Marcellis said, voice regaining its edge, "you leave me no choice but to show you this."
He pulled a document from his folder and handed it to Varrick.
Varrick read it. Duke Noren read over his shoulder.
Their faces drained of color.
"This…" Varrick stammered, "this is a decree granting you permission to search my estate."
Marcellis clasped his hands behind his back, leaning forward slightly with a sly, satisfied smile.
"That is correct."
Warren stood frozen on the stairs, shock written across his face. Pharis descended to regroup with Dorian and Renwick.
Duke Noren exploded.
"On what grounds?!"
Marcellis lifted his hand to his mouth and whistled sharply.
The sound cut through the hall.
Syire guards poured in.
Marcellis lowered his hand.
"On the grounds of Alyra's widowed husband's testimony, of course." he said.
And the estate fell into stunned silence.
Marcellis snapped his fingers.
"Syire Guards — begin the search!"
The command cracked through the estate like a whip.
Within seconds, armored footsteps thundered across marble floors as Syire soldiers spread through the halls, branching off into corridors, stairwells, servant quarters, and storage rooms. Doors slammed open. Lanterns flared to life. The entire estate jolted awake.
Servants stumbled from their beds, confused and frightened, only to be ordered by Syire soldiers to report to the entrance hall immediately.
The Hennis estate — once quiet, controlled, and orderly — was now a hive of frantic motion.
And Warren sat on the steps watching it all unfold.
A cunning smile curled across his lips.
He leaned back casually, arms resting on his knees, utterly confident.
Because he knew something the Syire soldiers didn't.
The barrier around his brother's sleeping quarters — the one he had insisted Varrick reinforce — was impenetrable. Concealed. Hidden from sight and sense.
Let them search. Let them tear the estate apart.
They would find nothing.
Silas remained in the shadows near the staircase, positioned just out of the Hennis men's line of sight. His posture was perfect — hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly lowered — the picture of a dutiful servant.
But his eyes were sharp.
He watched Lieutenant Pharis with intent.
And when Pharis finally glanced his way, Silas shifted his gaze — subtly, deliberately — toward the corridor behind him.
A silent message.
Look there.
Pharis didn't react outwardly. He simply inhaled, turned, and walked toward Kaydence.
He positioned himself at Kaydence's side, back facing the Hennis men, voice low.
"I think you should join the search, sir," he murmured. "Specifically in the corridor near where the butler is standing."
He shifted his eyes — the same direction Silas had indicated.
Kaydence didn't look at Pharis. He didn't look at Silas. He didn't look at the corridor.
He stared straight at Duke Hennis and Lord Varrick, face carved from stone.
But he listened.
He closed his eyes and sent out a pulse — a rhythmic vibration of his magic, searching for the familiar beat of Meisha's presence.
Nothing.
He tried again, this time focusing on the structure of the estate itself — the layout, the walls, the spaces between.
And then he felt it.
A void.
A room that should have been there… but wasn't.
A space hidden behind something unnatural.
Kaydence's eyes snapped open.
"I found her," he whispered to himself.
Kaydence moved.
Nichelle fell into step beside him, matching his pace as he rounded the staircase. And there — standing in perfect butler posture — was Silas.
Kaydence met his eyes.
Silas mouthed silently:
Take her away from this place.
Then he flicked his gaze toward the concealed corridor.
Kaydence gave the smallest nod — an acknowledgment of the risk Silas was taking — and continued forward.
Silas stepped aside smoothly, hands still clasped behind his back, an internal smile flickering beneath his calm exterior as Kaydence passed him and crossed the threshold into the corridor leading toward Lord Varrick's sleeping quarters.
Warren saw the direction Kaydence was heading.
His smile vanished.
He shot to his feet, ready to intervene—
But a blur of movement cut him off.
Pharis appeared in front of him, sword drawn, the blade resting cold and sharp against the side of Warren's neck.
Warren froze.
Pharis's voice was calm, almost bored.
"The two of you have caused enough trouble for the evening. Don't you think?"
Warren lifted his hands slowly in surrender, jaw clenched.
He yielded.
Because one wrong move would cost him his head.
Kaydence moved down the corridor with Nichelle at his side, the noise of the estate fading behind them. The deeper they went, the quieter it became — unnaturally so.
He stopped.
Nichelle felt it too.
A faint hum. A pressure in the air. A shimmer of magic that didn't belong in a human estate.
She lifted her hand, palm hovering near the wall.
"There's magic here," she whispered. "A barrier. They've concealed something."
Kaydence exhaled sharply.
"It seems that they have."
He pressed his hand against the wall, feeling along the surface for any weakness, any crack, any pulse of Meisha's presence.
Nothing.
He tried again, slower, more deliberate.
Still nothing.
"Damn it," he muttered. "This barrier is infused with holy magic."
Nichelle's eyes flicked to the sword in his hand.
"Your father's sword is infused with anti‑holy magic," she reminded him. "Is it not?"
Kaydence looked down.
The thin black streak of obsidian running from the hilt to the tip glistened faintly — a line of darkness meant to cut through sanctified wards.
His grip tightened.
"Move back, Nichelle."
She stepped away immediately.
Kaydence shifted into a composed stance — feet planted, shoulders squared, blade angled just so. His breathing steadied, his focus sharpened.
Then—
With one swift, diagonal strike—
CRACK—
The barrier shattered like glass.
Light fractured. Air rippled. The illusion peeled away.
And the concealed door revealed itself, trembling as if it had been forced awake from a long sleep.
The corridor fell silent.
Nichelle stared at the now‑visible door, her expression darkening.
"They hid her," she whispered.
Kaydence didn't answer. His jaw was tight; his eyes fixed on the door as if he could see through it.
He already knew.
He reached out, pressing his palm against the wood.
A faint pulse of magic pushed back — weak, fading, but unmistakably hers.
Nichelle felt it too.
"She's in there," she whispered.
Kaydence's voice was low, controlled, but trembling with urgency.
"Yes. And she's running out of time."
He stepped back, lifting his father's sword once more. The obsidian streak glinted in the dim corridor light, hungry for holy wards.
Nichelle moved aside without hesitation.
Kaydence inhaled, grounding himself.
Then—
With a single, precise diagonal strike—
CRACK—THOOM
The door split open, the remnants of the holy seal bursting outward in a wave of stale, trapped air.
Kaydence didn't wait.
He stepped through the broken doorway—
Kaydence burst into the concealed room, the shattered barrier still crackling behind him.
The sight stopped him cold.
Meisha lay on the floor, curled protectively around a small wooden chest, her body limp and unmoving. The suppression bracelet on her wrist glowed with a sickly, pulsing light — its magic fully activated, its toxins threading through her veins like dark roots.
Her skin was pale. Her breathing shallow. Her magic bound and suffocating beneath the suppression seal.
Kaydence dropped to his knees beside her.
"Meisha—"
His voice broke.
He slid an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her gently, cradling her against his chest. Her head fell into the crook of his neck, her body limp in his arms.
Nichelle rushed in seconds later.
The moment she saw Meisha's condition; her hands flew to her mouth.
"No…" she whispered, horror tightening her voice. "The toxins… they're everywhere."
Dark lines webbed across Meisha's face, neck, and arms — the unmistakable signature of the bracelet's poison.
Marcellis arrived at the sound of Nichelle's cry.
"Pharis!" he shouted down the hall. "Keep an eye on the Hennis men!"
"Understood!" Pharis called back, sprinting past him toward the room.
He entered — and froze.
"By the goddess of mercy…"
Kaydence didn't look up.
He held Meisha closer, pulling her away from the chest she had been curled around. His hand trembled as he brushed hair from her face.
"Meisha… wake up," he whispered, voice raw. "I came back… like I vowed to."
Tears welled in his eyes as he pressed his forehead to hers.
"You need to wake up so you can see your father… and hug him again."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Nichelle stood nearby, torn between duty and grief, unsure whether to speak or simply let him hold her.
Marcellis swallowed hard, unable to bear the sight any longer.
"General… I know this is not necessary," he said quietly, "but for the sake of formalities… I must report this to Duke Syire. Her father will need to identify her."
Kaydence didn't respond.
Marcellis bowed his head and turned, leaving the room and heading toward the grand entrance to deliver the report.
Kaydence slowly rose to his feet, Meisha held securely in his arms, her body pressed close to his chest as if he could shield her from everything that had happened.
As he turned toward the exit, his boot struck something.
A small thud. A brief resistance.
He looked down.
The chest.
The same one Meisha had been curled around.
Kaydence tilted his head, curiosity flickering through the grief.
What is that…?
Something about it felt familiar.
"Nichelle," he said quietly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Retrieve this chest. Hold it up for me."
Nichelle obeyed immediately, lifting the small wooden chest into view.
Kaydence leaned closer, Meisha still in his arms.
At first glance, it looked ordinary — plain wood, a simple lock, nothing remarkable.
But then—
A pulse.
A rhythm.
A heartbeat that wasn't a heartbeat.
Kaydence's eyes widened.
"Her mother's amulet…" he breathed.
He focused his ability — and the world shifted.
He saw it.
The amulet inside the chest, glowing faintly. A magical tether stretching from it to Meisha's heart. A flame encasing her heart, warding off the toxins trying to reach it.
A shield. A lifeline. A mother's last protection.
"Meisha's alive," Kaydence whispered. "She's still fighting."
Nichelle's breath caught.
"Sir… we need to get the bracelet off her first."
Kaydence met her eyes.
"Yes. We do."
"But general," Nichelle said, "we need the bracelet's personal key."
Kaydence's expression hardened.
"Then we shall retrieve it from Varrick."
He turned sharply, striding past Nichelle with Meisha in his arms, his direction set for the grand entrance.
"Keep that chest close," he ordered. "It's what's keeping her alive right now."
Nichelle clutched the chest to her chest and followed.
Because now the entire estate would feel the wrath of a demon general whose bonded heart was still beating — and whose fury had only just begun.
Kaydence strode into the grand entrance with Meisha in his arms, Nichelle close behind him clutching the chest. The moment they appeared, the entire hall shifted — Syire guards stiffened, nobles fell silent, and the Hennis men paled.
At the same time, Thalorian and Marcellis entered through the front doors, supporting Daman between them.
The moment Daman saw her—
His breath caught. His knees buckled. And he cried out, voice cracking with grief:
"Meisha!"
Kaydence didn't stop.
He didn't slow.
He walked straight past them, straight toward Duke Hennis and Lord Varrick, his aura dark and suffocating.
He stopped only inches away.
His voice was low, deadly, vibrating with restrained violence.
"Both keys. Now."
Varrick's entire body trembled.
Kaydence's fangs were bared, his eyes burning with a fury that made even seasoned guards step back.
Varrick tried to speak, but only stuttered fragments escaped.
"I‑I‑It's… it's… I—"
From the opposite side of the staircase, Silas stepped forward with perfect timing.
"I'll retrieve the keys, milord," he said, bowing with perfect composure.
He slipped past the Hennis men, ascended the stairs, and disappeared into the lounge. His movements were quick, practiced — he knew exactly where to go. He reached the bookshelf, pulled a specific volume free, and opened the hidden compartment inside.
Two keys glinted in the dim light.
He pocketed them and returned.
Daman reached Kaydence's side, his hands trembling as he touched Meisha's arm.
"My precious Meisha…" he whispered. "Your father has failed you."
Tears streamed down his face, his voice breaking under the weight of fifteen years of loss and helplessness.
Kaydence tightened his hold on her, jaw clenched.
Thalorian stepped forward, his voice cold and sharp as a blade.
"Alyra's widower has identified his child," he said, directing his words at Duke Hennis and Lord Varrick. "I don't think you can begin to fathom the storm you've brought upon yourselves by holding a descendant of the Flame captive."
Marcellis nodded, his expression grim.
"Today's events will absolutely be reported to your king."
Duke Hennis gripped his cane so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Lord Varrick looked as though the floor had dropped out beneath him.
Warren, still held at sword‑point by Pharis, finally understood the magnitude of what they had done and that they were no longer in control of anything.
And Kaydence — silent, trembling with fury — waited for the keys that would free Meisha from the poison slowly killing her.
Silas descended the staircase with measured steps, the two keys resting in his palm. His expression was neutral, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Meisha — and toward Kaydence — with something like quiet resolve.
He approached without hesitation.
"Milord," he said, bowing slightly as he extended the keys.
Kaydence didn't waste a second.
He shifted Meisha carefully in his arms, supporting her with one arm while taking the keys with the other. Nichelle stepped forward, chest still clutched to her, ready to assist.
"Unlock the bracelet first," Kaydence said.
Silas nodded and moved to Meisha's wrist. The suppression bracelet pulsed with a sickly glow, the toxins still threading through her veins. He inserted the first key, turning it with a soft click. The second key followed, twisting until the lock gave way with a metallic snap.
The bracelet loosened.
Kaydence removed it from her wrist with a sharp, disgusted motion and tossed it at Lord Varrick's feet. The metal clattered across the marble, echoing through the hall.
Kaydence's voice was low, but it carried like thunder.
"Any being who needs to force another with control and fear isn't worthy of them at all."
Varrick flinched. Duke Hennis stiffened. Warren swallowed hard.
Nichelle then opened the chest in her hands.
Inside, nestled in soft cloth, lay the amulet — Alyra's amulet. The one Meisha had been curled around. The one tethered to her heart.
Daman's breath hitched.
"That… that is her mother's," he whispered, voice breaking. "I gave that to her the day she left with you."
His eyes filled with grief and betrayal.
"Why have you done this to us…?"
Lord Varrick said nothing. He kept his head bowed, shame weighing down his shoulders.
Nichelle lifted the amulet gently and handed it to Kaydence. He took it with reverence, pressing it briefly to Meisha's chest before securing it against her.
The flame tether pulsed faintly — still fighting for her.
Kaydence turned to his father, offering him the sword hilt-first.
Thalorian accepted it with a solemn nod.
Without another word, Kaydence strode toward the exit, Meisha held securely in his arms. His steps were steady, purposeful — the steps of a man who would not lose her again.
Nichelle followed, tossing the empty chest aside with a sharp flick of her wrist before turning to catch up.
But before she could leave, Thalorian spoke.
"Lieutenant."
She paused.
"Take her father with you," Thalorian instructed. "I'll finish things here."
Nichelle nodded once, firmly.
She took Daman's arm, steadying him as he wiped tears from his face.
"Come, sir," she said softly. "Your daughter needs you."
Together, they followed Kaydence out of the grand entrance toward the healer's carriage waiting outside.
Behind them, the estate remained frozen in the aftermath — towns people silent, guards tense, and the Hennis men standing in the ruins of their own choices.
And Thalorian… He turned back toward them with the cold, controlled fury of a man who had just witnessed an unforgivable crime.
Thalorian watched his son disappear through the grand entrance, Meisha held protectively in his arms, Nichelle and Daman following close behind. Only when they were gone did he finally exhale — slow, controlled, and deadly calm.
He sheathed his sword with a clean, deliberate motion.
"Pharis," he said.
The lieutenant straightened immediately.
"Stand down."
Pharis obeyed at once, lowering his blade from Warren's neck and sliding it back into its sheath. He descended the stairs with disciplined steps, positioning himself at Thalorian's flank.
Marcellis lifted two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle.
Syire guards throughout the estate halted their search and began to regroup, forming orderly lines as they prepared to withdraw. The thunder of boots softened into disciplined silence.
Thalorian paced before the three Hennis men — Duke Noren, Lord Varrick, and Warren — his posture regal, his expression carved from stone. He looked every inch the Duke of Syire and the king's trusted advisor.
His voice carried through the hall like a verdict.
"As much as I would love to be your judge, jury, and executioner," he said, "it pains me to admit that the matter of dealing with the three of you is out of my hands and jurisdiction."
He stopped directly before Duke Noren.
The older man stiffened, gripping his cane as if it could shield him.
Thalorian leaned in just enough for his words to strike like a blade.
"If you believe you can flee beyond the Ashen Vale to avoid justice," he said, "know that General Kaydence and I are eagerly awaiting the day we are permitted to forfeit your lives."
Duke Noren's face drained of color.
Thalorian straightened and gave a sharp gesture.
"Guards — exit."
The Syire soldiers began filing out, their presence leaving the estate colder, emptier, and far more dangerous for the Hennis men.
As the commotion settled, Marcellis stepped forward once more. He reached into his folder and withdrew a final document — but instead of handing it to Duke Noren or Lord Varrick, he turned toward Silas.
"Here," Marcellis said, offering it to him.
Silas blinked, surprised, but accepted it with a respectful bow.
Marcellis clasped his hands behind his back, his tone shifting into formal authority.
"This document informs you that we have seized all items and belongings belonging to Meisha and her father."
Silas quickly scanned the parchment, eyes widening slightly.
"So that means—"
Marcellis cut him off, finishing the thought with crisp finality.
"That means we have retrieved all items and belongings from her dwelling quarters, her father's home and land… and Alyra's grave."
The words hung in the air like a tolling bell.
Lord Varrick closed his eyes in shame. Duke Noren's jaw clenched. Warren's expression flickered with something between fear and fury.
And Silas — loyal, silent, and far more perceptive than they realized — folded the document carefully, understanding exactly what this meant:
The Syire family was reclaiming everything that had ever belonged to Alyra's bloodline.
And the Hennis legacy had just begun to crumble.
The grand entrance doors of the Hennis estate swung open, letting in the chill of the late‑night air. Outside, lanterns flickered along the line of Syire carriages and mounted soldiers, their breath misting in the cold as they prepared to move.
Marcellis guided Daman toward one of the carriages, his voice gentle but firm.
"Here, sir. You'll ride with me."
Daman nodded numbly, his eyes still red, his hands trembling as he climbed inside. The moment he settled, he leaned forward, gripping the edge of the seat as if bracing himself against the weight of everything he had just witnessed.
Not far behind, Kaydence stepped into the healer's carriage with Meisha still held securely in his arms. The healer inside gasped softly at the sight of her, immediately clearing space and preparing salves, cloths, and tools.
Kaydence didn't lay Meisha down. He kept her against him, her head resting on his shoulder, the amulet pressed between them.
The healer understood without a word.
Outside, Thalorian mounted his horse with practiced ease. His posture was regal, commanding — the posture of a duke who had just delivered judgment and now led his people home.
Pharis and Nichelle mounted theirs behind him, forming the vanguard.
Thalorian raised a hand.
The entire procession shifted, wheels creaking, hooves stamping, armor clinking.
"Forward," Thalorian commanded.
The caravan turned as one, following him toward the town gate.
The people of Duskmere had gathered in the streets, lanterns in hand, whispers rippling through the crowd. They watched the Syire procession move through their town — a line of soldiers, carriages, and authority they had never seen so close.
Some bowed their heads. Some whispered prayers. Some simply stared, wide‑eyed, at the healer's carriage where a young woman's life hung in the balance.
The town gate creaked open, the guards standing stiffly at attention as the Syire forces passed through.
Thalorian led them out first. Pharis and Nichelle followed. The healer's carriage rolled behind them, Kaydence inside holding Meisha as if she were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Behind them, the rest of the caravan fell into formation, the sound of hooves and wheels echoing through the night.
Duskmere faded behind them.
The road ahead stretched dark and uncertain.
But Meisha was no longer alone. Her father was with her. The general was with her. And the Syire family — her mother's bloodline — was taking her home.
The healer's carriage rocked gently as it rolled along the dark road, lanterns swaying overhead. Inside, the air was thick with urgency, fear, and the sharp scent of medicinal herbs.
Kaydence sat with Meisha in his lap, her body limp, her head resting against his shoulder. The amulet lay warm against her chest, its faint glow flickering like a candle fighting against the wind.
Nydia, the head healer, worked quickly — applying salves, checking her pulse, pressing her fingers along Meisha's veins.
But every treatment she tried only made the toxins surge faster.
The dark lines along Meisha's arm thickened. Her breathing hitched. Her skin grew colder.
Nydia's brows knit in confusion.
"This… this isn't right," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Magic suppression toxins should respond to counter‑salves. They should slow, not accelerate."
Kaydence's grip tightened around Meisha.
"What does that mean?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Nydia leaned closer, examining the wrist where the bracelet had been.
And then she saw it.
Her breath caught.
"Oh gods…"
Kaydence's eyes snapped to her.
"What?"
Nydia swallowed hard.
"The toxins are far too advanced. Her wrist—" she hesitated, voice trembling, "—it's become infected. The poison has seeped into her bloodstream. Her arm is turning necrotic."
Kaydence's entire body went rigid.
A sound tore from him — a low, guttural growl filled with pain.
"No," he said, voice shaking. "You will save her."
"General—"
"She is the reason I am alive," he said, his voice cracking. "I will not give up on her."
And then—
A memory hit him like lightning.
The first time he siphoned the toxins from her veins.
The way her body responded. The way the poison recoiled from him.
Before Nydia could react, Kaydence seized Meisha's wrist and brought it to his mouth.
"General—!"
He didn't hear her.
His fangs sank into her skin.
A rush of poison hit his tongue — thick, tar‑like, burning. He drew it out with a deep pull, then spat the blackened matter into a basin beside him.
Nydia lunged forward.
"General! You mustn't! You've only just recovered—!"
Kaydence ignored her.
He bit again.
And again.
Each time he drew out more of the toxin, his body shuddered violently. His veins darkened. His breath grew ragged.
"Trying to draw this much—!" Nydia cried. "Who knows what it will do to your body!"
But Kaydence didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Not when she was slipping away in his arms.
After the third siphon, he pulled back, panting, sweat beading along his brow. He pressed his hand over her heart and used his ability — searching for the rhythm of her life.
And then—
He saw it.
The poison had receded. Just enough.
The flame tethered to the amulet flared brighter.
Then brighter still.
Until—
WHOOM—
A burst of heat exploded outward.
Nydia stumbled back, falling against the carriage wall. The attending healers huddled in the corner, shielding their faces.
But Kaydence—
He didn't burn.
The flames engulfed him and Meisha both, wrapping around them like a living inferno. The heat was immense, but it didn't harm him. It felt like standing inside a heartbeat — powerful, ancient, protective.
The poison inside Meisha began to evaporate, burned away from within.
The necrotic flesh on her wrist reversed, color returning — rich, warm, melanated life blooming back into her skin.
Her breathing steadied. Her pulse strengthened. The flame roared brighter, then slowly softened, settling into a warm glow around her heart.
Kaydence held her tighter, tears slipping down his cheeks.
She was healing.