Chapter 124
To the horror of Riverton City, they awoke. As flames ate up the far-off outline of Dreswick Castle, the night sky turned red. The locals were unable to understand how such a catastrophe had occurred in their peaceful part of the globe and could only look in shock.
Whispers rippled through the streets, three infernal demons had been unleashed, summoned by none other than Serath Valmoré himself, at the cost of half the castle's staff.
Among the dead was Countess Marivelle Valmoré Dreswick. No one could understand why. The confusion deepened when the Guild Hunters arrived, announcing grimly that the household mage—once sworn to serve the Dreswick family—had turned on them, slaying the Countess and a dozen others for reasons still unknown, before vanishing the moment the demons began their rampage.
The chaos had not ended there. From the summoning rift poured a tide of hellhounds, their burning maws snapping at all they saw. Only the swift action of the guild mages and the Rothchester clan's battle-trained retainers saved Riverton from greater disaster. They pushed the fiends back and sealed the breach, securing the city's perimeter before the infernal corruption could spread further.
Nowhere in the Guild's official account did the names of Daniel or Elgil appear, though some who knew better kept their silence. Elsewhere, far from the city's center, Elandor and Thessa Sithe had just reached the crest of the road to their farm when they saw it—the great orange glare of Dreswick Castle burning in the distance. On the hill's far edge, Lora Sithe,
Thalen Merrow, Ysil Thorne, Galen Althus, and Ormin stood armed and alert, their faces lit by the distant inferno. One by one, doors opened across the farmlands as families stepped out into the night, their eyes fixed on the unnatural light staining the horizon.
Down the lane, Rebeca caught sight of her husband's wagon rolling into their yard. She rushed forward, relief flooding her face. Isla, cradling her young niece, stood nearby as Victor reined in the horse and leapt from the seat. Rebeca ran into his arms, clinging to him as if afraid he might vanish too. She kissed him quickly and asked if they had truly come through unharmed.
Victor's reply was guarded, his expression still shadowed by the evening's events.
"For a peculiar reason," he began, "
our meeting at the guild with Count Ailmar Dreswick was cut short. The Guild Leader himself, who had been facilitating the discussion, halted everything when a messenger pixie darted through the window.
"He paused, glancing back toward the distant glow. "
It carried a sealed letter… one marked with the Rothchester household's crest, bound in crimson wax and arcane wards.
Whatever message it bore, it was urgent, important enough for the Guild Leader to break off talks with no explanation. He advised both parties to return home immediately and await further instruction. No questions were entertained. That letter, he said, was a matter for the highest attention."
Victor's voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. "I've seen many messages come to the guild, but never one sealed in such a way. It wasn't just urgent… it was serious."
Hours before the duchess's sudden visit to Dreswick Castle
Inside the Riverton Guild Hall, the heavy oak doors of the council chamber swung shut with a deep, final thud, cutting off the rising murmurs of the dismissed delegates. The muffled voices outside faded into the stone walls, leaving the chamber steeped in tense silence.
At the head of the long table, the Guild Branch Leader sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the object before him, a sealed letter that seemed almost alive in its stillness. The crimson wax bore the unmistakable crest of Rothchester, bound tightly with a cord of black silk.
Faint threads of magic shimmered across its surface, the sigils shifting in ways that made the eyes ache if stared at too long. This was no ordinary communication. This was a seal meant for those willing to shoulder a burden that could topple empires.
The fingers hovered just above the letter, feeling the subtle thrum of power beneath the wax. In thirty years of service to the Guild and twelve as its leader, he had never received a message locked under Rothchester's triple seal. Such enchantment was reserved for the gravest matters: the assassination of royalty, a threat to the realm's stability… or the use of forbidden magic.
Through the tall arched windows behind him, the night sky burned faintly on the horizon.
The flames from Dreswick Castle licked the heavens, their light reflecting off the frost-slick streets of Riverton. His jaw tightened. The letter and the fire were connected—he could feel it in his bones.
With deliberate precision, he drew the ritual knife from his belt and severed the cord. The wards flared a blinding white before collapsing into ash that dissolved midair, never touching the table. A sharp crack signaled the wax breaking, and he unfolded the parchment.
He read only the first lines before his eyes hardened.
"Intelligence from our covert agents confirms that the breach at Dreswick Castle was no random act of a rogue mage. The incident was orchestrated to serve a larger summoning ritual, the destruction meant to conceal the true objective…"
The letter named Count Ailmar Dreswick himself as a possible conspirator, one who had provided the resources and protection necessary for Serath Valmoré's summoning. The Countess's death, it suggested, was not a tragic casualty but a calculated step to remove the last voice of resistance in the Dreswick household.
But it was the next part that made the guild branch leader's blood run cold.
"Of greatest concern is the involvement of the duchess's son… presently under the ward of Elandor and Thessa Sithe. His location must remain secret at all costs. If captured, he will serve as leverage against the duchess and, by extension, the stability of the southern provinces."
The instigator behind both the Count and Serath remained unknown. The rift at Dreswick had been contained only by chance.
"Act discreetly. Prevent public knowledge until control is certain. Panic will serve our enemies better than any weapon."
The guild branch leader exhaled slowly, his knuckles whitening as he folded the letter. This was far worse than he had feared.
He reached for the bell rope and gave it a firm pull. Two captains entered moments later, their faces sharpening at the sight of the sealed parchment.
"Lock every gate into Riverton," he ordered. "Double the watch. Keep it quiet. No public announcements panic is the last thing we need. And send word to Rothchester… tell them their message is received, and that I will comply."
The captains departed without question, and soon the Guild Hall became a hive of quiet, disciplined motion. Messengers slipped into the streets, watch commanders barked low orders, and gate guards received their new instructions with puzzled frowns.
Outside, Riverton's markets and taverns still bustled, its citizens blissfully unaware of the storm that was beginning to gather.
Somewhere between those crowded streets and the burning horizon lay the Sithe farm—and by extension, the boy whose safety had now become the pivot on which the realm's stability would turn.
Far from the Guild Hall, on a rain-slick country road, Count Ailmar Dreswick urged his black stallion through the mud. His cloak snapped like a whip in the bitter wind, the cold biting through even the thickest layers of wool. In the distance, the orange glow of his burning castle wavered against the darkness, its light reflected in his eyes like twin embers.
In his gloved hand, he clutched a crumpled parchment, its crimson wax seal already broken. The insignia pressed into the wax was unmistakable: the crest of the duchess herself.
He had read the letter only once, but every word was etched into his mind. She knew. The Duchess knew of the breach. She knew Serath Valmoré had been involved. And, worst of all, she knew of the boy. The young man was already out of reach, shielded by the wards of Elandor and Thessa Sithe. If the Duchess moved swiftly, she could close every escape route Ailmar had spent years preparing.
The realization stoked a slow-burning rage in his chest, but his expression remained unreadable for any who might glimpse him along the road.
What he did not yet know, what could yet unravel all his plans, was that the very same information had already reached the Guild Leader in Riverton through Rothchester's sealed warning. Two letters, sent by different hands, now raced toward the same inevitable collision.
And by the time the sun rose, it would be too late to stop it.
The firelit images of Riverton's sealed gates, the burning silhouette of Dreswick Castle, and the galloping black stallion bled away like the last embers of a dream.
The flashback dissolved into the quiet hum of evening at the Sithe family farm.
Daniel and Melgil stood at the edge of the pasture, their figures framed by the orange glow of the setting sun. To anyone watching, they might have looked like nothing more than two farmhands returning from an ordinary errand. Their boots were dusted with the dry earth of the road, their expressions calm, almost indifferent, exactly as they needed to be.
No one here would suspect they had ridden beside the Duchess only hours earlier, weaving through the smoke and chaos to ensure her safety… and to steer the narrative away from truths that could destroy a man's name.
By unspoken agreement, they had chosen to protect Count Ailmar Dreswick's remaining family honor. Whatever his involvement or lack thereof in the events at the castle, the public would hear only of Serath Valmoré, the hired mage who had "acted alone." The count's name would remain clean, at least in the eyes of the realm, and the boy's connection to the duchess would remain hidden from those who sought to exploit it.
As Melgil moved toward the farmhouse to greet Thessa, Daniel lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting toward the darkening hills. Somewhere beyond them, the truth still simmered like banked coals, waiting for the right wind to stir it into flame.
For now, the farm was quiet. The ruse was intact. And the day finally ended.
The night air over Dreswick Castle was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burnt stone. Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester stood at the edge of the great courtyard, her white cloak streaked with soot, her gloved hands still warm from the heat of the fire. Behind her, the surviving towers loomed against the moonlit sky—scarred but still standing. Thanks to her swift intervention, nearly half the estate had been saved from complete ruin.
Those who had escaped the blaze gathered in the open grounds, their faces pale and eyes wide. Many clutched each other, their clothes torn and faces smudged with ash. They stared at what remained of the once-proud Dreswick estate, and the sight hollowed them. The great hall was nothing more than a blackened frame, its roof gone, the smell of charred timbers lingering like a curse.
The crowd murmured, questions spilling one over another—what had happened, who was responsible, and why the castle had burned. It was Guild Branch Leader Railan Carwel who stepped forward, his voice carrying above the restless noise.
"Listen," he called out, raising one hand to still them. The murmurs ebbed, and dozens of eyes fixed on him. "By the time our Guild arrived, the western wing was already lost. But we used every measure at our disposal to keep the fire from consuming the entire estate. We fought the flames for hours. This destruction—this loss—was not the work of accident or misfortune. A traitor within the castle walls used forbidden magic to summon a monster with the sole intent of harming the Dreswick family. In the attack, more than a dozen loyal staff were slain… including Countess Marivell."
A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd. Some covered their mouths. Others exchanged stunned, angry glances. The very idea of a summoning within the noble household was unthinkable.
Then they noticed her, the figure standing quietly just beyond Railan.
The moonlight caught on the polished crest pinned to her cloak: the unmistakable insignia of the Duchess of Rothchester. The reaction was immediate: bowed heads, murmured titles, and a tense hush that seemed to press against the air itself.
When Railan stepped back, Duchess Elleena took his place, her presence commanding without the need to raise her voice.
"People of Riverton," she began, her tone steady, "my arrival here was sudden, but not without cause. Count Ailmar Dreswick himself sought my aid, asking that I stand beside him in exposing the vile plot against his family. This attack was meant not only to kill but to break the house of Dreswick entirely.
"She let her gaze sweep the crowd, pausing on the fearful, the angry, and the grieving. "Such treachery will not go unanswered."
Behind her, Count Ailmar stood like a man still reeling from a blow. His wife was gone. His estate was scarred. His honor, though still intact before the public, had been inches from ruin. The Duchess had chosen not to speak the full truth here, not to reveal that her own investigation pointed toward Countess Marivell's hand in the very conspiracy that had claimed her life. Whatever the truth, there was no gain in shattering the Count's standing now.
Elleena knew exactly what he was: arrogant, greedy, and a man with a taste for power. But she also knew his limits. His sins were not so dire as to erase his usefulness. And in the shifting web of loyalty and leverage that bound the southwestern provinces together, usefulness was a currency she could not afford to squander.
The people needed an enemy they could name. Tonight, that enemy would be Serath Valmoré, the rogue mage whose actions would bear the weight of the blame. And the House of Dreswick would remain, outwardly at least, unbroken.
When the last of the flames were doused and the surviving wings of Dreswick Castle secured, Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester wasted no time lingering in the ruins. She had said what needed to be said, soothed the shaken, and steered their anger toward the name of Serath Valmoré. Now, she turned her mind to the next move.
Guild Branch Leader Railan Carwel met her at the gates, the torchlight catching on the steel trim of his armor. At her request, he provided her with a swift, dark-coated mare, one of the Guild's own mounts. She swung into the saddle with practiced ease, her cloak snapping in the cold wind as she set out into the night, two of her personal guards close behind.
The road to the Sithe farm was quiet save for the muffled thunder of hooves and the faint hiss of wind through the winter grass. The stars overhead glimmered faintly through a haze of smoke drifting from the distant ruins. Elleena's gaze stayed fixed ahead; the conversation she intended to have there required discretion, and the fewer eyes that saw the truth, the better.
By the time they crested the last hill, lanterns were already flickering in the farmstead yards. The Sithe lands were not a single homestead but a patchwork of small farms, each with its own barns, fences, and family dwellings. Word traveled fast here and when the Duchess's party rode into view, the reaction was instant.
Men and women paused mid-task, children peered from behind doorframes, and the low murmur of disbelief spread like ripples across a pond. A Duchess, here, in the midst of farmlands so far removed from the court—was an event that would be spoken of for years.
Daniel was the first to step forward from the main yard, his posture relaxed, his expression one of polite surprise, as though her visit were wholly unexpected. Melgil lingered a few paces back, leaning idly against a fence post, eyes watchful but silent.
Elleena dismounted, handing her reins to one of her guards before striding toward Daniel. The two exchanged a brief, courteous greeting before she inclined her head slightly, summoning him to walk with her a short distance from the others. Melgil's brow furrowed, but he stayed where he was, the picture of casual detachment, though his ears were turned toward them.
Their conversation was low, for no one else's ears. "We'll maintain the illusion," Elleena murmured, her tone calm but edged with purpose. "When the time comes, I'll make it appear as though I'm casting a transfer gate. You will complete it from behind the veil. No one here must know the true source of the magic, especially not the farmers. Let them believe it was my doing."
Daniel's eyes flickered in understanding. "Understood."
With their plan set, the Duchess returned to the gathered onlookers. She offered them a few measured words of thanks for their continued work, reassurance that the unrest in the region would be addressed, and a promise that her presence here was for their safety. Her voice carried with the practiced grace of one accustomed to court and command, wrapping the moment in the sheen of ceremony.
Then, with a commanding sweep of her cloak, she raised her hands. Azure light began to shimmer in the air before her, the beginnings of a spell circle sparking into existence. Those who watched stepped back, eyes wide. The magic flared brighter, the runes dancing in a ring, and the air within twisted like heat over stone.
But what they did not see was Daniel, standing behind her, hands subtly extended, pouring his own power into the spell's framework. Her gestures were the mask; his sorcery was the blade hidden beneath it. Together, they gave the illusion of life.
The gate solidified with a low hum, the glow casting rippling shadows across the farmstead. Gasps rose from the assembled families as the duchess turned toward them with a small, practiced smile.
"Now," she said, her voice carrying over the hush, "my work here is complete."
She stepped into the gate, her guards following, and with a final flare of light, the circle collapsed into nothing, leaving behind only the stunned whispers of those who had witnessed the duchess's power.
Daniel remained where he stood, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. The secret was safe.