Two days.
Two days of riding without pause, barely stopping long enough for the horses to drink, barely sleeping except in short, half-alert intervals that did nothing to blunt the fury beating under Soren's ribs.
Snowstorms. Steep ridges. Tracks buried beneath drifts.
But he did not slow.
Because Elena was somewhere beyond the horizon, and the Kharath Empire had touched what was his to protect.
Kael rode at his right—always the right, always closest—watching him with that rare mixture of loyalty and blunt honesty only he could give. The other Sentinels flanked them, shadows on horseback, silent as death.
Villages appeared and disappeared along the path, the people shrinking back at the sight of the riders. Mothers ushered children inside. Merchants froze mid-step. Old men bowed their heads.
No one approached eight Sentinels.
No one approached the Prince who rode like a storm made flesh.
Whispers trailed after them:
"The Black Riders…""Someone must have crossed them.""Gods keep whoever they're hunting."
But Soren heard none of it.
He only heard the echo of Kael's words:
She's gone.
And beneath that, the one truth that hollowed him out:
He hadn't protected her.
As dusk bled into violet shadow on the second night, Kael lifted a clenched fist.
The Sentinels halted instantly.
Soren turned Varyn sharply. "What is it?"
Kael nodded toward a cluster of twisted pines. "Movement."
A heartbeat later, a figure bolted from behind the rocks—a Kharathi scout, lighter armor than the one in the infirmary but bearing the same jagged emblem carved into the plating.
Soren didn't need to give an order.
Kael dismounted before his horse even stopped moving.
He slammed the man into the snow, knee braced against his spine, wrenching his arms behind him with brutal precision. The scout spat curses in his own tongue, thrashing—
Until he saw Soren.
Even the Kharathi warriors knew that face.
The one the Empire warned its soldiers about:
The Prince who fights without hesitation.The Prince who kills without blinking.The Prince whose rage is quiet, not loud—quiet like winter, quiet like death.
Soren crouched, voice calm as a blade's edge.
"Where is she?"
The spy spat blood. Smirked. "Too late."
Kael shifted, ready to crush the man's jaw.
Soren lifted a hand—a simple, quiet stay.
He leaned in, eyes dark.
"I will ask you one time."
The spy laughed.
Soren moved.
A vicious strike—heel of his hand to the man's throat. Controlled. Precise. Masterful.
The spy gagged, choking, eyes wide with panic.
Soren's voice didn't rise. It only sharpened.
"That was mercy."
He grabbed the front of the man's armor and hauled him upright like he weighed nothing. Snow scattered at their feet.
"Where," Soren repeated, "is she?"
The spy broke first.
They always broke first.
"N–north…" He coughed hard. "Beyond the Deadfall Ravine. They took her to… the outpost."
Kael hissed. "No. No—Soren, that's days across the border. Heavily fortified. Nearly impenetrable."
Soren stood, snow falling from his cloak.
"Nothing," he said, "is impenetrable."
Kael met his gaze—one of the rare moments he dared question him.
"Soren… if you do this without rest, you risk—"
"I will rest," Soren said, mounting again, "when she is safe."
Kael inhaled, jaw tightening.
But he nodded.
Because no one understood Soren like Kael did.No one else could read the storm in him.And no one else knew what it meant that he spoke Elena's name in silence even when his lips didn't move.
Kael raised two fingers.
The Sentinels snapped to formation.
Soren looked north—toward wastelands, ravines, an empire that would rather burn the world than surrender what it had taken.
Toward Elena.
Snow howled as they surged forward again.
Soren didn't feel the cold.
Only the ache—the tearing, relentless ache—of her absence.
And beneath it, a vow forged in bone: I am coming for you, Elena.