The silence following the report of the abandoned carriage was heavy, suffocating the golden light of the drawing room. Draven felt a cold sweat prickle his hairline as he stared at the empty space where his wife had once stood.
The door opened with a sharp, decisive click. Darius Solvaren, Draven's lead advisor and right hand, stepped into the fray.
Beside him stood Elarion Ironvein, the Commander of the Prince's personal guard.
"I assume the news of the abandoned carriage has reached the inner sanctum," Darius said, his voice as dry as parchment. He did not wait for an invitation to join the circle.
Darius adjusted his spectacles, his gaze falling on the map spread across the table. "The Forbidden Woods? That is a strategic impossibility for a pregnant woman alone. Unless she wasn't alone."
"The driver is missing, Darius," Draven snapped, his voice tight with a fraying ego. "There were no signs of a struggle. No blood. No tracks. She simply... vanished."
Elarion Ironvein grunted, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "I've seen a thousand kidnappings, Your Highness. None leave a scent of ozone. That is the smell of ancient magic—the kind that hasn't been felt since the era of the Shadow Wars."
Eliosa turned to Elarion, her white robes fluttering as she gripped her crystal rosary. "Surely you aren't suggesting that Lady Iris possessed such dark capabilities? She was a Valtorien. Their blood is noble, not... cursed."
"Blood is a fickle thing, Saintess," Darius countered, walking toward the window that faced the distant, dark silhouette of the mountain range. "The Valtorien line has roots that go deeper than the Empire's history books allow."
He turned back to Draven, his expression devoid of comfort. "If she has entered the Obsidian Keep, we are no longer dealing with a divorce. We are dealing with a continental shift in power."
Draven slammed his fist onto a side table, rattling the fine porcelain. "The Keep is a ruin! It is a pile of cursed stone and dead myths! Even if she is there, she is as good as dead."
"Is she?" Elarion asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Because my scouts at the border sent a messenger bird an hour ago. They report that the mist around the Keep has turned black."
The room went still again. Elarion stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing like a death knell. "And the ravens, Your Highness. Thousands of them are flying toward the spires. The Keep isn't just a ruin anymore. It's breathing."
Draven's mind flashed back to Iris's calm face. He saw her "unbothered" smile in a terrifying new light. She wasn't accepting her fate; she was accepting her inheritance.
"Darius," Draven commanded, his voice trembling despite his effort to remain royal. "Prepare a search party. I want Elarion and five hundred of the Ironvein guard at the edge of those woods by nightfall."
"Against the Obsidian Keep?" Darius raised a skeptical eyebrow. "With five hundred men? You might as well send them to the gallows, Draven. If the Keep has truly 'breathed,' no army can force its gates."
Eliosa stepped toward Draven, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and a sudden, sharp jealousy. "The Church will not stand for this. If she is consorting with the Shadows, she is a heretic. We must declare her an enemy of the light."
"The 'Light' currently has a missing Duchess and a very angry King waiting to hear this news," Darius remarked, his tone bordering on insolent. "How do you think your father will react, Draven?"
Draven didn't answer. He looked at his hand—the one that had held the divorce decree—and for the first time in his life, he felt a genuine, bone-deep terror.
He had wanted a powerful wife. He had wanted a Saintess to solidify his throne. But in his arrogance, he had traded a Goddess of the Shadows for a girl who recited prayers.
Outside, the sky began to bruise into a deep, unnatural purple. The wind picked up, carrying the distant, faint sound of a bell tolling from a place that had no bells.
The Obsidian Keep was awake. And Iris Valtorien was no longer a wife to be discarded. She was a Sovereign to be feared.