Chapter 121

Serin led the two men through the dim corridors, their boots sounding softly against the marble floors as they entered the reception room. Benzef, clearly still inebriated, clutched a half-filled wine glass, his steps unsteady. The sour-sweet scent of liquor clung to him like smoke. His attendant hovered anxiously at his side, arms half-raised as if ready to catch him should he fall.

Argon, in contrast, looked as though he had been roused abruptly from sleep. His eyes were bloodshot and damp, rimmed with fatigue. Strands of silver hair clung disheveled to his temples, and his clothes bore the creases of hastily donned garments. Both men appeared far from their usual composed selves—half-dreaming, half-drunk—and yet the summons they had received at this hour had sobered them more effectively than any cold wind.

Kennard sat waiting before the fire, his posture straight, his gaze fixed. The flames carved long shadows across the room, flickering against his sharp features. When the two men entered, he merely gestured to the sofa opposite him.

“Please, sit,” he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.

As they took their seats, Serin moved quietly behind the duke, standing at attention with the impassive stillness of one accustomed to tense rooms.

“Your Grace,” Argon began cautiously, his tone respectful, “might we ask what has called for us at this hour?”

His white hair fell freely down his back tonight—an uncharacteristic sight. Normally it was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, but tonight it framed his tired face in loose disarray.

Benzef slurred as he attempted levity. “Aha… I thought Your Grace had already retired. Or perhaps… was it a midnight hunt, maybe?”

His words tangled in his mouth, but the faint humor did little to disguise his unease. He leaned against the armrest for support, glass trembling in his hand.

Kennard’s eyes flicked briefly to him, and for a moment, he regretted calling them at all. To have this conversation, he would have preferred them sober and sharp, not half-lost to wine and sleep. He exhaled slowly through his nose, a soft sigh of restraint.

“There is a matter that requires your aid,” he said at last.

Argon leaned forward, his brows knitting. “If something has occurred, Your Grace, please speak freely.”

Kennard hesitated. He had spoken harshly to them at the wedding—his anger had ruled him then—but tonight, he returned to his old manner of address, one marked by courtesy and deliberate restraint. He had no obligation to speak thus to his vassals, yet he did so out of acknowledgment. He needed them to see that respect still stood between them.

The faint flicker of relief that crossed both men’s faces did not escape his notice.

“Elena has been abducted,” he said quietly.

For a heartbeat, the words seemed to hang in the air, unreal.

“What?” Argon breathed.

“Abducted?” Benzef echoed, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Even Benzef’s attendant, who had been keeping dutifully still at his master’s side, started violently at the revelation. He met Serin’s gaze over Kennard’s shoulder, then dropped his eyes to the floor in understanding. This was not a moment for witnesses.

“By whom?” Argon asked, voice low. “And… how?”

“The story is long,” Kennard replied. “And time is short.”

“The abductors entered the fortress?” Benzef demanded. The haze of drink was gone now, replaced by alarm. He sat upright, his speech still rough but much clearer. “Who would dare infiltrate Your Grace’s domain?”

“I take it Your Grace asks for our aid in pursuing them?” Argon said, his tone turning grave.

“Precisely.”

“But we came without a large escort,” Argon continued, glancing toward Serin. “Surely Your Grace’s knights outnumber ours. Do you wish us to assist in the search, then?”

Kennard’s gaze darkened. “There is no need to search. I already know who took her.”

The room froze.

“You… know?” Argon whispered.

“Then what are we waiting for? You should send the knights at once—”

“I will,” Kennard said. “When our talk is finished, I’ll ride with them myself.”

“You’ll ride?” Benzef’s throat clicked audibly as he swallowed.

“Elena was taken,” Kennard said slowly, “by the Emperor’s own men. And Count Marten Remid aided them.”

The two men stared at him, mouths slightly open, the words taking too long to register.

“The Emperor?” Benzef stammered, setting his wine glass hastily into his attendant’s hands. “Surely—surely not. His Majesty abducted your wife? Why in heaven’s name? Because you refused the Blade Duke’s daughter’s hand?”

“Or perhaps…” Argon began, hesitating, “because of the rumors.”

“What rumors?” Kennard asked flatly.

Benzef blinked, trying to recall. “You must’ve heard, Argon. The viscount—the one whose lands border mine—what was his name?”

“Viscount Menelph,” Argon supplied.

“Yes, Menelph!” Benzef struck his palm with sudden vigor. “His daughter’s body was brought back to the capital, wasn’t it? After traveling with the Lady of Blade to Terra Demorte, where Your Grace was staying…”

He trailed off abruptly, aware of his misstep.

Argon quickly interjected, “Yes, I remember the story. There were whispers.”

Kennard’s expression did not shift. The rumor—vile and unfounded—had reached his ears long ago. That it pointed toward Elena he already knew. But that was irrelevant now.

“So,” Benzef ventured, “is that why His Majesty took her? If it was jealousy or scandal, then it can hardly be called abduction, can it?”

Kennard’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “It was abduction. They placed sacrificial altars throughout the Montefiano woods—traces of binding spells everywhere. They drew me there deliberately, and when I pursued, they seized Elena. She was threatened into obedience—if she resisted, they would kill my men.”

Benzef’s jaw slackened. “No… surely not.”

“Lassino is half-dead,” Kennard added quietly.

At that, both men fell silent. They knew Lassino well; he had served Kennard faithfully for years, as trusted as any brother-in-arms.

The stillness that followed was suffocating. The fire crackled, filling the room with the only sound that dared move.

Argon was the first to speak. “Your Grace, forgive me, but I must ask. If you lead your knights yourself, this will not end with a simple retrieval. You would be defying imperial command—risking open rebellion.”

Benzef nodded grimly. “He’s right. For us, it’s already dangerous. But for you… it would be treason.”

“I know,” Kennard said, voice low and steady.

Argon met his gaze. “Then how far are you prepared to go?”

For a long moment, Kennard said nothing. Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose from his seat. His movements were quiet, controlled. He walked to the window, where the cool night air seeped through the open frame. Beyond the glass, the world lay in calm serenity—moonlight washing over still fields, not a ripple of unrest in sight. The peace mocked the tempest inside him.

“Before tonight,” he said finally, “my only plan was to declare independence from the Empire.”

The silence that followed was complete. Argon’s breath caught; Benzef’s hand froze halfway to his mouth.

“But now,” Kennard continued, “after what he’s done—after taking her even knowing she carries my heir—I can no longer let it stand. Not even for the Emperor.”

He turned back to face them. The fire behind him threw his shadow long across the floor.

“So I intend,” he said, each word deliberate, “to commit the treason they’ve long whispered about. And if you stand with me, gentlemen, your support will not be forgotten. What say you?”

He did not raise his voice, but there was a weight to it that left no room for refusal.

Benzef and Argon exchanged a single, tense glance. They both understood the truth beneath Kennard’s calm offer. Refusing him was not an option. To hear of a rebellion and not join it was to sign one’s own death warrant.

Kennard waited in silence, watching them wrestle with the choice that was no choice at all.

When he finally spoke again, his tone was colder, decisive. “When I claim the throne, I will see three houses destroyed beyond recovery.”

Benzef lifted his head. “Three houses?”

“The Emperor’s,” Kennard said. “Count Remid’s. And the Blade Dukedom.”

***

By dawn, the decision had been made.

Horses thundered through the plains beneath a bruised sky, their hooves pounding like war drums. Clouds of dust rose behind them, curling into the wind like smoke from a burning city. Kennard rode at the front, his cloak snapping violently against the gale. The air was sharp, the scent of steel and earth filling his lungs.

Serin rode close behind him, followed by Irish and the ranks of armored knights—hundreds strong. Their blades caught the morning light, glinting in waves, a metallic sea. None spoke. The silence of the host was grimmer than any battle cry.

Kennard could have transformed—could have taken the form of the wolf and reached their destination in half the time—but he remained astride the horse by choice. Tonight’s purpose went beyond rescue. This would not end with Elena’s return.

He meant to bring down his brother from the throne.

He meant to seize it for himself.

Only then, he thought, could he ensure that no one would ever again touch what was his.

The wind stung his eyes as he turned briefly to look behind him. Serin and Irish followed close, their faces solemn. Beyond them, the knights surged forward, eyes fixed, expressions carved with fatal resolve. Each man knew what awaited them. None flinched.

Kennard faced forward again, his jaw tightening as he drove his heels into the horse’s flank.

“Elena,” he whispered under his breath, the words barely carried by the wind. “Hold on. Please… be safe.”

The hoofbeats swallowed his plea, but he did not stop. The storm he was about to unleash would shake the Empire to its foundations. And for her, he would burn the world if he must.