Chapter 28

  Albert wasn’t sure what to do anymore. Calira was gone, she had disappeared like mist under the sun: no note, nothing. Just gone. Maybe she’d been taken. Maybe she’d run. He didn’t know, even if Amalia seemed certain of something she wouldn’t say.

  River might as well be dead, and Albert’s hope was thinning. His thoughts kept stretching and warping; each day chipped another sliver from his resolve, leaving it weaker than the last. Two things still held him upright: Amalia’s stubborn belief in him and his father’s words. They echoed the way iron rings in a forge: “If you cannot protect those you call friends, you fail not only me and your people, but your friends. The Godfried name must remain as strong as our faith in Phytar’s harvest.”

  The words rang louder now than they ever had, and with them came legacy’s weight: expectations stitched into every breath he took. He had to stay strong, not just for himself, but for his friends. For Tessa. They depended on him.

  His gaze dropped to the bag by his boots. Leaving wasn’t an option. Not for him.

  He eased to the floor and set his palm on Tessa’s coarse hide. She’d grown so much—larger, steadier, new strength layering over old gentleness. The rough, dry texture soothed him more than any prayer ever had. A few soft grunts, little puffs through her trunk, rolled across the bond like quiet thunder. I’m here, they said.

  He closed his eyes. In all this churn of uncertainty, that simple contact was the peace he needed.

  The peace didn’t last.

  Tessa’s usually sluggish calm snapped taut as faint footfalls climbed out of the cobbled street beyond. Then, with a jolt, she rose. Her stubby legs wobbled under her growing frame as she pushed upright, and suddenly she towered over the seated Albert.

  BANG!

  The crack rolled through the manor like thunder off stone. Shouts followed—sharp orders, chaotic boots ricocheting along the halls below.

  Albert froze. Something was happening. Something serious. His heart thudded against his ribs, but he made himself stand—slowly, deliberately.

  Do not act in fear or anger, his father’s voice said in his head. You will only show weakness.

  He inhaled for steadiness and reached for the narrow place where clarity lives.

  Brushing dust from his clothes, Albert moved down the corridor. The commotion swelled as he descended the steps. Soldiers flooded the manor, barking orders, repeating them, trampling in, swarming like ants from a kicked nest.

  And at the center of it all stood the King.

  Only he wasn’t the man Albert remembered. The calm, the polished composure, gone. This King Leo looked haunted. His shoulders hunched as if he carried a weight too heavy to share. Dark bags sagged beneath his eyes, the kind that come from talking with nightmares. The invincibility, the clean certainty—vanished.

  He looked like a cornered dog.

  Yet when he spoke, his soft voice carried conviction, not by volume, but by finality. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” He pulled a book from his tunic, making sure everyone saw it. “This was found in your house. It is part of my private collection and proves your treachery.”

  Lady Virella’s face tightened.

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  Her pride took the hit. Soldiers tearing through her estate without the courtesy of a private word? From her half brother? Unheard of. Offensive. She said nothing, but the fury simmering behind her composed exterior was easy to see for anyone who knew how to look.

  “Calira and River have been found guilty of conspiracy to commit a coup,” the King continued evenly. “And of collaborating with the Blightborn to harm the kingdom.”

  Albert’s breath caught.

  Blightborn. Not “Shadows.”

  Only a select few knew the true name, those who had worked with Philip or watched the truth crawl out of the dark with their own eyes. The King had slipped.

  They’d suspected before. Hearing that word made it the final nail in the coffin.

  Albert glanced at Virella. Her lips parted, then closed again. She let out a careful exhale. She couldn’t lash out—not now, not here. She knew it; so did he. His gaze shifted to Amalia.

  “I’m sorry, but they are not here,” Virella said. Her voice remained calm, but Albert heard the hairline cracks in it, the strain under the lacquer.

  Amalia stood beside her mother—pale, wide-eyed—watching soldiers rip the manor apart. Doors kicked open. Tapestries yanked down. Paintings stripped from mounts with a zeal that looked a lot like theater. Were they hunting evidence or proving power? Both felt true.

  She met Albert’s eyes.

  In her expression he saw fear, not only for herself. For Calira. For River. For all of them threaded together.

  For the first time, the King’s gaze left Virella’s. Pain and grief carved deep lines into his face as he turned to Amalia. His hand trembled when he raised it. “Seize her,” he said. “She may have information.”

  Then, without looking at her: “And him. Take their creatures as well.”

  The words were flat, lifeless, as if the soul had slipped out of them even while his face betrayed how much they cost. Virella didn’t move. She stood frozen, disbelief twisting her mouth as the order’s weight settled in.

  Albert moved.

  Dashing to one side, he reached for his magic as he planted himself in front of Amalia and Virella. He stood firm even when the King’s eyes met his and measured him like grain. Not backing down. Couldn’t.

  That shock broke Virella’s stillness. Flame leapt; then it wrapped her. No, she wrapped it. Fire crawled the length of her arm and hardened into a dark-red blade that flickered and flamed in her grip. She’d never used her soul weapon beyond drills—too dangerous, everyone said—but now power radiated off her like heat from an anvil.

  Virella blurred through the chaos, dodging, weaving. Shouts and shrieks erupted as soldiers fell—some burned, some broken by force they never saw coming.

  And still, the King didn’t move. His demeanor stayed eerily unchanged.

  He watched. Silent. Lips parting, whispering something Albert couldn’t catch.

  Then everything changed.

  His aura detonated, raw force rolling through the room like a tidal wall.

  The air thickened. Sound tunneled; his ears popped. His teeth hummed on the edge of shattering as he bit down for whatever strength remained. Breathing became laborious. Albert’s skull rang; his thought throbbed as if Tessa sat on his head.

  He wasn’t ready. No one could be.

  Virella hit her knees first. Between gasps of air, she managed to hiss a few words: “You won’t take me.”

  The king’s smile turned crueler, darker, as he looked down on his half-sister. “Oh, I’m not taking you. You won’t do me any good, too much of a hassle. River will come for those two.” The words hung heavy in the air. Then his essence pressed down once more with renewed strength.

  Amalia collapsed.

  Albert fought to stay upright, but it was like pushing back a mountain. Even his essence seemed to betray him, bending into the pressure rather than bracing against it. His muscles buckled. Beside him, Tessa slumped, a soft puff of hurt escaping her trunk.

  Rage boiled up, bright and useless.

  Darkness came anyway.

  His vision narrowed to pinpricks of light. Then to none.

  He collapsed onto cold marble, unconscious before he felt the floor.

  When consciousness crept back, the first thing he registered was silence.

  His eyes fluttered open on a room he did not know. Stone walls. Iron bars. A single torch sputtering somewhere out of sight down the corridor.

  Panic surged.

  Tessa.

  He sat up too fast; the cell spun. He scanned every corner, every shadow—no sign of her. Heart pounding, he reached down the bond, clumsy with fear—and there. A warm pulse. Steady. Alive.

  She was okay.

  Relief hit him like a wave and left him shaking. He pressed a hand to his chest to steady the breath that wouldn’t listen. The cell was as miserable as he’d imagined: cold stone, a stingy pile of hay, and a dark hole in the corner that stank of rot. So this is what loyalty earned him.

  Not medals. Not honor. Just a cage.

  He let his head settle against the wall, eyes drifting shut as a bitter thought edged in and made itself at home.

  The gods really aren’t fair.