It had been more than three hours since they'd gathered in the adjoining room next to Kael's chamber. From behind the heavy oak door came the muffled rush of Jaesper's incantations and the rasping sound of Kael's harsh coughs. Each fit of coughing echoed like a blade across Reinhardt's nerves.
Reinhardt sat rigidly on a chair, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He wanted—desperately—to burst through the door and help, but he knew he would be useless inside that room. All he could do was wait. And pray.
Across from him, Elric sat stiff-backed, her eyes fixed on the floor. She, too, was gnawed by worry, but like Reinhardt, she was helpless until the ritual finished. The sound of Kael's coughing, punctuated by Jaesper's hurried chanting, filled the silence between them.
The door suddenly opened and Albert, one of Reinhardt's most trusted men, stumbled in, pale and sweating. All three turned sharply to him.
"What is it?" Robert demanded, rising to his feet.
Albert's chest heaved as he tried to speak. "A report—one of our scouts saw it—an army approaching the outer gates. They carry the Imperial banner."
Elric shot to her feet. "Imperial troops?" she hissed. "I received no notice about any inspection or visit. Something is wrong."
Reinhardt slowly lifted his head. He did not even flinch at the news. Instead, he glanced at the door to Kael's chamber, then back to Elric. His eyes were calm, but there was a faint tremor in his voice when he spoke.
"Go and meet them," he said quietly. "Don't draw swords unless they do first. Ask why they've come. I imagine Stanford has finally used the little brain he has and guessed the Hero Campaign might be hiding in the North."
Elric hesitated. She could sense the unease buried beneath his measured tone. "You're sure?"
Reinhardt's mouth curved faintly, but it was not a smile. "I'm sure of nothing anymore. But find out what they want before blood is spilled."
She nodded briskly and left at once, calling for her knights as she went.
Robert turned to his brother, who still hadn't risen from his chair. "Brother…" His voice was little more than a whisper. "What will you do?"
Reinhardt did not look up. "Wait, Robert."
Robert frowned. "Wait? With Imperial soldiers at our gates?"
"Yes." Reinhardt's eyes flickered toward Kael's door again. "Because I can't leave him. Not now."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. He had always known the palace would send someone. He had expected soldiers, accusations, maybe even assassins. But he had not predicted Kael's condition would worsen on the very same day. Now all he could do was sit in this chair and wait—wait for Jaesper's voice to stop, wait for Elric's report, wait for the hammer to fall.
Robert crouched beside him, speaking softly. "You've already done everything you could."
Reinhardt's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not yet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not yet."
From Kael's room came another violent, wet cough. The sound twisted in Reinhardt's chest. He squeezed his hands together until his nails bit into his palms.
Outside, through the shuttered windows, came the distant thrum of hooves—the approaching Imperial force. Dust clouds were rising on the horizon.
Robert straightened and peered out through a narrow gap in the curtains. "They're closer now. Not long before they reach the gate."
Reinhardt finally raised his head. His green eyes, usually bright, looked dull and shadowed. "Then we pray Elric reaches them first."
Silence fell again. Only the chanting in the next room and Kael's coughing broke it. Reinhardt stared at the door as if his will alone could keep Kael alive—and keep the palace soldiers from crossing the threshold.
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The sound of hooves striking frost-hard earth echoed through the northern wind. Elric urged her horse forward, the dark green Vaelthorn banner snapping like a whip above her riders. Her soldiers rode in disciplined silence behind her, faces grim. Ahead, the glint of steel and the flutter of crimson and gold marked the Imperial banner.
At the head of the formation sat a man in polished armor, his cloak lined with white fur. Even from a distance, Elric recognised the aristocratic bearing and sharp smile of Crown Prince Stanford. He waited astride his horse like a hawk perched on a cliff edge, his eyes locked on her as she approached.
Elric's expression never shifted. She wore the mask of a duke—a mask of cold composure. She would not let even a flicker of concern show. Her estate's walls were hiding more than just soldiers; they were hiding the Hero Campaign itself.
When the two forces met halfway, Elric swung down from her horse with a single fluid motion, boots crunching against the frozen ground. Her soldiers followed suit, lowering their weapons but keeping a wary eye on the Imperial line.
Elric strode forward, every inch the Duchess Vaelthorn, and bowed her head just enough to mark respect, but not submission. Her voice was calm but cut through the air like a blade.
"Good evening, Crown Prince Stanford," she said. "What business brings you and your men armed and armored into my lands?"
Stanford eased himself from his horse, his polished boots barely disturbing the frost. He approached with slow, measured steps, his smile fixed in place.
"I believe," he said, "this is the first time we've met face to face since you inherited your title, Duke Vaelthorn." His eyes flicked over her features with a faint, patronising amusement. "Up close, I can see the stories of your beauty were not exaggerated."
Elric's face did not change. Her grey-green eyes were unreadable as stone. "As I said," she repeated, her tone even sterner, "what is your business here, Your Highness? It would be unwise for me to assume the heir to the throne has ridden into my territory merely to offer compliments."
The prince clasped his hands behind his back, still smiling as he closed the distance. "You wound me with such suspicion, my lady. Surely you know Vaelthorn stands among the most loyal supporters of the Crown. I am here to ensure that loyalty remains… intact."
Her chin lifted a fraction. "Then you also know that arriving in a full battle array is an insult to a supporter's house. Do you intend to attack my lands?"
A flicker passed over Stanford's face—quick, but Elric caught it. He smoothed it away with a chuckle. "Of course not. I know better than to cross swords with Vaelthorn on its own soil. But the kingdom is restless, and rumors are spreading like wildfire. Rumors that the so-called Hero Campaign—our 'saviours'—have turned traitor. And rumors, too, that you have given them shelter."
Her posture remained iron-straight. "They came to pay their respects," she said, lying without a blink. "Yes, they passed through. No, they did not linger. I received the report only after they had gone."
Stanford tilted his head, a smile never reaching his eyes. "Is that so?"
"If you wish to investigate," Elric continued, "you may enter my estate. But your soldiers will leave their weapons at the gate." She shifted her gaze deliberately to the ranks of armored men behind him. "Marching armed into Vaelthorn is a declaration of hostility. I will take it as such."
Her voice was soft but carried an unmistakable weight, the weight of a House whose army had never yet been defeated in the North. Even King Stephen had warned his son never to provoke Vaelthorn lightly.
Something in Stanford's smile faltered. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. The wind caught his cloak, snapping it behind him like a banner.
Then he turned his head and barked an order. "Ground your weapons."
The Imperial soldiers shifted uneasily, then one by one obeyed, sheathing swords and lowering spears until only a handful of guards remained armed at the prince's side.
Elric inclined her head slightly. "Wise."
Stanford stepped forward again, lowering his voice. "You're bold, Duke Vaelthorn. Some might call it reckless. Pray that your words are true, or even Vaelthorn's strength may not shield you."
Elric met his gaze unflinchingly. "Pray that yours are," she replied. "Follow me, Your Highness. I will show you my estate. You may ask what you will."
Behind her, her soldiers shifted subtly, forming a protective line as she led the Crown Prince and his chosen guards toward the gates. Stanford walked at her side, eyes glittering with calculation, but for once silent.
Inside the manor, Reinhardt still sat outside Kael's room, listening to the distant sounds of hooves and clattering armor, unaware of the words being traded at his gate
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The great oak doors of Vaelthorn estate swung open with a deep groan as Crown Prince Stanford stepped inside. The winter light poured across the polished stone floors, casting long shadows of his armored guards.
Elric walked at his side, her soldiers lining the corridors like silent statues. By her order, the bulk of the prince's men had been forced to remain outside in the courtyard, disarmed and restless under the watch of Vaelthorn knights. Only a small detachment of handpicked guards trailed behind Stanford as he entered.
Far away, in a secluded wing known only to Elric and the northern soldiers, Reinhardt, Robert, and the others stayed close to Kael's room. The heavy tapestries and hidden doors concealed their presence. Even as the prince prowled the halls, Kael's existence was a secret Elric would not allow to be exposed.
But Stanford was hunting. He needed something—anything—that would justify his arrival.
He moved through the estate's corridors like a predator, his eyes constantly flicking from door to door, tapestries to windows, looking for a sign. His tone was outwardly polite, but every question was a barb.
"I hear," he said casually, "that there have been unusual movements at your border posts. Missing supplies from the capital storehouses. Surely you've reported such things?"
Elric's voice was cool. "The movements you speak of are mine. My soldiers have been fighting monsters spilling over the border. Supplies from the palace never reach us on time, so I have used my own. There is no 'unusual' activity here, Your Highness."
They moved from room to room, the prince's boots clicking on the marble floors. He peered into storage rooms, guest chambers, even the stables. But everywhere he looked, Vaelthorn soldiers stood at ease, and everything appeared in order.
He slowed his pace and turned to Elric, his smile sharpening into something more personal. "It's been far too long since the court has seen you," he said softly. "Up close, I see your reputation is deserved… you are even more beautiful than the stories."
He reached out, fingers brushing against her cheek.
Elric stopped dead. Her gloved hand shot up and shoved him away with enough force to stagger him a step. Her eyes were no longer unreadable but cold as steel.
"I believe," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "this is highly inappropriate, Your Highness. Refrain from touching me again—or you will pay a price for it. Vaelthorn's support is not something you can take for granted. I can make sure the crown prince finds himself without allies at court."
Stanford raised both hands, still smiling, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Woah, woah… calm yourself, Duke Vaelthorn. I was merely jesting. No harm meant."
"I do not find it amusing," she said flatly, and turned away, leading him down another corridor.
Stanford fell back into step behind her, but his eyes never stopped scanning the hallways, his smile slipping. He could feel time running out. He had stood in court and told a grand story of traitors and conspiracies—he had promised to bring back proof of their treachery. Returning empty-handed would weaken him.
Worse, he needed Elric herself. She sat higher in rank than most of the nobles combined, commanding the strongest northern army in the kingdom. If he could not charm her, perhaps he could threaten her. Perhaps he could bring her down. But for now, his hands were empty.
Elric stopped at the end of a hall and turned to face him. "Your Highness," she said crisply, "my hospitality has its limits. You have inspected my estate, you have questioned my men. You have found nothing. I suggest you return to the palace before the snow deepens. I will inform His Majesty personally of your visit."
Stanford's jaw tightened. His fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side. He could not return to court like this—humiliated, with no evidence, no victory.
And then, from the far end of the corridor, a sudden shout broke the silence.
"Your Highness!" one of the palace soldiers called. Two men appeared, dragging between them a struggling young woman.
Elric's eyes widened in shock. She knew that face—Lucy, Stanford's personal maid, the same girl whose disappearance had been whispered about.
The soldier bowed quickly. "We found her, sire. She was hiding near the eastern stables."
Stanford's smile returned, slow and triumphant.
Elric's heart sank.