King Caldur Marleton pressed his fingers harder into the base of his neck, trying to ease the knotted tension that seemed to have made a home there. The skin was warm beneath his touch, his muscles tight like drawn bowstrings from the strain of yet another long day. Without Victoria by his side, the weight of the kingdom seemed to settle more heavily upon him. He rolled his head slowly, the quiet creak of his neck filling the silence of the room.
The war with Norwyke was worsening. Each passing day brought grim reports—villages razed, soldiers slain, rations stolen, alliances fraying at the edges. And now, the rebels near the border of the Duchy of Hartford had grown bold, taking advantage of the kingdom's preoccupation with the war. They burned crops, pillaged storehouses, and harassed the people with no regard for who lived or died. The duchy, crippled by the chaos, had failed to meet its taxes for the second season in a row. That failure echoed through Malveria's economy like a cracked bell, weakening their footing in the war even further.
He moved toward the window, each step heavy. A cold breeze slipped through the open panes, brushing against his skin like ghostly fingers. Outside, the night sprawled over Aldenbury like a velvet cloth, the stars hung high and distant, the moon pale behind a veil of thin cloud. There was such stillness, such deceptive peace. One would not know that only a hundred leagues away, steel clashed and blood soaked into earth.
"Do you need anything else, sire?"
The soft voice broke into his thoughts. The maid stood with her head bowed, a flask of warm wine cradled in her hands.
Caldur turned. "No, that would be all."
She bowed, ready to leave, when something tugged at his memory.
"Is the queen back?"
The girl paused. "Not yet, Your Majesty."
He blinked, surprised. "By this time?"
The maid shifted her weight nervously, unsure how to respond. Caldur waved her off with a sigh. "Go."
She bowed again and slipped out quietly.
He stood still for a moment, jaw tight. Of course she hadn't returned. She had gone to Kingsley Manor—Thurston's house in Aldenbury—without so much as a note. Again.
He tried not to imagine what might be keeping her. What she and Thurston were doing behind the high walls of that manor. Alone. Without eyes. Without boundaries.
Caldur swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat and turned away from the window.
The room behind him glowed in a warm, golden hush. Candlelight flickered gently along the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across carved cornices and heavy drapes. The hearth had long gone cold, but the thick tapestries and velvet furnishings kept the chamber warm. His bed stood at the center, a great oak structure with four tall posts, draped in crimson and sable. The scent of beeswax and lavender lingered in the air—remnants of the evening's cleaning.
He shed his robe and lay down on the bed, the sheets cool against his skin. His eyes found the ceiling, following the familiar swirl of paint and wooden beams. Silence pressed in again, broken only by the faint crackle of wax dripping from the candles.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come immediately. His mind wandered. He counted the days until he could finally return to Ivandell. The only place that still felt untouched by war, politics, or unrest. The only place where he could breathe.
He imagined the golden fields stretching beyond the hills, the sound of the river that sang through the valley, and the smell of apples ripening under the sun. He thought of the quiet mornings, the laughter of simpler folk, the weightlessness he felt there. In Ivandell, he could shed the crown—even if only for a little while.
A smile touched his lips. It was faint but real. For a moment, it felt like hope. That thought, sweet and elusive, lulled him to sleep.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
A loud knock shattered the silence. Caldur stirred, groggy, confused.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
This time it wasn't a knock. It was pounding. Urgent. Heavy. His heart quickened, pulled from dreams too soon. He pushed the sheets aside and sat up, his feet touching the floor. Another round of frantic pounding echoed.
He threw the door open with force, his voice sharp on the tip of his tongue—until he saw Oscar.
The valet's face was pale, his breathing erratic, and his eyes wide with something close to terror.
Caldur's gut twisted. "What happened?"
Oscar, still catching his breath, stared at the floor before meeting the king's eyes.
"The queen… she's been taken. Kidnapped."
The words struck like a hammer to the chest.
Caldur did not speak. For a moment, he simply stared. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
His mind raced. No—no. That couldn't be. Not Victoria. Not his wife. Not the queen of Malveria.
He felt the room sway slightly, as though the floor beneath him had shifted. The war, the rebels, the failing economy—he had managed to carry all of that. But this…
This was different.
The candles flickered, and their shadows leapt higher. The cold air from the open door touched his bare arms, but he did not feel it.
He could only hear Oscar's voice, echoing in his mind.
She's been taken.