The next morning, even before the sun had cast its full light over the capital, Caldur was already seated behind his desk, the gold-trimmed curtains of his office drawn wide to usher in the pale dawn light. He was hunched over the edge of his desk, quill in hand, ink blotting thick against the cream paper. His fingers were stained, and the ink bottle trembled slightly with each dip. The letters he was preparing were for the council—formal summonses for an emergency meeting. The wax seals would be pressed within the hour, but already, he knew it would not be enough.
He had been awake since dawn, though in truth, he had hardly slept.
Commander Francis had been summoned to his chambers the moment the palace stirred. His report had been worse than Caldur had expected.
"The carriage was abandoned," Francis had said, tone clipped, eyes dark. "Eight hours north of the point of abduction. They avoided the roads—took an abandoned path through the East Range."
Caldur had sat frozen for a moment, the implications settling in. That part of the land was untamed. A forgotten woodland path, far from the main roads. Whoever had taken the queen had been careful—deliberate. That level of caution reeked of planning, not desperation.
But that wasn't all.
"Three hours northeast from where the carriage was found lies," the commander had added. "is one of your father's estates."
Even worse, the queen's personal accessories—her crown, a signet ring, their wedding ring she never removed—had been left behind in the carriage. Tossed aside like they meant nothing.
That fact alone twisted something deep in his chest.
It wasn't about ransom. They hadn't taken her for gold. If they had, her jewelry would have been stripped from her person and used as leverage. They could have even sold the jewelries. They were all worth a lot and could make them a fortune. Unless they were being cautious. Jewelry like that was hard to trade without drawing eyes, yes. But abandoning all of it? That was deliberate.
No, whoever had taken her wasn't interested in wealth.
They were interested in her absence.
He gritted his teeth. They weren't after gold… or power. Then what? Revenge? Retribution? His pulse quickened as the pieces began to align, each more terrifying than the last.
Caldur's hand drifted to his temple. A dull throb pulsed there, growing stronger with each minute that passed.
He had prayed—foolishly—that this was some opportunistic group of thieves. Common criminals, perhaps driven by gold or politics, or even revenge. But this had been coordinated. Calculated. They even had guns. Common criminals can't get something like that.
And that narrowed the field of culprits to two possibilities: mercenaries, or worse—Norwyke.
The first option was dangerous enough. Paid men with no loyalties and sharp blades. But if it was Norwyke…
Caldur didn't let himself finish the thought. Instead, he leaned heavily against the back of his chair—an imposing thing carved from dark yew wood, draped in royal blue cloth at the headrest. The fabric was fraying slightly near the edge, worn from years of his pacing fingers. He hadn't noticed until this morning.
He pushed himself up, the chair creaking beneath him, and began pacing.
His gaze swept the room. The office was large, austere, framed in shadowy greys and deep navy. Tapestries of battle scenes and royal crests adorned the walls, but today they felt like gravestones rather than decorations. The hearth to his right was unlit, cold ash lingering in the grate. A map table stood in one corner, and near it, several unopened scrolls from the border watch. He hadn't dared read them.
He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing it back roughly. The roots were damp with sweat.
If Norwyke has her… she won't survive it.
The war had turned bitter over the last few years. Once, there had been talks of peace. But Vitoria had ended that when she refused to accept Norwyke's apology for the fire that had destroyed her ancestral home. Her mother, Princess Amelia Lyndor of Belvaris, and her father, Prince Reginald Lyndor, had died in that fire—along with nearly every member of House Lyndor.
Only Victoria and her grandfather had survived.
That had been enough to harden her forever.
She had told Caldur once, "You do not make peace with those who erase your blood."
Now, the echoes of that decision had come to find her.
King Lucien of Norwyke had made his goals clear. He wanted every last Lyndor buried. And Victoria, the final symbol of that house, would not be taken alive if he had his way.
Caldur squeezed his eyes shut. If Norwyke had her, there would be no ransom. No peace.
Still, there was a thread of hope. Norwyke's capital lay two weeks away by the fastest roads. But these kidnappers were avoiding roads. Traveling rough. Perhaps switching carriages. Perhaps on foot at times.
That bought them time.
But they'd need to act quickly. Guards must be deployed on every road and trail. Inns checked. Caravans questioned. And if necessary, hunters hired—men who could move unseen, and strike without warning.
But to do that, they'd need to reveal something to the outer courts. And the moment word got out, rumors would spread like wildfire. Caldur wanted to avoid that more than anything. Not for the public.
But for Belvaris.
The very thought made his temples throb harder.
King Radford Wyndham of Belvaris was a patient man, but not a forgiving one. He had never moved past the death of his sister, Princess Amelia—Victoria's mother.
If he heard that Vitoria was missing, especially if he believed she was in danger…
He would burn Malveria to the ground.
Caldur swallowed and pushed away from the desk.
Malveria couldn't afford war with Belvaris. Not now. Not with Norwyke still bleeding them at the border. Their army would collapse from within. Their lands torn between two enemies who hated each other only slightly less than they hated them.
He paced again, his boots tapping sharply over the flagstone floor.
And then, a darker thought gripped him.
What if Belvaris and Norwyke made peace—to destroy us?
A sick twist curled in his stomach. He could almost see it.
Malveria banners on fire. Malverian soldiers dead in the fields. The red banners of Belvaris flying beside Norwyke's black sigils. The cobblestones of Aldenbury slick with blood. His head on a spike. And Rosamund…
A flicker of stillness pierced through the chaos in his mind.
No. Rosamund would be safe. Cassia would never let anything happen to her. The Belvarian princess, fierce and calculating as she was, loved Rosamund as her own blood. And Rosamund, bright-eyed and impossibly brave, was more than just the queen's daughter—she was Malveria's last thread of hope. If Victoria was gone, Rosamund would be the only claim strong enough to keep the realm from crumbling
And she needed to be protected.
That thought brought with it the first sense of purpose Caldur had felt all morning.
He pushed away from the desk with sudden urgency and strode toward the door, the long tail of his coat billowing behind him.
He needed to see her.
He moved quickly through the castle's halls, mind spiraling with contingencies. The guards bowed as he passed, but he barely saw them. The Queen's Chambers were not far. That was where Rosamund had been staying, along with Victoria. It had become their shared space in recent months— since Victoria moved out of their chamber in the king's quarters. He shook his head to remove that thought. That shouldn't be his thoughts at the moment.
He was so consumed in thought that he almost collided with someone at the turn just before the queen's wing.
Theodore, his right-hand man, stepped back just in time, hands raised instinctively. "Majesty!"