The wagon rattled through the cobbled back streets of the Imperial Capital under cover of dusk, veiled by thick canvas and shadows. Every turn risked exposure. Every sound made the kidnappers flinch.
Inside the cramped space, one of the men whispered sharply.
"Are you sure he's the right one? No aura, no guards—he looks like a common brat."
"He's the one," the other replied coldly. "No mistake. That's the boy. The Duke's son."
Silence fell. The weight of their crime began to settle in. To kidnap a noble was treason. To kidnap him—it was simply declaring war.
Minutes later, the wagon creaked to a halt behind an abandoned tailor's shop in the slums—one of the few places the Empire's gaze rarely lingered. They moved quickly, dragging the unconscious boy out of the wagon, slipping into the crumbling building like rats in the dark.
Inside, dust swirled in shafts of dying light. The walls were cracked. The air was cold. They laid the boy down carefully—not out of kindness, but caution.
Then they waited.
And soon, the boy woke up.
His breathing changed first. Shallow. Controlled. Then his eyes opened—not wide with panic, but narrow with calculation. He didn't scream. He didn't speak.
He listened.
He tries to analyse everything.
Three men. One is asleep already. One eating. One sitting still, eyes flicking to the window every ten seconds—watchful, afraid.
In the corner, among the men, sat a face he knew.
That hurt more than the ropes that ties his hands.
A friend. Or someone he thought was a friend. The boy had trusted him—shared secrets, laughed, even sparred with wooden sticks in the palace garden. And now he sat with the enemy, wearing no guilt, no shame. Only the cold efficiency of a spy.
The boy didn't let it show. Instead, he scanned the room—walls, exits, tools. He noted what they moved, what they ignored. Everything was information. And information was survival.
"You hungry?" the man eating asked, holding out a crust of bread.
He nodded.
A piece of bread and water were tossed his way. Even with tied hands,he still eats. Survival is top priority.
They weren't hurting him. Not yet. Which meant he was important.
More than a hostage.
A symbol.
He was the key to forcing the Empire's hand—or at least Duke Lucas's. The boy didn't know the full plan yet, but he knew enough. Drosmere was growing desperate. If they'd sent spies this deep into the capital, things on the border must be worse than anyone thought.
But what they didn't know—what they couldn't see—was that this boy, quiet and small, wasn't just a noble.
He was the Flame Emperor's son.
He didn't need strength to escape.
He needed time. And a misstep.
And the moment they gave him either, he'd be ready.
Two Days Later
A ceasefire was declared across all imperial fronts — a move so sudden, so unexpected, that it shook the entire continent. Armies halted mid-campaign. Messengers were dispatched in all directions. Rumors spread like wildfire, yet the true reason remained hidden from all but the Empire's highest commanders.
Aidan, the only son of Duke Lucas, had been kidnapped.
The operation was immediately classified as Top Priority: Search and Rescue. Only a handful of elite generals and intelligence operatives knew the truth.
Lucas was already growing restless. His usual composure — honed through years of war — now faltered under the weight of uncertainty. His son wasn't stationed in a battlefield or a remote estate. Aidan had been studying inside the capital, one of the most secure places in the world.
That made it all the more terrifying.
"This wasn't the work of monsters," Lucas muttered. "It's spies. Either from within the noble circles… or another kingdom."
He did his best to comfort his wife, holding her close and whispering:
"I'll bring him home. No matter what it takes. I swear it."
Then, without rest, he departed for the capital.
When Lucas arrived, the air was already tense. The gates were shut tight. Guards flooded every street. The once-bustling avenues of the imperial city now resembled a fortress under siege. And with the border lockdown already in place, it was highly unlikely the kidnappers had escaped.
That was their one advantage.
No ransom demands had been made. No messages delivered. Which could only mean one thing: they were still trying to reach their true leader.
Within the hour, Lucas stood before Emperor Isla. Without delay, the Emperor ordered the mobilization of all internal guard units and shadow operatives. Every noble estate, underground tunnel, sewer route, and magic gate in the capital came under strict inspection.
A proclamation followed:
"No one enters. No one leaves. Until the boy is found. Even a rat will struggle to move in this city."
.............................
Inside the crumbling tailor's shop, the air had turned suffocating. The kidnappers hadn't left the building in four days. Supplies were dwindling, tempers growing thin.
"This is insane," hissed one of the men, pacing near the boarded-up window. "There's patrols every hour now. Knights. Actual knights. What if they're looking for him?"
"They don't even know he's gone," the leader snapped back. "If they did, we'd be dead already. The ceasefire is just a coincidence."
The pacing man scoffed. "No such thing as coincidence in this city."
In the corner, the boy sat tied to a chair, head lowered, eyes seemingly dazed. But behind that calm expression, his mind was racing.
He had already planted the first seeds of doubt among his captors—little comments, subtle shifts in tone, glances at doors just long enough to make them second guess each other. The sleeping one now woke up early to guard his back. The watcher by the window kept his hand near his blade even when among his own.
He hadn't said anything that sounded suspicious.
He didn't need to.
He let paranoia do the work.
"Why hasn't he spoken?" one of the men muttered that night. "Why isn't he afraid?"
"He's just a spoiled noble," another scoffed. "Too stupid to understand what's coming."
But even he didn't believe that anymore.
Day Five – The Hideout, Empire Capital
Tension hung thick in the air—bitter, metallic, like the taste of blood before the first blow. No food, barely any sleep, and guards patrolling the streets like swarms of flies. Each bootstep outside was a dagger to the nerves.
They were trapped.
The city had become a cage. Moving the boy was no longer an option. Contacting Drosmere? Risky. None of them had the authority to even start negotiations. At best, they'd make demands from here... but even that required hope.
And hope had died three days ago.
One of the kidnappers—a jittery man with sunken eyes—cracked. He said he needed air, needed to find a way to contact the kingdom. Maybe rally the others. Maybe find support. No one stopped him. No one truly expected him to come back.
He did, two days later.
Pale. Shaken. Starving.
There were only three left now: the returned man, the so-called leader, and the spy — the boy who had once been Aidan's friend.
They looked less like kidnappers and more like beggars. Beards unshaven. Fingers twitching. Paranoia seeping from every glance.
The food the man brought back was barely edible. But they devoured it like animals, hunched around the scraps, tearing bread with their teeth.
Aidan sat in the corner, hands bound but posture straight. He was only tossed a chunk of stale bread.
Still, his gaze never wavered.
The leader wiped his mouth. "So… your trip."
"Bad," the man muttered. "Every spy left in the city's been busted. No contact. No safehouses. No backup. Honestly…" He looked at them both. "I don't think this plan was even sanctioned by the Queen. Some noble probably threw us into this mess, hoping we'd either succeed or die and take the blame."
The leader said nothing. He didn't need to. He knew it too.
Silence fell again. The kind that pressed on your chest.
Then Aidan spoke.
"You're all going to die."
The words were soft. Casual. But they carved through the silence like a blade. The older man choked on his food. The spy-boy stiffened.
"Shut your mouth," he growled, trying to sound sharp.
Aidan tilted his head. Smiled.
"You can't kill me," he replied, voice cool as ice. "I'm only useful to you alive, remember?"
The room trembled with rage. The spy rose, fists clenched.
Aidan's smile widened.
"Isn't that your plan? Use me as a hostage? "
He leaned forward.
"And what then? You think Drosmere's going to save you? After your queen learns you acted without permission?"
The leader flinched. Just slightly. But Aidan saw it.
"You didn't just fail," he whispered. "You disobeyed. That makes you traitors. What do you think Drosmere does to traitors?"
The returned man looked away.
"Even if you kill me now, it's too late. My father's already here, isn't he? That's why the capital's so quiet. That's why the Empire stopped the war." Aidan's voice dropped lower.
No one moved.
No one spoke.