Day 8
They were all falling apart now. Filthy. Hollow-eyed. Starved not just of food, but of hope. Even Aidan, once so sharp and composed, now sat slumped against the wall, wrists bound, lips cracked, barely able to keep his eyes open. The cold stone floor beneath him had become his world.
And the silence?
It was broken only by the constant sound of boots outside. Imperial guards, sweeping every street like bloodhounds. The fear in the room was suffocating.
Aidan's mouth had been gagged for days now — not because they feared him screaming, but because his words had become poison. Seeds of paranoia. He had whispered the truth too calmly, too cleverly. And now they feared the boy more than they feared the empire.
The youngest of them — the spy-boy, once Aidan's friend — sat curled in the corner, shaking. Trained from childhood by Drosmere's elite, raised in the Empire, a master of deception... and yet, this siege was breaking him.
Because the truth was undeniable now:
Drosmere had abandoned them.
No rescue. No message. No fallback plan.
Only vultures waited at the end.
And so... he began to think the unthinkable.
A new plan.
Change sides.
The boy stood up, voice hoarse. "Go... try to find food," he said to the others. "I'll watch him."
The leader hesitated, but starvation was a strong persuader. With a grunt, he nodded, and the two left, blades sheathed, shoulders slumped like hunted dogs.
Now it was just the boy and Aidan.
He knelt beside him and, after a long pause, removed the gag.
Aidan didn't speak. He just stared — exhausted, but aware.
The boy whispered, "Help me."
Silence.
"I'll help you escape... but you have to promise me something."
Aidan blinked slowly. He knew what this was.
A deal.
"I want protection. From Drosmere. From the Empire. I want to live."
He was bargaining his betrayal — turning his back on his country, his comrades — in exchange for a future.
Aidan said nothing. Just kept staring.
Eventually, the other two returned, faces twisted with shame as they revealed a handful of stolen food. They ate like savages.
Aidan got a crust of bread.
And when night fell, and the others slipped into an uneasy, half-starved sleep, the boy moved.
He helped Aidan to his feet, slung the weakened body over his shoulder, and ran.
Street after street. Alley after alley. Past lanterns and locked doors. Past banners fluttering with the imperial crest.
But it was too late.
A shout.
Then another.
The chase was on.
The leader's voice roared behind them. "STOP!"
Steel clanged. Footsteps closed in.
Aidan's breath came in ragged gasps. His legs gave out — he crashed to the ground in a narrow alley.
A dead end.
The leader appeared, face wild with desperation. His blade gleamed under the moonlight.
"You... traitor."
He raised his sword.
Aidan lifted his arms with the last of his strength. The blade came down — slicing into his shoulder. Blood sprayed the wall. But the angle had been off.
He was still alive.
Panting, the leader stood above them both, eyes flickering with madness. "They'll catch us. They'll torture us. No one walks away from this... not you... not him... no witnesses."
He raised the sword again.
The boy shielded Aidan with his body.
Aidan, bleeding, stared up at the man who had once been a shadow. A ghost. A whisper in the empire.
And now, nothing but a cornered beast.
From the rooftops above — a voice.
"Drop your weapon!"
A flash of movement.
Crossbows.
Shouts in unison.
The Empire had found them.
..............................…
The war council chamber was deathly still.
Generals, advisors, and high lords stood frozen as the doors burst open.
A messenger, soaked in sweat and half-breathless, dropped to one knee and shouted:
"My Lord! Aidan Kustoria has been found. He lives!"
No one moved.
Not even Duke Lucas.
He stood at the head of the war table, hands clenched into fists, his eyes like frozen storms. For a long breath, nothing changed—until the faintest flicker of emotion cracked across his iron expression.
"Where is he?" Lucas asked. His voice was low. Dangerous. It silenced the chamber more than any scream.
"On his way here. Captain Raul led the rescue. He's wounded, but alive. The kidnappers were apprehended."
The silence broke. Some sighed. Others whispered prayers. A few wept in relief.
But Lucas… only nodded. A slow, rigid nod that betrayed the volcanic tension building within him.
Then, without a word, he stepped away from the table.
"Lead the way," he ordered.
His cloak flared behind him like a banner of war as he marched out, every guard along the corridor standing at attention. No one dared speak. No one dared meet his gaze.
He reached the palace infirmary moments before the knights arrived.
The doors opened.
A stretcher was brought forward.
There lay Aidan, pale and bruised, but breathing. Eyes fluttering. Alive.
Lucas didn't speak. He didn't fall to his knees. He didn't cry.
He simply walked to his son, stood over him… and placed a hand over Aidan's shoulder.
"...You're safe now," he whispered, so softly only his son could hear.
For all his wrath and power, Lucas Kustoria was just a father now. A father who nearly lost everything.
Then he turned—to Captain Raul.
"Who ordered this?" he asked coldly.
"We believe it was a rogue noble from Drosmere, my lord. Unofficial. Off the books."
Lucas's jaw clenched. The room dropped ten degrees.
"Then we will make it official," he said.
And just like that, the Duke of the North strode out of the infirmary—not as a grieving father, but as a man ready to bring hell to anyone who dared touch his blood.