Seraphina waited two full days, and not a whisper reached her that felt real. No official notices. No quiet whispers from the servants. Not even court gossip could give her a scrap of truth. Just silence. And the longer it stretched, the more it strangled.
Caelan had not returned.
He was due back two days ago. He'd never gone this long without a message. Even when things were bad, he found a way. A coded bird. A signal sent through the Warden glyphs. Something. Anything.
But now? Nothing. And that told her more than words ever could.
The first sign came from her network, tucked deep in a set of trade logs. A routine supply ledger, unassuming in its ink and columns, until she spotted the envelope. No seal. No markings. Just paper, aged and deliberately common.
Inside, a single folded note.
Caelan Vorenthal. Arrested. Assault charge. Capital perimeter.
She read it twice. The third time, her eyes burned and her hands trembled. It wasn't shock. It was fury. A cold, coiled heat that settled behind her ribs.
There were no details. No name of a victim. No date. No context. Just a label thrown like meat to the wolves. A charge that would stain him permanently if it stuck. And it was designed to stick.
Seraphina knew what this was. Not a legal process. A maneuver.
A warning.
She went straight to Thalion.
He met her in the war chamber. Dim lighting. Maps left from their last planning session still cluttered the table. She didn't hesitate. Just handed him the note.
Thalion read it. Quietly. His jaw tightened, but his hands didn't shake. Not like hers. He placed it flat on the table.
"This isn't justice," she said.
"No," Thalion said. "It's a threat. And not just for him. For you."
Her stomach tightened. "We need to move. Now. But quietly. No stunts. No flags."
He nodded. "We dismantle it from the inside. If we make noise, they bury him faster."
They didn't waste time.
Seraphina lit up her oldest channels. Not couriers or spies in uniform. She called on the broken, the forgotten, the ones who owed her not gold, but truth.
Tessan, her old spymaster's apprentice, responded first. A wax-pressed message coded in kitchen slang: Storm in the cellar. Rats in the flour. You'll want gloves for this.
Harven, an ink-stained clerk buried in records, sent back: Old debts weigh heavy. I'll find what you need.
Meanwhile, Thalion dove into palace reports. He pored over guard shifts, tavern patrols, incident logs. His hands never trembled, but Seraphina noticed the small things: the unblinking focus, the clenched jaw, the shallow breath he only allowed when she wasn't looking.
By nightfall, the pieces started to fall into place.
The accusation said Caelan had assaulted a tavern girl in the early hours after heavy drinking. But the innkeeper's ledger showed Caelan had arrived alone, late, and departed before dawn. No drinking. No reported disturbance.
Two witnesses listed in the official report? Gone. One relocated six months prior. The other was a ghost, no record of employment, residency, or even a full name.
"Sloppy," Thalion muttered. "Too many holes."
"They moved fast," Seraphina said. "But not smart."
The next morning, she found the second note. This one wasn't hidden. It sat on the small table in her private chamber, placed, not dropped.
It read: He's not just imprisoned. He's being punished.
She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Instead, she folded the note slowly and slid it inside her cloak's inner lining. The silence in her spine hardened.
Thalion arrived moments later. She didn't speak. Just handed him the message.
He read it. Then slammed his fist into the stone wall. Skin split on his knuckles, blood blooming down to his wrist.
"They're not trying to discredit him," he said. "They're trying to erase him."
Seraphina's voice was calm, too calm. "Then we burn the lie down before they do."
She paused.
"Not with fire. With facts."
For the rest of the day, they hunted.
Thalion traced back inconsistencies in the Guard's chain of command. Some sign-ins didn't match signatures. One surveillance orb had a recording gap, just the time Caelan supposedly entered the tavern. Seraphina pushed into the Interrogation Unit's schedules. She found a gap, a blacklisted protocol signed by a junior officer linked to House Vessant.
Her heart sank.
Alaric. He was behind this. If not directly, then by influence. That house still had claws.
They compiled a suspect list: two palace guards, one tavern clerk, and a minor noble cousin to Evelyne. None had alibis. All had political ties.
"This isn't just House Vessant," Thalion said, scanning a scroll. "It's a network."
"Then we take it apart. One false report at a time."
But they needed proof. One person who had nothing to gain. Someone who saw Caelan that night and could testify he did nothing wrong.
She found it.
"Jonan Ves," she said. "Sixteen. Courier. Caelan gave him a dispatch from the eastern front. The boy was there. He saw him."
Thalion raised a brow. "You trust a child?"
"I trust him," Seraphina said. "His brother died in the same battle Caelan survived. He's loyal. And honest."
Thalion gave her a tight nod. "Then we move."
Seraphina penned the request herself. Formal but personal. She sealed it with her flame sigil and sent her fastest rider.
As the rider disappeared into the corridors, Thalion exhaled sharply and leaned on the edge of the strategy table.
"You should rest," he said, glancing at her pale face. "You've been at this nonstop."
She didn't answer right away. Just stared at the empty note that had started it all.
"He told me not to start a war while he was gone," she said.
"Too late for that," Thalion replied.
The silence between them thickened. Then she broke it.
"You didn't have to help me," she said. "Not after everything."
He looked at her, and his gaze was softer than before. Tired. Open.
"You love him," he said.
She didn't deny it.
"And I love you," he added. "That's how this works."
A breath caught in her throat. Not out of guilt. But because she believed him. Every word.
"I'm not going to let him be taken from you," he continued. "He doesn't deserve that. Neither do you."
When he turned away, she caught a flicker in his face, something between restraint and surrender.
They worked through the night. Every map, every report, every name connected to Caelan's arrest was pored over, dissected, and logged. Ink stained their hands. Their backs ached. Their eyes burned.
And when the first threads of dawn filtered through the window, Seraphina looked down at the table covered in evidence, and felt something settle in her chest.
This wasn't politics anymore.
It was war.
And it was personal.