The parchment displayed a solitary phrase, written in Charlotte's own script:
"Cut the root before it spreads."
There was no seal. No embellishment. Yet the intent was clear. House Vellador had crossed the threshold—from murmured dissent to blatant threat. The moment for silence had passed.
Elias set out as twilight fell.
His armor was not the shining regalia suited for court, but rather dark gray steel—quiet, ruthless, designed for stealth. Beside him rode a group of Black Hall knights, loyal to the crown and solely to Charlotte. They carried no banners, no house symbols. Only resolve. Only shadows.
Their target: a Vellador outpost. Formally, a hunting lodge nestled deep in the northern forest. Informally, long suspected of harboring ledgers, informants, and unlawful shipments. Far removed from the capital's scrutiny.
They arrived at the stroke of midnight.
No horns. No illuminating torches. Merely the soft rustle of pine needles in the breeze and the muted snorts of horses, quickly released.
Elias signaled. The knights moved like wisps of smoke.
Perimeter guards were taken down first—one silenced by a blade, the other by a dart to the throat. No alarm was raised. No shout pierced the trees.
Inside, a fire popped. Two agents were rolling dice while a third read by lantern light.
Elias kicked the door open.
It was over almost instantly.
Not executed—captured. Charlotte had ordered it: confessions before silence reigned.
They confiscated the ledgers. Discovered forged royal seals. And in a locked crate: concentrated nightroot powder—the same toxin used in the attempt on her life.
Behind a rack of wine bottles, they uncovered a hidden chamber. A map. Noble estates circled in red. House Aldwyn. House Galveth. And one chillingly close to the royal orphanage Charlotte had established.
"She's the string they intend to sever," Elias muttered, fury boiling low and sharp. "And then unpick everything connected to her."
One captive, bloodied but alert, whispered, "We were instructed to wait. Until after the autumn gathering. After the next blunder."
Elias grasped him by the collar. "Blunder?"
"She's too prominent now," the man panted. "They wanted the public to witness her downfall. To cast doubt upon her. To perceive her as weak. Then—we act."
Elias released him, revulsion twisting in his stomach.
Outside, the wind rustled through the treetops.
Elias approached the edge of the forest, his gaze locked on the far-off outline of the capital's towers. Charlotte had made a wise choice—striking before the decay set in deeply. But this was merely one root.
He knelt. With a steady hand and urgency shaped by battle wounds, he penned a letter:
Your Highness—The Vellador lodge has been subdued. We have captives. Proof. Poison. And ominously: there is more. They conspired further. You must never venture alone, not even in peace. Let them claim you are cursed—They fear what they cannot kill.—Elias
Silent sword. Faithful heart.
Charlotte reviewed the letter at dawn. Its ink was scarcely dry.
And by then, Elias was already mounted once more—this time, heading towards House Aldwy.