While Seraphina wrestled with impossible choices behind palace walls, something far more brutal had already taken place beyond them.
Far beneath the throne rooms and polished corridors, Caelan Vorenthal sat in chains.
These weren't ordinary cells. They were cut from old stone, reinforced with spell-marked iron and meant for political enemies, assassins, or threats too dangerous to keep above ground. The fact that he was here said everything. Whoever had ordered this wasn't just trying to sideline him. They wanted him erased.
The arrest hadn't been a battle. It had been an ambush.
He had just completed his mission in the eastern provinces. The final nest had fallen. He'd fought through smoke and teeth and fire to put it down himself. The plan had been simple: return to the capital, report in, and find Seraphina. He had even decided not to write his usual weekly letter. This time, he wanted to see her face.
There were things he needed to say.
But the night before his return, he stayed at a small tavern outside the city's outer border. Just a place to sleep. One bed, one bath, no banners. The innkeeper had recognized his name, but not his face. He'd gone to bed clean, quiet, and ready to leave by dawn.
He hadn't made it to the gates.
They hit him before he even stepped out of the carriage. One blow to the jaw. Another to his gut. Hands on both arms. Shackles before he could breathe. No uniforms. No commands. Just violence.
He remembered hitting the ground. He remembered steel biting into his wrists. He remembered his mask being torn off and disappearing into the dirt.
He could have fought. Easily. The men weren't elite. They were fast, but uncoordinated. He'd taken down worse with a broken blade and a limp. But he didn't fight. Because he knew he hadn't done anything wrong. Because deep down, he believed the empire he served would give him justice.
That belief shattered the moment the chains locked.
Now, time had gone soft. He didn't know if it had been hours or days. His jaw was sore. His wrists were raw. Blood had dried on his collar.
And his name was in ruins.
The charges came quietly. A record slipped through the bars by a guard who didn't speak. A single page. He read it once.
A tavern girl had accused him of dragging her into his room and forcing himself on her. She claimed she screamed, that no one came. Other staff supported her. Two stablehands. A pair of off-duty soldiers. All ready to speak. All perfectly aligned.
It was too clean.
Caelan didn't even feel shock. Just a cold, bitter awareness of how efficiently they had done this.
They didn't want him dead.
They wanted him discredited.
They didn't want a trial. They wanted a headline. A stain so deep that no one would look too hard. No one would question why he vanished. Especially not Seraphina.
He flexed his hands. The chains clanked softly.
Then came the deeper cut.
The irony.
He had survived two assaults in his past. Different times. Different faces. One as a recruit, the other years later during a diplomatic exchange gone wrong. Both buried under silence and necessity. He had never spoken of them. Never dared. Not even to Seraphina.
And now they used this. Turned the weight of his silence into a weapon. Accused him of the very crime he had suffered from.
A brutal, efficient lie.
He closed his eyes.
It didn't matter that he knew the truth. In this cell, truth was currency he didn't have.
The mask was gone. His rank stripped. No one had come to question him. No Warden superior. No inquiry. Just locked doors and bruised ribs.
One guard had laughed when they saw him. An older man with a jagged scar over one eye.
"With a face like that, you still hid behind a mask? Let's see if we can give you a reason to keep hiding."
The fists followed. Hard. Intentional. Always the face.
He hadn't begged. He hadn't spoken.
Pain meant nothing now.
They wanted him unrecognizable.
He sat on the damp floor, leaning back against the wall. Every breath pulled at bruises under his ribs. He didn't let himself wince. Let them think they'd won.
The cell was small. Dark. Lit only by a slit high in the wall. Water pooled in one corner. He watched the reflection ripple slightly.
They wanted to make him disappear. Quietly. Without fuss.
The chains weren't just to hold him. They were to humiliate him. To send a message: This man is no longer a soldier. No longer a Warden. He is an embarrassment.
A threat to be erased.
He thought of Seraphina.
He tried to hold onto the sound of her voice. The way she said his name. Her eyes, sharp even when tired. Her fingers, brushing his when she thought no one noticed.
Would she believe him?
Would she see the lie for what it was?
He didn't doubt her heart. But the court had ways of getting into people's heads. Of isolating them.
He trusted her. That trust was one of the few things keeping him sane in that hole.
But even trust could be worn down.
He imagined what they'd told her. If they had told her anything. Maybe they planned to say he'd deserted. Maybe they were already weaving a new narrative.
He opened his eyes.
The fear wasn't for himself. It was that she might be forced to choose without knowing the truth.
He wouldn't let that happen.
They thought they had silenced him. But Caelan had survived worse. He had fought with no allies before. He had dragged himself out of darker pits.
If they wanted a war of attrition, he would give them one.
He would not be forgotten. He would not be erased.
And if they thought pain and silence would be enough, they had chosen the wrong man.
Boots echoed again. Heavy. Measured.
Two guards stopped outside the bars. Young. Unfamiliar. Their faces were blank.
One of them smirked.
Neither spoke.
Then they turned and walked away.
Caelan didn't flinch.
He simply watched.
He would remember their faces.
And when this ended, they would remember his.