Daxon sat calmly on the sofa in the main room, a glass of red wine trembling faintly in his hand. Beside him, Melly had already fallen asleep under the effect of the sleeping drug. He had no intention of letting the girl cause trouble or witness things she wasn’t meant to see or hear.

Heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs caught Daxon’s attention. As soon as he saw his son’s face emerging from the narrow corridor that led to the basement, his brow rose.

A gaping bite mark bloomed beneath Darien’s right eye—reddened and swollen, still glistening with fresh blood. The black leather glove on his right hand was also stained, unclear whether it was his blood or someone else’s.

Darien cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “That damned mutt bit me,” he growled, still fuming with rage.

Daxon merely sighed. “You really need to learn to control your emotions, Darien,” he said softly, but his voice held a rebuking weight. “That wound needs treating, but we can’t call for a physician now. Wait until we’re back home. I don’t want to leave behind any trace.”

Darien nodded begrudgingly, then slumped into the chair across from his father. He wiped his face with a grimace, the pain clearly biting.

“Father…” he began, voice laced with unease. “Do you think Lord Rathsture will come after us? Are we… really safe after taking them?”

Daxon took a long sip from his glass. His eyes lingered on the wine’s surface, silent for a moment before he replied.

“Of course they’re searching for her with everything they have,” he said flatly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Aiden is tearing Glimfell apart stone by stone to find that little girl.”

Darien stiffened. “Then what if he suspects us?”

Daxon shrugged, unbothered. “He will.”

“But—” Darien nearly rose from his seat, but Daxon raised a hand, silencing him.

“But we’ll be fine,” Daxon continued, his tone cold and assured. “There’s no evidence. No witnesses. As long as we keep them hidden in a remote enough place, no one will ever find them. And don’t forget, House Rathsture has enemies. Plenty of them. With the Queen missing, Aiden has far greater fires to put out than two commoners who vanished without a trace.”

Darien finally settled back, clearly still uneasy, but with no further protest. Meanwhile, Daxon finished his wine and stared at his son for a long, measured moment.

“If we manage to extract the girl’s talent…” he said, voice dropping lower, like an echo rising from the depths of ambition, “the name Blackthorn will no longer stand in the middle. We will rise… one tier above the rest.”

.

.

.

Riven slowly opened his eyes, his vision still blurred. The world around him spun, and a sharp sting burned across his entire face. Though he couldn’t see clearly, he knew his face must have been ruined—bloody and badly swollen.

But he didn’t care.

This wasn’t the time to dwell on pain.

All that mattered was saving Melly.

With heavy breaths, Riven began to move. Every muscle screamed, every joint felt like it had been cracked open. Still, he forced his body to respond, inch by inch.

His hand groped along his side, searching for something. Then he found it—the cold edge of the dagger he had hidden when he bit into Darien’s face. Even in the midst of his fury, he hadn’t lost his mind. The attack had been a distraction, a calculated move to make Darien lower his guard. When the dagger dropped, Riven had fallen over it, shielding it with his body before being knocked unconscious.

Now, with trembling fingers, he grasped the hilt and began sawing at the ropes binding his wrists. Every tug sent a jolt of pain through him, but he didn’t stop. There was no other choice.

The rope finally snapped.

One hand free. Then the next. He moved to his legs, slicing through the cords at his knees and ankles. His movements were slow but steady. The sound of fibers breaking apart echoed clearly in the silent room.

When the last tie fell away, his body slumped to the floor. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm the thunder in his chest. The dagger remained firm in his right hand.

With what strength he had left, Riven stood. His bones creaked. Pain shot through his back and shoulders, but he endured it. His body felt like a wreck, but his eyes were sharp again.

He raised his head and stared at the closed door ahead.

There was no time to rest.

His sister was still here. Still trapped in this place.

And as long as he could breathe, he wouldn’t stop.

Riven tightened his grip on the dagger and stepped forward into the darkness. His steps were shaky, but the determination in his gaze was sharper than the blade he carried.

His footsteps were slow, nearly soundless. Bare feet on the cold wooden floor, he held his breath, suppressed the pain, and blended with the shadows lining the narrow hallway.

The wooden stairs at the end creaked slightly underfoot, and Riven froze. He steadied himself to avoid further noise, then climbed, moving like a creeping shadow. At the top, he pressed against the wall and peeked around the corner.

Silence.

No footsteps. No voices. This house—wherever it was—seemed to be occupied only by the kidnappers.

He slipped down the main corridor and spotted a small kitchen on the right. There, on an old wooden table, he found a set of kitchen knives. He picked one up, gripping the cold wooden handle tightly, then tucked his dagger into his waistband.

He moved toward the window. Cracking it open slightly, he peered outside. The view was nothing like the Glimfell he remembered.

Towering trees circled the house like a natural fortress. Wind stirred the leaves, but no human voices echoed in the distance. No crowds. No guards. Only a single carriage stood in the muddy yard, along with one horse tied to a post.

One carriage. One horse.

No signs of an escort or reinforcements.

That meant only two captors. Perhaps three, including the driver.

Too good an opportunity to pass up.

Riven moved deeper into the house. Knife in hand, eyes alert to every creak and shadow, he paused before one of the bedrooms, its door ajar. Through the crack, he saw a man sleeping soundly on a wooden bed. It didn’t take much to guess who he was.

Daxon Blackthorn.

Riven’s breath caught in his throat.

His fingers reached for the door and pushed it open with care. The hinges made no sound. The room remained dim. He stepped in, moving closer to the bed with the silence of a shadow. His heartbeat thudded so loudly he could almost hear it, but he kept his focus.

Riven stood over the sleeping man.

His breathing grew shallow. The knife trembled in his grip, not out of hesitation, but from the lingering pain in his broken body.

Still, his eyes stayed locked on the target.

Before him, the older man lay curled slightly on his side. A faint glow from the oil lamp in the corner reflected off his half-gray hair. His expression was calm, his breathing slow and deep, with not the slightest awareness that death was standing only inches away.

Riven adjusted his stance, angling the blade.

Then, like a trained predator, he brought the knife down, aiming straight for the artery beneath the man’s jaw.

But just inches before the blade could reach skin—

A hand shot up, seizing his wrist with terrifying strength.

Frozen.

The man’s eyes snapped open, filled with cold, unflinching awareness.

Riven froze where he stood, heart pounding wildly in his chest, as the grip on his arm began to tighten.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep