Chapter 420: Torture

The silence that reclaimed the study after Eris departed was more suffocating than any noise. Soren remained standing by the heavy oak door, his forehead leaning against the cool grain, the phantom scent of her… spiced embers and something uniquely her, clinging to the air.

He felt like a man who had just watched a lifeline drift out of reach while he stood on a sinking ship, paralyzed by his own pride.

He eventually pushed off the door and paced back to his desk, but he didn’t sit. He stared at the empty chair where she had just been sitting.

I should have said something. The thought was a jagged stone in his throat. I should have reached out. Just once.

The image of her sitting there, vulnerable, beautiful, and questioning, haunted him. He thought of the way her neck had looked in the afternoon light, the way her lips had parted when she asked if he was sleeping.

He could have closed the distance in three strides. He could have bent her over that mahogany desk and shown her, with every touch and every breath, exactly how much the last four days had been a living hell of his own making. He wanted to hear her say his name, not the formal “Emperor” or even the steady “Soren,” but the broken, desperate version she cried out when he was deep inside her.

He ran a frantic hand through his disheveled hair, gripping the strands until his scalp stung. “Gods, I’m pathetic,” he whispered to the shadows.

His body was a map of tension, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. It wasn’t just the desire, though that was a constant, low-thrumming fever, it was the emotional hollow she left behind. He was the Emperor of the North, a man who had conquered ice and rebellion, yet he was currently being dismantled by the simple fact that he was too terrified to ask his wife if she loved him.

A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door shattered the quiet.

“Your Majesty,” a voice called.

Soren didn’t have time to fully mask the wreckage of his expression before the door opened. Aldric stepped in first, his sharp eyes immediately cataloging the way Soren was hunched over his desk, looking like a man who had just lost a war. Jorel followed behind him, his armor clanking softly, his cloak dusted with the light frost of the evening.

Aldric cleared his throat with deliberate, pointed volume. He knew that look. He had seen it on Soren every hour since forever.

Soren blinked, the fog of his thoughts clearing as he straightened his spine. He reached for a rogue quill, trying to appear as if he had been mid-sentence rather than mid-meltdown. “Right. Yes. Jorel. You’ve returned.”

Aldric lingered by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t jump straight to the report. Instead, he let a heavy, probing silence hang in the air.

“So…” Aldric began, his tone deceptively casual. “Did you two talk it out?”

Soren hesitated, his fingers drumming against the desk. “We talked.” He paused, the inadequacy of the statement hanging between them. “We just didn’t… talk talk.”

Aldric raised a single, expressive eyebrow. “Talk talk? Your Majesty, is that a new diplomatic term?”

“We spoke about the Winterkeep Festival,” Soren said, his voice rising in defensive irritation. “And work. Official matters regarding the High Council and the trial. We were professional.” He looked away, his voice dropping. “But we didn’t… discuss anything else.”

The silence that followed was thick with Aldric’s silent judgment. Of course you didn’t, the older man’s expression said. You both would rather die of frostbite than admit you’re cold.

“I see,” Aldric said simply, though the words carried the weight of a heavy sigh.

Soren shifted his focus to Jorel, hoping to escape Aldric’s scrutiny. But as he looked at the commander, he noticed something unsettling. Jorel wasn’t standing with his usual rigid, victorious posture.

His expression was one of troubled relief, a bittersweet triumph that didn’t sit right. He looked like a man who had won the battle but realized he had lost a soldier in the process. He was grimly satisfied, yet there was a lingering conflicted success in the set of his jaw.

“Report,” Soren commanded, his voice returning to its iron imperial register.

Jorel stepped forward, his boots thudding on the rug as he offered a formal bow. “Your Majesty. The mission to the Virelya estate is complete. Viktor Virelya has been arrested and taken into Imperial custody. He is currently being processed in the high-security wing of the dungeons. The charges were read publicly before his staff and neighbors, as you instructed.”

Soren nodded slowly. “And his reaction?”

“He resisted verbally, as expected,” Jorel replied. “He denied all charges of corruption and conspiracy. He demanded an immediate audience with you, making several threats regarding his standing on the Council, but he complied physically once he realized my men were not inclined to debate.”

“And the estate?”

“Secured,” Jorel said. “Guards are posted at every entrance. The internal staff is being questioned by the inquisitors as we speak. We are cataloging the ledgers and private correspondences.”

Jorel hesitated, his eyes dipping to the floor for a fraction of a second. This was the source of the conflict in his expression. “However… there was a complication, Your Majesty.”

Soren sat up straighter, his eyes sharpening into blue ice. “What complication?”

“Lady Bianca was present at the estate,” Jorel explained, his voice tightening. “When we attempted to escort the Duke to the carriage, she intervened. She was… hysterical. She attempted to stop the arrest by force.”

Soren’s brow furrowed. “Bianca doesn’t have the temperament for a fight. She’s a socialite.”

“She attacked one of the guards, Sire,” Jorel said, a note of guilt coloring his tone. “With ice magic. It was a localized burst, but it caught us by surprise. He was focused on the Duke. The guard is currently with the healers, injured, but stable. It was a jagged strike, aimed for the throat. She wasn’t trying to distract us; she was trying to kill.”

The air in the study grew colder. “Where is she now?” Soren asked, his voice dangerously low.

Jorel took a deep breath, steeling himself. “She… escaped, Your Majesty.”

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