The carriage smelled of iron, oil, and old wards.
Elayas registered it dimly, through the pressure that wrapped his thoughts in soft restraint. The night air cut sharper than expected, slipping through the cracks in the reinforced frame, cold enough to sting exposed skin.
That, at least, kept him present.
Metal locks clicked into place beneath him as the bed-frame was secured to the carriage floor. Hands checked straps again—efficient, practiced, not cruel. Men who had done this before. Men who did not expect the cargo to resist.
Elayas stared upward.
The sky appeared only in fragments through the narrow window slits—black, starless, interrupted by stone arches as they passed beneath the outer gates. Torches burned along the walls, their flames bending in the wind, shadows stretching and snapping like living things.
"Easy," one of the escorts murmured. "He's breathing. That's enough."
Breathing.
A status.
Not a life.
The gates groaned open.
Beyond them waited the road—and the carriage proper, reinforced with darkened glass etched in sigils that pulsed faintly as mana stirred through them. Old sigils. Expensive. Built to endure siege spells and sabotage alike.
They slid him inside.
The interior swallowed sound. As the door shut, the world narrowed to creaking wood, the low hum of warding, and the slow, relentless rhythm of hooves striking stone.
Elayas counted them.
Four horses. Heavy breeds. Trained not to panic.
Outside, armor whispered. Boots shifted. Too many escorts for a dying boy. Too much caution.
They're afraid of interference, he realized.
The poison tugged again at his focus. Thoughts drifted if he didn't anchor them. He clenched his jaw, grounding himself in sensation—the vibration of the wheels, the chill seeping through the floor, the faint pressure of sigils brushing against his skin like static.
Time stretched.
The road changed beneath them. Stone gave way to packed earth. The sound of hooves dulled, uneven now. The carriage swayed slightly as the terrain shifted.
Elsewhere,
The night pressed against Silas's study. No wind. No distant city hum. Just the faint echo of his boots on polished stone.
Then — movement. Outside. Precise. Synchronized. Dark steeds, no banners, no heralds. Discipline so exact it carved the night into slices.
Silas froze.
He knew this formation.
The mother's agents.
Each rider a shadow, each hooffall a silent warning. Nothing announced them. Everything screamed intent.
The study door opened.
She stepped in. Power radiated from her like fire. Her aura bent the shadows toward her, claiming the room, pressing him back. Every step deliberate, every breath controlled.
"Elayas D. Krause," she said. Soft. Measured. Commanding.
"I assume you know why I'm here," she added. Her gaze pierced, sharp as a blade.
Silas smiled thinly, leaning against the desk. "If you're here for the boy…" His shrug was casual. "…you'll be disappointed."
Her aura flared. "Where is he?"
Silas's grin widened. "Already transported."
The woman's fingers flexed, subtle, precise. Shadows twisted around her. The air stiffened.
"And?" she pressed.
"Too late," he said, calm, confident. "By the time you reach him… he'll be beyond your reach."
Her eyes narrowed, dangerous. The room itself seemed to tense.
"You would do well to watch yourself," she said, voice low, deadly. "And your mouth."
Then — gone.
Silas blinked.
Outside, the dark steeds vanished. The night reclaimed them. Only the faint echo of hooves remained, fading too quickly to trace.
He began pacing. Steps long, deliberate. Fingers drummed against the desk.
She's coming. Fast. And she knows.
His mind raced. Calculations, contingencies, assassins already in motion.
They must finish before she arrives. They must.
Control had always been everything. Tonight, it teetered.
____
The borderlands.
Elayas had traced this region on maps once, long ago, when his hands were steady and his thoughts unclouded. Old stone pillars marked the boundaries—relics from before the current kingdoms, etched with sigils no one truly understood anymore.
The carriage slowed.
Too abruptly.
Voices rose outside, sharp and clipped. Someone knocked once against the carriage door—not a signal, but reflex.
"What is it?" a guard demanded.
Silence followed.
Then—
A scream.
Cut short.
The carriage lurched violently to the side as something struck it with crushing force. Wood splintered. One of the horses shrieked, the sound ending abruptly in a wet, final snap.
Elayas's head slammed sideways. White flared across his vision. The straps held—barely.
Shouting erupted.
Steel rang against steel.
Mana flared nearby—raw, uncontrolled, close enough to scrape along Elayas's skin like static discharge. The sigils etched into the carriage frame pulsed brighter, straining.
Through the narrow glass slits, he saw motion.
Shadows.
Too fast.
Figures dropped from above.
From the trees.
They did not rush the road. They fell into it—bodies twisting midair, blades flashing once before disappearing again. One guard collapsed without ever raising his shield, throat opened so cleanly it took him a heartbeat to realize he was dying.
Another turned, shouting an order.
A figure darted past him, boots never touching the ground, bounding from carriage roof to tree trunk in a blur of dark fabric and controlled violence.
Assassins.
Not mercenaries.
Not bandits.
Professionals.
"Inside!" someone shouted. "Protect the asset!"
Asset.
The word rang oddly in Elayas's ears.
A blade struck the carriage door, biting deep. Metal screamed. Sigils flared in protest, lines of ancient light unraveling under superior craft.
Another strike.
Another.
Mana surged again—this time focused, deliberate. The warding peeled away with a sound like tearing silk.
The door buckled.
Cold air rushed in.
A figure stood there, half-lit by torchlight, cloak absorbing the glow rather than reflecting it. Their face was hidden, but their stance was unmistakable—balanced, unhurried, lethal.
They did not look at the fallen guards.
They looked at Elayas.
Assessing.
Confirming.
Then something struck the carriage from the side—hard enough to collapse part of the frame inward. Wood cracked. The floor gave way beneath him.
The straps tore free.
Elayas slid, weightless for a terrifying instant, before gravity reclaimed him. He hit the ground shoulder-first, pain flaring bright and real, ripping a gasp from his lungs.
The night sky opened above him—vast, uncaring.
He lay there, breath ragged, vision swimming.
Boots hit the ground nearby.
Measured. Controlled.
Not rushing.
A shadow fell across him.
"Elayas D. Krause," a woman's voice said calmly. "Do not close your eyes."
Her tone cut through the haze like a blade.
He forced himself to focus.
She knelt beside him, face still hidden beneath a veil, gloved hands hovering just above his chest—careful not to touch without permission.
"We're taking you home," she said. "If you want to live, stay with me."
Beyond her, the forest erupted with motion—dark figures leaping between branches, blades flashing, bodies falling. The stone beneath Elayas's back hummed faintly, old and remembering.
The chandelier was gone.
But the world was still watching.
And for the first time since the transfer began, Elayas understood—
This was not rescue.
This was retrieval.