"It was my uncle, Marcel, who sent the assassins. I swear by it. But they failed. Again and again… until one day…"
Dale coughed, choking on pain. "Three men came to us. They said they had succeeded. They had abducted the Crown Prince."
Leesa froze. The dungeon fell deathly silent.
"They drugged him… put him in a large crate. He was unconscious. They told us the box had been… loaded onto the ship. Just before your men arrested me."
Leesa's fury erupted. Her fist collided with his gut once more, but not for a confession—this time, it was personal. That ship had been sealed and exported in her father's name. The noble crest of Astandra—her own blood—was used in this vile betrayal.
"I… I didn't know," Dale whimpered. "Not until it was done… I swear…"
It was nearly half an hour before the screams faded. By then, Dale was slumped against his chains, scarcely breathing, drenched in his own blood.
Leesa stepped back, breathing evenly, the predator's calm settling in after the kill.
Dale laughed low, ragged, mad. "You're too late... knight in shining armour. The ship is long gone. There's nothing you can do now. He's gone."
She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned without a word. He would not survive the night—not from his wounds, nor from what would follow. The dungeon guards would find only a whisper of him left by dawn. And Leesa… Leesa would find the ship. No matter where it had gone.
Leesa emerged from the dungeon, the weight of her discovery pressing heavily upon her shoulders. The dim corridors of the lower levels gave way to the grand stone passageways of the palace, but even the flickering torches and tall windows could not lift these shadows clinging to her steps. She had told no one of her descent into the dungeons—not Hendricus, not Roman, not even Anton. Only one name lingered in her mind now, the one person whose trust she feared to bruise again.
Weinne. The lady's maid had always been more than a servant. She had been a friend, a quiet pillar in Leesa's tumultuous life. Weinne had weathered the storms of palace politics, warfront wounds, and even the whisperings of Leesa's reckless bravery. And yet, the last time Leesa had vanished without a word, Weinne's fury had been unmatched, her worry spilling over in frustrated tears and sharp rebukes. That memory stung more than any dagger's edge.
Leesa had made up her mind. Before setting out again, she would not leave Weinne in the dark. But fate had already moved. As she turned the corner of the northern hall, she found Weinne already there, waiting in the shadow of a high-arched window, hands clasped before her and her head bowed in a manner both dutiful and weary.
"My lady," Weinne said softly, rising from her curtsy.
Leesa paused, a flicker of guilt flashing across her eyes. "Weinne," she began, her voice steady yet gentle, "I leave for the port now. Go to Anton and deliver this message tomorrow. Not before. Until then, not a word to anyone."
Weinne's brows furrowed, though her lips did not move. Her hands tightened ever so slightly around the folds of her apron. "My lady," she said at last, her voice low with concern, "you… are not walking into danger again, are you?"
Leesa smiled faintly, that familiar half-smile she wore whenever the truth was too heavy to be spoken aloud. Of course, Weinne knew her too well. The halls of the palace had seen Leesa return bloodied and broken far too many times. The tales of her recklessness had grown into legend—how she fought at the front lines, how she bled for justice, how she stood where no noble daughter should have ever stood. But Weinne… she never sought to stop her. She only wished to know and to prepare, in her own quiet way.
"I will be fine, Weinne," Leesa replied, the words floating softly in the stillness between them.
She did not wait for permission or comfort. She turned, her boots echoing through the stone halls as she made her way to the stables, to the road, to the port—where a ship, bearing the name of her house, sailed away with her heart imprisoned in a wooden crate.
Flavian. She would bring him back. Or the sea would never rest.
Leesa arrived at the port and astrid her horse just as the horizon began to bleed gold into the sea. The sun, low and proud, painted the sky in strokes of crimson and flame, but she had no eye for beauty that evening. Her mind was fixed, her purpose sharp as tempered steel. Whether it was desperation, devotion, or the fire of justice burning in her chest, she had not allowed herself a moment's rest.
She dismounted, draped in the midnight hues of her imperial uniform, the silver badge of honour glinting on her chest, she moved like a storm that no soul dared impede. There was only one woman in the entire Empire who wore that uniform with such fearsome rights.
"C-Commander!" gasped the head steward of the west port, hurrying to her side, his voice trembling as he removed his cap. "Forgive me, but… what brings you here?"
Leesa dismounted in one smooth motion, her eyes like sharpened obsidian, glinting beneath the hood she threw back.
"When," she asked, her tone cold and cutting, "did the last ship leave this harbour?"
The head's words faltered beneath the weight of her stare. "It… it left a day ago, my lady. The same night, the officer from the surveillance team was seized."
A thin breath left Leesa's lips. One day. A whole day. She clenched her fists, furious at herself for every hour she spent beneath palace stone instead of salt-stung wind. The ship had long since departed, laden with exports, cloaked in false paperwork, carrying within its bowels the stolen prince of the Empire.
"Bring me a boat. Now."
The head gave no argument. Word spread quickly down the docks, and within minutes, the best vessel they could offer was drawn forward—a sturdy skiff, weather-worn but serviceable. Not a vessel of war, nor one meant for haste, but the only thing swift enough to answer her need.
Leesa gave a brief nod of thanks, then stepped aboard. Her cloak was cast aside, and the oars were in her hands before anyone could offer assistance. Her boots braced against the worn timber, her arms taut with purpose. She pushed the skiff out of the shallows and began to row, strong, even strokes cutting through the tide. She had no time for hesitation.
Alone upon the open waters, with only the stars beginning to rise in the darkening sky and the crashing of waves around her, she rowed with the strength of wrath and hope braided into every stroke. This was no mere voyage. This was a race against time, against fate itself. She would find that ship. She would find him.