The parchment bore a single sentence, inscribed in Charlotte's own hand:
"Cut the root before it spreads."
No seal. No flourish. And yet, the message was unmistakable. House Vellador had crossed the line—from whispered dissent to open threat. The time for silence had ended.
Elias rode at dusk.
His armor was not the silvered regalia worn for court, but dusk-gray steel—silent, brutal, built for shadows. At his side rode a cadre of Black Hall knights, sworn to the crown and to Charlotte alone. They bore no banners, no house sigils. Only purpose. Only ghosts.
Their destination: a Vellador outpost. Officially, a hunting lodge tucked deep in the northern woods. Unofficially, long suspected of housing ledgers, informants, and unauthorized shipments. Well outside the capital's gaze.
They arrived at midnight.
No horns. No torches. Just the hush of pine needles shifting in the wind and the quiet snort of horses, quickly loosed.
Elias gave the signal. The knights moved like smoke.
Perimeter guards fell first—one silenced by blade, the other by a dart to the neck. No alarm was sounded. No cry reached the trees.
Inside, a fire cracked. Two agents rolled dice, a third read by lanternlight.
Elias kicked in the door.
It was over in moments.
Not murdered—captured. Charlotte had commanded it: confessions before silence.
They seized the ledgers. Uncovered forged royal seals. And in a locked crate: concentrated nightroot powder—the same poison used in the attempted assassination.
Behind a rack of wine bottles, they found a concealed chamber. A map. Noble estates marked in red. House Aldwyn. House Galveth. And one ominously near the royal orphanage Charlotte had founded.
"She's the string they mean to cut," Elias muttered, rage simmering low and sharp. "And then unravel everything tied to her."
One captive, bloodied but conscious, whispered, "We were told to wait. Until after the autumn gathering. After the next mistake."
Elias seized him by the collar. "Mistake?"
"She's too visible now," the man gasped. "They wanted the people to see her fall. To doubt her. To see her weak. Then—we move."
Elias dropped him, disgust curling in his gut.
Outside, wind stirred the treetops.
Elias stepped to the forest's edge, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the capital spires. Charlotte had chosen well—striking before rot set deep. But this was only one root.
He knelt. Inked a letter with steady hand and battle-wearied urgency:
Your Highness—The Vellador lodge is silenced. We have captives. Evidence. Poison.And worse: there is more.They plotted further. You must never go alone, not even in peace.Let them say you are cursed—They fear what they cannot kill.—Elias
Quiet sword. Faithful heart.
Charlotte read the letter at dawn. Its ink was barely dry.
And by then, Elias was already riding again—this time, to House Aldwy.