Everthorne Manor's courtyard pulsed with activity. Blacksmiths hammered metal into razor-sharp blades, soldiers strapped on armor, and stablehands tightened the girths on restless horses. The air was thick with the scent of burning coal and oiled leather.
Amelia stood at the center of it all, issuing commands as though she had been born to do so.
"Ensure provisions are properly stowed—waste is a luxury we cannot afford," she told a steward before turning to the quartermaster. "See that every soldier carries a weapon. No exceptions."
The quartermaster nodded and hurried off.
A familiar figure lingered nearby. Grace.
Her ever-loyal lady's maid stood with wide eyes, her hands clasped in front of her.
"I never thought I'd see you giving orders to soldiers, My Lady."
Amelia exhaled, smoothing the gloves on her hands. "I had no choice."
Grace hesitated, then stepped closer. "You've changed."
Amelia didn't reply. She couldn't.
The sound of approaching footsteps turned her attention. Clara.
Draped in deep crimson, Clara moved with effortless grace, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she surveyed the preparations.
"So, the Duchess is truly going to war."
Amelia crossed her arms. "Did you come here just to watch?"
Clara chuckled. "On the contrary. I came to offer my assistance."
Amelia frowned. "You?"
Clara placed a hand on her chest, feigning offense. "Why so shocked? You forget, my dear, I've spent most of my life playing court politics. If you intend to bargain with the lords for full support, you'll need someone who understands how men like them think."
Amelia paused. As much as she disliked admitting it, Clara was right. Politics had never been her strength—but Clara thrived in it.
"Fine," Amelia relented. "But if you cause trouble—"
Clara grinned. "Oh, Amelia, what is life without a bit of trouble?"
Before Amelia could reply, a guard strode toward them, his expression tense.
"Your Grace, a rider approaches! He bears the king's crest!"
Amelia straightened. "Bring him to me immediately."
Moments later, the rider—a dust-covered soldier—knelt before her, breathing hard.
"Your Grace, I bring urgent news from the front."
Amelia's pulse quickened. "Speak."
The soldier swallowed, his forehead damp with sweat. "The Duke of Everthorne has disappeared."
The world stilled.
Amelia's breath caught. Claude. Missing?
She forced her voice to remain steady. "Explain."
The soldier wiped the back of his hand across his brow. "Three nights ago, the Duke led a raid on the enemy's citadel. The fighting was brutal, but by morning, he was gone. His men searched, but there was no trace of him."
A dull ache spread through Amelia's chest. Claude, gone.
Grace clutched a hand to her bosom. "Oh, My Lady."
Even Clara's smirk had vanished, her expression unreadable.
The soldier lowered his gaze. "Some believe he may have been taken prisoner."
Taken prisoner.
Amelia's fists clenched.
Claude was out there—injured, captive, or worse—and she was not going to sit and wait for news.
She turned to her steward, her voice like steel. "Alter our departure. We leave at dawn."
Grace paled. "My Lady—are you certain?"
Amelia met her gaze, unwavering. "I am going to find him."
_____________________________________________________________________________
The morning was chill and heavy with mist.
Fog clung to the open fields like spectral waves, rolling over the earth in slow, creeping tendrils. The sky was a canvas of infinite gray, its flat clouds pressing down as if mourning the hush of a world still caught in slumber. The trees stood tall and skeletal, their leafless branches whispering in the wind, while distant mountains loomed behind a veil of fog—keeping secrets Amelia was not yet meant to uncover.
But she had no time to appreciate the eerie beauty of dawn.
Amelia rode sidesaddle atop a dark bay stallion, its powerful muscles shifting beneath her, nostrils flaring in restless defiance. The scent of wet earth and saddle leather filled her lungs as she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
Behind her, a column of riders and carriages stretched into the distance—guards, trained knights, and noblemen sworn to House Everthorne. Wagons groaned beneath the weight of provisions, and banners emblazoned with Everthorne's sigil fluttered weakly in the morning breeze.
To her right, Clara rode with unsettling ease, swathed in a crimson cloak. Her expression was unreadable, her posture too relaxed—as though this were a mere courtly excursion rather than a perilous journey into the unknown.
"You seem tense, Duchess," Clara mused, her voice as smooth as silk.
Amelia barely spared her a glance. "If you're here to taunt me, I suggest you conserve your strength."
Clara smirked. "Not at all. I only wondered—have you ever commanded a charge?"
"No," Amelia admitted, her gaze fixed ahead. "But I am a quick learner."
Clara chuckled, though something sharp edged her amusement. "Let's hope so. The world beyond Everthorne is not as forgiving as your estate."
The highway stretched before them, winding through thick forests and rolling hills. The farther they rode from Everthorne, the more the landscape changed.
Gone were the tidy roads of the northern provinces. In their place lay a treacherous path—uneven, gnarled with roots, and thick with the muck of last night's rain. The forest closed in, its ancient trees wrapped in creeping moss, their massive trunks standing like silent sentinels. Strange bird calls echoed through the canopy, and somewhere in the distance, the long, haunting howl of a lone wolf sent a shiver up Amelia's spine.
She was being watched.
The deeper they ventured, the more she understood how different this world was from the structured life she had always known.
This was Claude's world—the world of war, of bloodshed, of men who disappeared without a trace.
But she would not let him become another lost name in history.
Her gloved fingers tightened around the reins. "We ride until dark. No stops unless absolutely necessary."
Her tone left no room for argument.
Even Clara, for once, did not protest.
As the riding party disappeared into the mist, Amelia resisted the urge to look back.
Whatever lay ahead, she would face it.
And she would find Claude—no matter the cost.