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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A s Ulric sat in his study waiting for Jessamin, a strange peace settled over him.

For the first time since she had arrived in Norhaven, he felt truly whole.

The weight that had pressed upon his chest for so long—the suspicion, the fear, the crushing responsibility—had lightened.

Not vanished, but transformed into something bearable when shared with her.

He leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a rare moment of contentment.

Their morning together had been… perfect.

The stiff formality that had defined their interactions had melted away, replaced by something far more precious.

When she’d smiled at him across the breakfast table, it wasn’t the cautious smile of a political bride.

It was real—warm and intimate and meant only for him.

He traced the rim of his cup with one finger, still feeling the ghost of her touch from the sacred springs.

The memory sent heat coursing through him.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon they would complete what they had begun.

He would knot inside her and finally claim her fully as his wife, his queen, his mate.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. A flicker of unease disturbed his contentment.

Jessamin had said she would join him shortly. How long did it take a female to get dressed? He glanced at the door, then back to the reports before him, forcing himself to focus. She was the queen of Norhaven now, not a prisoner. She had every right to her privacy, her independence.

Twenty minutes. The unease crystallized into something sharper.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. This was foolish. She was likely braiding her hair or speaking with a handmaiden. Yet the prickle at the back of his neck—the same warning sense that had saved his life countless times in battle—would not be silenced.

He strode through the corridors, his pace quickening with each step. When he reached her chambers, no one answered his knock.

“Jessamin?”

He hesitated, but his sense of unease was growing and he entered her rooms. They were all empty. Nothing seemed disturbed, yet the lack of her presence was like a physical ache.

“Guards!” he yelled, his voice echoing down the corridor. Two warriors appeared instantly, alert at his tone. “Find the queen. Now. Put every available person on the search.”

The fortress erupted into controlled chaos. Guards searched every room, every corridor, every courtyard. He stalked the halls like a caged predator, his face a mask of stone that hid the growing dread in his heart.

He was pacing outside his study when Rook came towards him with swift, silent steps. “My king, Lady Elspeth is also missing.”

He went still, the implications hitting him like a blow to the gut.

“Tell me,” he said.

“We’ve searched everywhere. There’s no trace of her in the dungeon or any of the surrounding areas.”

“Where are the guards who were watching her?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Rook’s jaw clenched. “Found unconscious in the eastern passage. They remember nothing.”

A cold weight settled in his stomach. “Continue the search. Leave no stone unturned.”

He’d promised Jessamin that her uncle would never touch her. That he would protect her from all harm. And in the very hour of their reconciliation, he’d failed her.

The thought of that monster’s hands on her delicate skin, of him stealing her from their home…

He slammed his fist into the wall, barely noticing the pain. Rage boiled inside him, a seething, living thing. His Beast, always so close to the surface, clawed at his control, demanding freedom.

The minutes stretched into an hour. Reports filtered in—no sign of the queen in the kitchens, the stables, the gardens. “My king!” A young guard ran up, breathing hard. “We found something at the western postern gate.”

The guard extended his hand. In his palm lay a single black gauntlet, ornately crafted with silver inlay. Ulric recognized it instantly—the distinctive armor of Lasseran’s elite guard.

The truth crashed down upon him with crushing force. Jessamin was gone. Taken. By Lasseran.

The joy of the morning, the intimacy they had shared, the future he had finally allowed himself to imagine—it all made the current horror a thousand times worse. He had held her in his arms, tasted her skin, promised her safety. And now she was in the hands of a monster.

For one terrible moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then something shifted inside him. The shock and grief ignited, transforming into a silent, white-hot rage that filled every corner of his being.

When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally calm, devoid of all emotion. “Summon my war council. Immediately.”

Warriors and advisors gathered in the strategy room, their faces grim.

Maps were spread across the table, reports delivered in clipped, urgent tones.

Plans for a full-scale military response were proposed—armies mobilized, alliances called upon, siege engines prepared—plans that would take days, if not weeks to organize.

He listened in silence, his eyes fixed on the map of Kel’Vara. When the last advisor finished speaking, he straightened.

“Leave me,” he commanded.

As soon as they were gone, he used the hidden passage behind the wall to return to his chambers.

He pulled out an old leather pack and began loading it with weapons and trail rations.

Someone knocked on the door but he ignored it.

No one knew he was in here and by the time they realized, he would be gone.

His enhanced hearing caught a faint scratching at the door and he whirled around just as the door opened and Wulf stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Wulf’s gaze traveled from the almost full pack to his face.

“May I ask what you’re doing, Your Majesty?”

“I’m going after her,” he said, turning back to his packing. “Now.”

“Ulric,” Wulf said carefully, “I understand your pain, but one person against Kel’Vara? It’s suicide.”

“A full army would never reach her in time,” he said without looking up. “Lasseran took her for a reason. The envoy from her father warned us that he planned to use her in a blood ritual—quite possibly the blood ritual to control the Beast Curse. We don’t have weeks for a military campaign.”

“Then send your best warriors,” Wulf argued. “You cannot leave Norhaven without its king. The succession is not secure, the alliances are fragile?—”

“There is nothing,” he cut him off, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “that will stop me from going to her. Nothing.”

The icy fury in his voice silenced any further argument. He was not a king making a strategic decision. He was a male whose mate had been stolen.

“Then I’m going with you. Two can travel as fast as one.”

He hesitated, then jerked a nod. “Thank you.”

“My horse is still saddled. I left him at the stable when I heard the news. I can bring him and Storm to the far side of the training field and meet you there.”

The training field. The memory of their riding lesson almost made him falter, but he pushed it aside.

“Yes. Go now. I’ll meet you there.”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What?” he asked impatiently, trying to calculate how long it would take to get to the city.

“You know Egon grew up in the slums of Kel’Vara? If anyone can find a way into the city without attracting attention, it would be him.”

A brief, desperate hope flared in his chest. He’d take anything that would improve his odds of reaching her.

“I can’t order him to come.”

“He’ll come,” Wulf said confidently “My village is on our way south. We can stop there and pick up some items that will help us blend in once we reach the city.”

His Beast chafed at the idea of even a small delay, but Wulf was right. A sneak attack was more likely to succeed than a full-on assault.

“Very well.”

Wulf nodded and left the room.

As he finished packing, he realized his hands were shaking.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath, then another.

He touched the small carved box Jessamin had given him, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern.

The memory of her face that morning—soft with sleep, her eyes filled with trust and something deeper—threatened to shatter his composure.

He forced the image away, locking it deep inside where it could not weaken him. In its place, he cultivated his rage, honing it into a cold, focused weapon. He would need its clarity in the days ahead.

Ten minutes later, two cloaked figures rode away from the stronghold. No fanfare, no formal farewells. Just two warriors on a mission that would likely end in death.

He did not look back at Port Cael as they rode into the darkness. His gaze was fixed southward, toward Kel’Vara. Toward Jessamin.

He was not just rescuing his queen; he was reclaiming his future. And the gods help anyone who stood in his way.