The city had not recovered from the festival.
Lanterns still hung in the streets, flickering as if unaware of the storm forming beneath them.
Soren stood in the center of it all.
Eugene approached carefully.
"My lord… we've traced the route from the alley."
Soren didn't turn.
"The witnesses confirm two hooded figures dragged a woman away from the festival grounds. She was alive when they left."
Soren's jaw tightened slightly.
That meant time.
That meant she could still be found.
Eugene hesitated.
"…We followed their path. They didn't go far. The trail leads to an abandoned estate outside the eastern road."
A pause.
Then carefully—
"There are signs they're still there."
Soren finally moved.
Slowly turning his head.
"…Still there."
His voice was quiet.
Dangerously so.
Eugene nodded once.
"We believe so, my lord."
That was all Soren needed.
He didn't speak again.
Just began walking.
***
The Abandoned Viermont Estate was broken.
Old stone walls. Overgrown gardens. A place forgotten by time.
Except—
not anymore.
Soren stopped at the entrance.
Guards moved to follow—
He raised a hand.
They froze.
"No one enters after me."
Eugene stiffened.
"My lord—"
Soren's gaze didn't shift.
"If I am not out in ten minutes…"
A pause.
"Burn it."
Eugene hesitated only a second.
Then nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Inside the air was damp.
Soren walked through the broken halls without hesitation.
He followed faint signs.
Scratches on wood. Footprints in dust. A dropped piece of fabric that wasn't Freya's.
He heard voices ahead, he stopped and listened. He heard laughter coming from the room ahead.
Liora's voice.
"This was a mistake," she hissed. "We should have gone farther—"
Elora snapped back.
"We couldn't risk moving her again! The traders wanted her here tonight!"
Soren's eyes darkened.
So that was it.
He stepped forward.
The door ahead creaked slightly.
Both women froze instantly.
Then the door opened.
And Soren Beaumont walked in.
Silence fell like a blade.
Elora's face went pale immediately.
Liora stumbled backward.
"No—"
Soren didn't look angry.
Not at first.
He looked… calm.
Like he had finally found a missing piece of something he already knew the shape of.
"…Where is she."
His voice was soft.
Elora shook.
"We—we don't know exactly—she was already handed off—"
Soren tilted his head slightly.
"You sold her."
Liora's voice broke.
"She was worth money— and people were willing to pay alot for her."
Soren took a step forward.
The room shifted instantly.
Both women flinched.
Elora lifted her hands slightly.
"We didn't hurt her—"
Soren moved.
One hand slammed into the wall beside Elora's head.
Stone cracked under the force.
She gasped sharply.
Liora screamed.
Soren leaned in slightly.
"That was not my question."
A pause.
His crimson eyes burned into them.
"Where. Is. She."
Elora trembled violently now.
"Slave traders—we handed her to a caravan—they took her west and thats all we know."
The words settled.
Soren stepped back slowly.
And for the first time—
something changed in his expression.
Something colder.
"You sold her to traffickers."
Elora nodded quickly.
"Yes—yes—but we can tell you the route—"
Soren raised a hand.
She stopped speaking instantly.
Not because she chose to.
But because she felt it—
the shift in the air.
Like the room itself had stopped breathing.
Soren turned slightly toward the exit.
"…Eugene."
Eugene's voice came from outside.
"Yes, my lord."
Soren's voice was low.
"Burn this place to the ground." He said.
"They will not be permitted a quick end."
Eugene went still.
Soren's gaze remained fixed ahead.
"Let them understand exactly what happens when they think they can sell what belongs to me."
Then quieter—
"Every mistake they made will be accounted for."
Eugene bowed his head slightly.
"…Understood, my lord."
Soren's expression didn't change.
But something in his eyes had.
Something far worse.
Then he continued forward.
And behind him—
the estate began to burn.
"My lord… the caravan routes—"
Soren didn't slow.
"Already moving."
Eugene froze.
"…sir?"
Soren's eyes were fixed ahead.
Far beyond the estate.
Beyond the city.
Beyond everything.
"I am going to retrieve my wife."
Then quieter—
"And anything that stood in her way… will regret it existed.".
***
The caravan had settled deep into the forest for the night.
Wagons circled loosely around a dying fire, men scattered between them—some asleep, some drinking, some keeping half-hearted watch.
Freya sat inside the locked wagon.
Her wrists ached.
Her breathing was slow.
They thought she was contained.
They thought the rope and iron lock were enough.
A shadow passed outside the wagon.
Then the latch shifted.
Freya didn't move.
The door creaked open.
One of the men stepped inside.
Freya smelled it.
Alcohol.
Strong.
His movements were sluggish and unsteady.
Her pulse quickened.
He glanced around the wagon before his eyes landed on her.
"Still awake," he muttered.
Freya stayed still.
He stepped closer.
"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be sitting alone," he slurred.
Freya's muscles tensed.
But she remained perfectly still.
The man knelt down in front of her.
His breath smelled of cheap ale.
"Maybe I should keep you company."
Freya said nothing.
"Shouldn't be lookin' at me like that…" he muttered.
"Makes a man think bad thoughts."
Freya's stomach twisted.
He reached towards her and slowly started to loosen the ties on the front of her dress.
His hands slowly slipping inside.
Freya's muscles tensed.
Freya moved instantly.
She twisted sharply and slammed her elbow into his chest.
The drunken man stumbled backward far easier than expected, balance already compromised from the drink.
He cursed loudly—
Freya lunged.
She shoved him hard into the wooden wall of the wagon.
His head smacked against the side with a dull crack.
And instantly—
he dropped.
Freya froze, panting, and staring at the unconscious man on the floor.
The alcohol had made him slower and easier to take down.
Freya whispered shakily,
"Thank the gods…"
Then froze—
Listening.
Outside—
nothing.
No shouting.
No footsteps.
No one had heard.
Her chest heaved with relief.
She dropped beside the man on the ground quickly.
Her hands searched his waist—
And there dhe found a knife.
She yanked it free from his belt.
Cold steel glinted in the dim moonlight.
Freya gripped it tightly.
Her eyes dropped to her dress.
And she nearly cursed aloud.
The thing was ridiculously heavy and layered.
Dragging around her ankles.
It was an utterly useless dress for escaping through a forest.
Soren had absolutely chosen this nightmare on purpose.
Freya grit her teeth.
"Of course he did…"
And suddenly—
she heard his voice in her head.
"If you run, little wife, I'd like to see how far you get carrying ten pounds of fabric."
Freya stared down at the dress in disbelief.
"…That insufferable man."
He had done this on purpose.
Without hesitation, she pressed the blade to the fabric.
And sliced upward.
Until the heavy skirt was cut just above her knees.
The torn fabric pooled around her feet.
Instant relief.
She moved her legs slightly.
Much better.
She let out a shaky breath.
"There…"
No more tripping over silk.
No more being dragged down by lace.
Now—
she could run.
Slipping Away
Freya crept toward the wagon door very carefully.
Her heart pounded so loudly she swore the whole camp must hear it.
The door creaked softly as she pushed it wider.
She froze and waited.
The men remained asleep.
Some sprawled by the fire.
Others passed out beside overturned bottles.
Freya slipped from the wagon.
Barely breathing.
Then crouched low and moved between shadows.
Toward the dark tree line.
And the second she reached the forest—
She ran.
***
Soren saw a camp up ahead.
When he arrived the camp was quiet.
His men surrounded the clearing swiftly, silently, weapons drawn.
But Soren barely noticed them.
His eyes were already scanning and searching.
Then—
one of the wagons sat open.
His crimson gaze sharpened instantly.
He dismounted before his horse had fully stopped.
"Sire—" Eugene started.
Soren ignored him completely.
He strode toward the wagon.
And what he found inside made the entire world stop.
A man lay unconscious on the floor.
Half-drunk.
Blood at his temple.
And beside him—
lay the shredded remains of Freya's dress.
Torn.
Slashed apart.
Soren froze.
His eyes locked onto the ruined fabric.
Then to the unconscious man.
Then back again.
His stomach dropped.
For one horrible—
sickening—
moment—
his mind went somewhere dark.
His breathing stopped.
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
The wagon suddenly felt too small.
Too suffocating.
Too full of implications he did not want to think about.
"She was in here…" Eugene whispered behind him.
Soren didn't answer.
Because all he could see—
was her torn dress beside another man.
And all he could think—
was what that meant.
The air around him changed instantly.
The air turned terrifyingly cold.
Soren slowly turned toward the unconscious trader.
The man groaned awake.
Then froze the second he saw who stood above him.
Fear drained every drop of color from his face.
Soren's voice came low.
"What did you do to her."
The man trembled.
"I—I didn't—"
Soren grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the wagon wall.
Hard enough the wood cracked.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER."
The trader gagged.
Panic flooding his face.
"NOTHING—NOTHING I SWEAR—!"
Soren's grip tightened.
His voice dropped into something inhuman.
"Then explain."
The man shaken.
"She knocked me out! She escaped and probably ran into the woods!"
Soren stared at him.
Searching his face.
Judging every twitch.
Every breath.
Then—
very slowly—
he realized.
Freya had done this, she fought back and managed to escape.
Relief crashed through him so violently it almost hurt.
But it lasted only a second.
Because then— came rage.
Because this man had still tried.
He had still cornered her.
Still frightened her enough to make her fight.
Soren's expression emptied.
And somehow—
that was worse.
The trader whimpered.
"Please—please I told you—"
Soren released him.
The man dropped gasping to the floor.
Hope flickered across his face—
For one second.
Then Soren drew his blade.
One clean movement.
The trader's plea died in his throat.
And a moment later—
he hit the floor lifeless.
Silence consumed the wagon.
Even Eugene stood frozen.
Soren slowly wiped the blade clean.
Then turned toward his men.
His expression was utterly unreadable.
"Kill the rest."
Every soldier in the clearing stiffened.
Soren's crimson eyes darkened.
"Leave none of these filth breathing."
His men moved instantly.
The camp erupted into chaos.
Shouting.
Steel.
Screams.
He stepped out of the wagon, still holding the shredded remains of Freya's dress in one hand.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes narrowed toward the forest.
Then he mounted his horse in one smooth motion.
And his voice came low.
Terrifyingly certain.
"Find her."
Then softer—
almost possessive—
"Before anything else does."
And with that—
Soren disappeared into the forest.
Hunting only for her.