The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when Abigail suddenly raised her hand, signaling Gregory to slow down. They had been riding hard for hours, stopping only briefly to rest their horses, and Gregory's body ached with fatigue. His shoulder throbbed constantly now, a dull pain that he had learned to push to the back of his mind.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice rough from the night's ride.
Abigail pointed ahead. "Look at the road."
Gregory squinted in the pre-dawn light and saw what had caught her attention. The smooth, packed earth of the Kingsroad was marred by deep tracks—recent ones, judging by their clarity.
"The riders from last night?" he guessed.
Abigail nodded, dismounting to examine the tracks more closely. "But there's something else. See here?" She pointed to a set of tracks that diverged from the main group. "One rider broke off, heading east. The others continued toward Bridane."
Gregory frowned, trying to make sense of this development. "A messenger, perhaps? Sent to report to someone?"
"Possibly," Abigail agreed, her expression troubled. "But report what? And to whom?"
She remounted, her movements betraying a new tension. "We need to increase our pace. I don't like this."
As the sun rose fully, they pushed their horses harder, the Kingsroad unspooling beneath their hooves like a gray ribbon. The surrounding landscape gradually shifted from wilderness to cultivated fields, signaling their approach to the more densely populated areas around the capital.
By midday, they began to encounter more travelers—farmers bringing goods to market, pilgrims heading to the Temple of Seiran, merchants with laden carts. The increased traffic forced them to slow their pace, much to Gregory's frustration.
"We're still making good time," Abigail assured him, noting his impatience. "We'll reach Bridane by early evening at this rate."
Gregory nodded, though he couldn't shake his growing sense of foreboding. The mysterious riders, the strange tracks, the general sense of wrongness that had permeated the kingdom since their return from the desert—it all pointed to trouble brewing, trouble that might already be enveloping Bryce.
As the afternoon wore on, the traffic thickened further. The outskirts of Bridane came into view—small farms giving way to clustered buildings, which in turn grew more densely packed as they approached the city proper. The imposing walls of the capital loomed ahead, their white stone golden in the late afternoon sun.
But something was amiss. Even from a distance, Gregory could see unusual activity around the city gates. Guards were turning away travelers, creating a bottleneck of frustrated people and carts.
"The gates are being restricted," Abigail observed, her voice tight with concern. "That only happens during times of crisis."
They approached cautiously, joining the crowd of disgruntled travelers trying to gain entry to the city. Snippets of conversation reached them:
"—said there's been an attack—"
"—royal decree, no one in or out without—"
"—searching for traitors, they say—"
Gregory exchanged a worried glance with Abigail. "This doesn't sound good."
"No, it doesn't," she agreed grimly. "Let me handle this."
When they finally reached the gate, they were confronted by a harried-looking guard captain and several armed soldiers. The captain held up a hand, preventing their advance.
"City's closed by royal decree," he announced wearily, clearly having repeated this many times today. "No entry without proper authorization."
Abigail straightened in her saddle, allowing her gray Ranger's cloak to fall open, revealing the insignia on her tunic beneath. "Ranger Abigail Thorn, returning from patrol with time-sensitive information for the Crown."
The captain's demeanor changed instantly, respect and wariness replacing his earlier dismissal. "Ranger Thorn," he acknowledged with a nod. "We were not informed of your arrival."
"The nature of my business requires discretion," Abigail replied smoothly. "And my companion is under my protection."
The captain hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the authority a Ranger represented. "These are unusual times, Ranger Thorn. There was an incident at the palace last night. Security has been tightened everywhere."
Gregory's heart raced at these words. An incident at the palace? Had something happened to Bryce?
"All the more reason for me to report promptly," Abigail pressed. "My information may be relevant to recent events."
After a moment's consideration, the captain nodded. "Very well. But you'll need to report directly to Commander Voss at the barracks. Those are the new protocols."
"Of course," Abigail agreed, though Gregory detected a hint of tension in her voice.
The guards stepped aside, allowing them to pass through the massive gates into the city. Once they were beyond earshot of the guards, Gregory leaned closer to Abigail.
"An incident at the palace," he murmured. "You don't think—"
"I don't know," she cut him off, her eyes scanning the streets with heightened alertness. "But we need to get to the Halvorn townhouse immediately. If something's happened to Bryce..."
She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. They both knew the stakes.
The city streets were unusually quiet for early evening. Shops were closed, windows shuttered, and the few people they saw moved quickly, heads down, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves. The atmosphere was one of tension and fear.
They took a circuitous route to the Silverhill district, avoiding the main thoroughfares where guard presence would be heaviest. As they approached the Halvorn townhouse, Gregory felt a surge of relief at seeing it still standing, apparently undisturbed.
But as they drew closer, Abigail suddenly reined in her horse, holding up a hand to stop Gregory as well.
"Something's wrong," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the house. "The blue door—it's ajar. And look at the windows."
Gregory followed her gaze and noticed what she had already seen—the shutters on the ground floor were slightly askew, as if they had been forced open and then hastily closed again.
"Could be nothing," he said without much conviction. "Maybe they left in a hurry."
Abigail shook her head, already dismounting and securing her horse to a nearby post. "No. Eldon Halvorn is too meticulous. He wouldn't leave his home unsecured, especially not in times like these."
She drew her bow and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. "Stay behind me," she instructed. "And be ready for anything."
Gregory drew his knife, wishing desperately for a more substantial weapon. They approached the house cautiously, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. The street was deserted, which Gregory couldn't decide was fortunate or ominous.
Abigail paused at the blue door, examining it closely. "No signs of forced entry," she murmured. "They either had a key or were let in willingly."
She pushed the door open slowly, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. The entrance hall beyond was dark and silent. They stepped inside, closing the door behind them.
The interior of the townhouse was oddly still, with that particular quality of emptiness that suggested recent abandonment. Nothing seemed overtly disturbed, but there was a wrongness to the atmosphere that Gregory couldn't quite define.
Abigail moved through the house with the silent grace of a hunter, checking each room methodically. Gregory followed, his knife at the ready, his senses straining for any sign of danger.
The ground floor yielded nothing unusual, though Gregory noticed that Lord Halvorn's study door was unlocked—something he recalled the older man being particular about. They ascended the stairs, checking bedrooms and sitting rooms, finding them all empty and undisturbed.
"Where is everyone?" Gregory whispered. "Servants, guards—the place is deserted."
Abigail's face was grim. "I don't know. But I don't like it."
They had just returned to the main floor when Gregory spotted something he had missed on their first pass—a small smear of what looked like blood on the baseboard near the kitchen door.
"Abigail," he hissed, pointing to the stain.
She crouched to examine it, her expression darkening. "Fresh," she confirmed. "Not more than a day old."
A cold dread settled in Gregory's stomach. "And Bryce? Where would he have been staying?"
"The guest room on the second floor, most likely," Abigail replied. "But we checked there. No sign of struggle, no personal belongings."
"So either he left voluntarily," Gregory reasoned, "or..."
"Or he was taken," Abigail finished grimly. "And the Halvorns with him."
She stood, her decision made. "We need more information. The palace incident, the restricted gates, this abandoned house—they're all connected, I'm sure of it."
"Where do we go?" Gregory asked. "If the city's under lockdown, if there are guards looking for 'traitors'..."
"I have contacts in the city," Abigail said. "People who stay informed about palace matters. We'll start there."
As they prepared to leave, a faint noise from below caught Abigail's attention. She froze, signaling Gregory to be silent. The noise came again—a soft thud, as if something had fallen or been dropped.
"The cellar," Abigail whispered. "Someone's down there."
Gregory gripped his knife tighter, following Abigail as she made her way silently toward the kitchen and the door that presumably led to the cellar below. The door was closed but unlocked. Abigail positioned herself to one side, bow ready, and nodded to Gregory to open it.
He turned the handle slowly, then pulled the door open in one quick motion. Abigail immediately trained her bow on the darkened stairwell beyond, ready to loose an arrow at the first sign of threat.
"Who's down there?" she called out, her voice steady and commanding. "Show yourself, now!"
There was a moment of silence, then a faint shuffling sound. A voice, weak and trembling, responded from the darkness.
"Please... no more... I've told you everything I know..."
Abigail and Gregory exchanged a startled look. The voice was male, elderly, and terrified. And it belonged to someone Gregory recognized.
"Lord Halvorn?" he called down the stairs. "Is that you?"
A pause, then: "Gregory? Gregory Colton? Is it really you?"
"Yes, it's me," Gregory confirmed, relief washing over him. "And I've brought help. We're coming down."
Abigail lowered her bow slightly but kept it ready as they descended the wooden steps into the cellar below. The space was dimly lit by a single small window near the ceiling, casting long shadows across stacked wine barrels and storage shelves.
In the far corner, huddled on the floor, was the unmistakable figure of Lord Eldon Halvorn. But he was barely recognizable as the dignified nobleman Gregory had met just days before. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, and his fine clothes were torn and stained with blood.
Gregory rushed to the old man's side, helping him to sit up. "Lord Halvorn, what happened? Where is everyone? Where's Bryce?"
Eldon's one good eye focused on Gregory's face, recognition slowly dawning. "Gregory... you came back. But it's too late. They've taken him. They've taken the prince."
"Who?" Abigail demanded, kneeling beside them. "Who has taken him?"
Eldon turned to her, surprise momentarily overcoming his pain. "Abigail Thorn? Is that really you, child?"
"Yes, Lord Halvorn," she confirmed gently. "It's me. Please, tell us what happened. Who has Prince Bryce?"
Eldon's face crumpled with despair. "The queen's men. They came last night, dozens of them. We tried to hide the prince, but..." He gestured weakly at his battered state. "They were very persuasive in their questioning."
"And Bryce?" Gregory pressed, dreading the answer. "Is he alive?"
"Yes, last I saw," Eldon replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're holding him in the North Tower. The queen has declared him an impostor, a pretender using magic to impersonate her dead son."
Gregory and Abigail exchanged a grim look. The queen had made her move, and it was a devastating one. By declaring Bryce an impostor, she had neatly sidestepped the problem of explaining his return while simultaneously providing justification for his imprisonment—or worse.
