Deposed Lady Vivienne, Stripped of Her Title by Her Father for Refusing a Marriage, Forges a Desperate Alliance to Ignite a Bloody Royal Civil War.
The decision was clear: we needed Master Rhys Emrys. He was our only hope of locating “The Founder’s Truth.” His knowledge of ancient Valorian history was unparalleled, a living library of forgotten lore. But reaching him, sequestered within the royal palace grounds and undoubtedly under Alaric’s watchful eye, would be our most delicate operation yet.
I dispatched a trusted agent, a young stable boy named Finn, whom I had known since childhood. Finn was nimble, quiet, and possessed an uncanny ability to blend into the palace’s bustling periphery. He was to discreetly seek out Rhys, to convey our desperate need for his historical expertise, without ever mentioning the decree directly. He was to hint at “an important historical query” from my mother’s long-lost collection.
The days that followed were agonizing. Each hour stretched into an eternity of waiting, of imagining the countless ways our fragile plan could unravel. My mind conjured images of Finn being intercepted, of Rhys being questioned, of Alaric tightening his grip on the truth. The fear for Elara, combined with the desperate hope for Rhys’s aid, gnawed at my composure.
Then, nearly a week later, Finn returned. He stumbled into our mountain camp, his face pale and streaked with dirt, his usually bright eyes wide with terror. He was shivering, not from the cold, but from a deeper, more profound fear.
My heart sank. I knew, instinctively, that his news would be devastating.
“Finn, what happened?” I asked, rushing to his side, my hand on his trembling arm.
He gasped for breath, trying to steady himself. “My Lady… Master Rhys… he’s gone.”
A cold dread spread through me. “Gone? Where? Did you find him?”
“I… I found his rooms,” Finn stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Royal Library. It was sealed. Wax and ribbon across the doors. Guards, My Lady, everywhere. Royal Guards, the elite ones, in black and silver.”
Kaelen, who had been watching from a distance, stepped closer, his expression grim. “Sealed? What happened to the old scholar?”
Finn swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously. “I spoke to one of the kitchen staff, a woman who remembered you, My Lady. She saw it. Days ago. Alaric’s guards burst into Master Rhys’s study late one night. They dragged him out. He was frail, confused. They said… they said he was arrested.”
“Arrested?” I repeated, the word chilling me to the bone. “For what reason?”
Finn shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “They didn’t say, My Lady. But the woman saw them ransacking his library. Throwing scrolls. Breaking ancient vases. They took him… towards the dungeons.”
The news was a gut punch. Alaric had moved. He had silenced the only man who could guide us to “The Founder’s Truth.” This was no accident; it was a deliberate, calculated move. He must have suspected, or perhaps even somehow intercepted, some faint hint of our interest in ancient lore. The idea that his network of spies was so thorough, so pervasive, sent a fresh wave of fear through me.
A specific, petty cruelty immediately came to mind. My mother had once gifted Master Rhys a rare, illuminated manuscript from the southern kingdoms, a work of great beauty and historical value. Rhys had treasured it, often showing it to me as a child, explaining its delicate artistry. The thought of Alaric’s guards ransacking his library, carelessly destroying such irreplaceable treasures, was a testament to their contempt for knowledge and history. It was a wound not just to Rhys, but to the very intellectual soul of Valoria.
“He suspected,” I whispered, my voice tight. “He must have. He moved to silence Rhys, to prevent us from ever discovering the decree.”
Kaelen’s face darkened. “The dungeons. Alaric’s iron cages. No one leaves there alive, Vivienne, not if Alaric has them.”
The reality of our situation pressed in, suffocating me. Rhys was frail, aged. He wouldn’t survive long in Alaric’s dungeons. His capture not only severed our direct path to the decree but also presented us with a terrible moral dilemma. Could we abandon him to his fate, hoping to find another way, or did we risk everything to rescue a man who might already be broken?
Alaric’s control over the capital, his willingness to crush even an old scholar to maintain his secrets, was terrifyingly absolute. He wasn’t merely attempting to isolate me socially; he was systematically dismantling every potential avenue of truth and justice.
“We have to get him out,” I declared, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. The words hung in the air, a desperate, dangerous challenge. Master Rhys Emrys, the last keeper of Valoria’s true history, was imprisoned. And our quest for “The Founder’s Truth,” once merely difficult, had now become a desperate rescue mission into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold. The possibility of failure, and the consequence of Rhys’s silence, loomed large.
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