Chapter 172: Garrett’s Return

In the darkness near Wamond Vale’s cliffside, a bloodied hand grasped a small tree, pulling itself upward. Harlan, barely alive, managed to crawl onto solid ground, his body drenched in sweat, blood, and darkness. Though his wounds were grave, and he had lost much blood, he managed to tear off his outer garments and bandage his abdomen, staunching the flow—just barely. But after tending to himself, Harlan collapsed, slipping into unconsciousness as the night wore on.

As dawn broke, several carriages and a long procession of men came down the road. Ahead of the group, two light cavalrymen rode, holding torches. They were the first to spot the bloody trail and the still body lying in the road.

The cavalrymen signaled the carriages to stop. One dismounted and knelt beside Harlan, checking his pulse. “He’s still breathing,” he said, turning to his companion. “Go report to Great Marshal Sharp.”

The second man immediately spurred his horse back to a green carriage and dismounted, quickly approaching to bow and report, “Great Marshal Sharp, a wounded man is up ahead. He has a severe abdominal wound, but he’s still alive—barely.”

The carriage door swung open, and a tall, broad, dark-skinned man with a full beard stepped out. He moved quickly, followed by his aides, who held torches and kept a hand on their weapons.

The man, after a quick look at the injured body, raised his eyebrows in recognition. “Harlan?”

“You know him?” one of his aides asked.

“Quickly, fetch the Consumption Pills!” the man, now identified as Great Marshal Sharp, barked.

One of his aides rushed back to the carriage, retrieving several vials. The Great Marshal knelt beside Harlan, directing his aide to gently raise his head. He crushed the pills between his fingers until they turned to powder, then poured the mixture into Harlan’s mouth, followed by a sip of water from a flask.

The aide quickly produced more supplies—healing balms and herbs—to treat Harlan’s deep wound. As he worked, he muttered, “This wound is deep and severe. It could be fatal.”

“Harlan, Harlan,” Great Marshal Sharp called, slapping Harlan’s face gently.

Harlan’s eyes snapped open. The light from the torches burned his vision, and for a moment, he couldn’t make out who was before him. But he gripped the Great Marshal’s hand tightly, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Please… save Isolde. She’s at the bottom of the cliff.”

Great Marshal Sharp narrowed his eyes. “Isolde? Snowy?”

As he spoke, thirty strong men, ropes in hand, began descending the cliffside. The following carriage stopped, and an elderly woman, dressed in black satin, was helped down by two middle-aged women dressed in green. The old woman’s silver hair was neatly styled in a high bun, held in place by an ornate wooden pin. Despite her age, she stood tall and alert, exuding quiet strength.

“What’s happening here?” The elderly woman, upon seeing Harlan, paused in surprise. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she leaned in for a closer look. “Isn’t this Harlan? What happened to him?”

Garrett, stepping forward, gently took her hand. “This wind is too strong, and the dew is heavy. Why bring her out here in this weather? You should return and rest for a bit. We’re almost there.”

The old woman, Natasha, tightly gripped his hand, her voice filled with concern. “What’s happened to Harlan?”

“He’ll be fine. There’s nothing serious,” Garrett reassured her.

Natasha, however, wasn’t easily fooled. She glanced toward the men still descending the cliff and frowned. “Garrett, don’t try to make me out to be a fool. What’s going on?”

Natasha was Garrett’s wife, and in her youth, she had been a formidable figure in the business world, helping her family amass a great fortune. When her family had no male heirs, she had inherited it all.

Garrett sighed, offering a soft smile. “Harlan just woke up and mentioned that someone had fallen down the cliff. I’ve already sent men to rescue them. We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

Natasha looked at him sternly and ordered, “First, get Harlan into the carriage. The ground is cold and damp—it’s not good for his condition.”

Without hesitation, the men carefully lifted Harlan into the carriage, where Natasha personally tended to him.

Half an hour later, the rest of the men returned.

“Garrett, we can’t go any further down—it’s too high,” one of his men reported, breathless from the climb.

Garrett, with his hands behind his back, gave a quiet order. “Find a way. Twist the rope into two strands and send two groups of men down.”

“Garrett, below is Briswin River. If someone falls, they’ll end up in the river. What if we send a team down the river to search?”

Garrett paused, his mind racing. Though he hadn’t been back to Argentum in a long time, he still knew the land well. After a moment’s thought, he gave his command. “Leave two teams here to keep searching down the cliff. There’s a path nearby that may lead down further. We’ll see how far we can get. In the meantime, send twenty men to Carigval Town. They’ll follow the river’s path, searching the banks. Alive, we find them. Dead… I’ll go to the King of Hell myself.”

His final words were dripping with authority—a brutal, commanding tone that spoke volumes about the man’s resolve.

The bulk of the force made their way back to Argentum, and as they entered the city, Garrett gave one final order. “Bring Geoffrey to me.”

Meanwhile, Geoffrey, who had not slept all night, was in his study, holding a portrait of Prunella in his hand, slightly tipsy from the wine. Isolde is gone now, he thought bitterly. I’ve finally sent her away.

The house had quieted. There was no more chaos, no more tension. Just silence. “You can rest now. I won’t let her return. There’s no place for her at the Duke’s estate anymore. You can rest easy.” He muttered, his fingers brushing over Prunella’s likeness on the portrait, lost in his thoughts.

It had been sixteen years since Prunella’s death. Sixteen years of aching, gnawing pain—one that never went away. He could never understand how two people who had once been so close, so intertwined in life, could become complete strangers. He couldn’t shake the feeling that with Isolde gone, he had lost the last thread that connected him to Prunella.

“Forget it,” Geoffrey muttered. “She was nothing but a curse. If not for her, you’d still be alive, wouldn’t you? You must hate her, don’t you?”

He placed the portrait down on the desk, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. The past few days had drained him; his body was fatigued, but he knew he had to keep going. Everything would be fine… eventually.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of footsteps outside his door. A servant knocked urgently.

“Geoffrey, someone requests an audience with you.”

Geoffrey looked up, irritated. “Who?”

“It’s an officer from the Sharp family,” came the authoritative voice from outside.

Geoffrey froze. The Sharp family? He hadn’t expected them to return so soon.

He quickly stood up, tucked the portrait of Prunella away, and hurried to open the door.

Standing before him was a familiar face—General Steven Justice, one of his father-in-law’s trusted officers.

“Steven,” Geoffrey greeted, inviting him in quickly.

But Steven shook his head. “No, Geoffrey, Garrett requests your presence at his residence. It’s urgent.”

“Now?” Geoffrey blinked in surprise.

“Yes, it’s very important,” Steven replied.

Geoffrey, knowing Garrett’s fiery temper, didn’t dare delay. He quickly changed his clothes and stepped outside, calling for Harlan—only to remember that Harlan had insisted on accompanying Isolde to Windermount.

He shook his head, realizing just how brazen Harlan had become, now openly defying him.

Steven, hearing Geoffrey’s call for Harlan, raised an eyebrow. “Where is Harlan?”

“He’s probably gone out,” Geoffrey muttered, shrugging as he stepped out the door to meet with Garrett.