Chapter 18: Safe Return

Isolde replied firmly. “No, Lord Theodric is unwell. Marshal, escort him back to the city first. If I were to take him alone, I couldn’t handle any danger that might arise.”

“Then how will you return?” Oliver asked, his tone tinged with concern.

Isolde smiled faintly. “It’s so close. Even walking, I’ll be back in no time.”

Oliver’s sharp brows furrowed slightly as he shook his head. “No, your foot is injured.”

Theodric clung tightly to Isolde’s sleeve, his fever-flushed face stubborn. “Lady Isolde, I don’t want you to leave,” he said, glancing nervously at Oliver.

Isolde froze, briefly meeting Oliver’s tense and shadowed gaze. His stern expression was enough to make Theodric uneasy. She knelt slightly to reassure Theodric with a soft smile. “Don’t be afraid. The Marshal is a good man. Don’t you remember? He saved us yesterday.”

But Theodric refused to let go, his little hands gripping her tightly. “Take me back yourself,” he insisted, his tone resolute despite his small stature.

Isolde hesitated, then turned to Oliver with an apologetic look. “Marshal Valois, would you mind if we shared a horse?”

Oliver, already uneasy about letting her return alone, sighed and replied, “I don’t mind. But you should. If anyone sees, it could tarnish your reputation.”

Isolde chuckled softly, her voice calm yet resolute. “Reputation? I care nothing for it.”

Oliver was caught off guard by her words. A woman who cared nothing for her reputation? The very idea was almost absurd. Though Isolde and William’s betrothal had been a topic of discussion, a tarnished name could still ruin everything, not to mention the objections Oliver’s foster mother would surely raise.

“If you truly don’t care, then let’s go,” Oliver said at last. Isolde was already astride her horse, her posture straight and composed. The sun framed her silhouette, casting a soft halo around her figure as she smiled warmly. Yet beneath that radiant expression lay a trace of sadness, subtle but unmistakable.

One thought nagged at him: If the same person is behind the abduction of both Theodric and Isolde, why target her rather than the Duke of Blackmoor’s son? Everyone in the capital knew the Duke cared little for his daughter. She seemed oblivious, yet Oliver suspected she understood far more than she let on. Another mystery tugged at his mind; his horse had never allowed anyone else to ride it—it carried Isolde now without so much as a hint of resistance.

As Theodric clung tightly to her, Oliver mounted awkwardly behind them, careful to avoid touching her. But the saddle was narrow, and despite her attempts to lean forward, the closeness was inevitable. He tore a strip from his cloak and handed it to her. “Cover your face; at least make it harder for anyone to recognize you.”

“I don’t mind,” she said lightly, almost flippantly.

“Perhaps you don’t, but I do,” he replied, his tone sharp. “The dignity of the Valen name isn’t something I’m willing to gamble with.”

A fleeting expression crossed Isolde’s face. She knew he was well aware that William disliked him. While Oliver treated William with the deference of an elder brother, his true feelings remained an enigma to everyone. Without protest, she veiled her face, and they set off at a steady pace toward the city.

The earthy scent of sage mingled faintly with the sharp tang of blood from Oliver’s wounds. Isolde’s heart tightened with worry. Theodric’s fever was worsening.

“Push the horse harder if it can bear it,” she urged, her voice laced with urgency.

“I’m more concerned about you,” Oliver said flatly. “You’re injured, and if we go faster, keeping any distance will be impossible.”

Although they were both on horseback, there was no distance between them.

“Theodric’s fever is dangerously high,” she pressed, touching the boy’s forehead anxiously. “We cannot afford to delay. A moment longer could cost him his life. My injury is trivial by comparison.”

Hearing the resolve in her voice, Oliver offered no further argument. With a flick of his whip, the horse broke into a gallop, its hooves thundering against the ground. His mount—a noble destrier, bred for speed and endurance—flew across the earth, swift as the wind and unmatched in power.

The city gates stood firmly shut, imposing and unyielding. Outside, Oliver Valois rode hard, his horse kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. A rising star at the Emperor’s court—who did not know him? Even those unfamiliar with his face would recognize the legendary horse beneath him, a gift to the Eryndral Empire that none could tame save Oliver himself. That horse, after all, had already patrolled the city, leaving a trail of awe in its path.

At the gates, the guards immediately stepped aside, opening the way without hesitation. Oliver’s steed thundered through, the sound of its hooves echoing off the stone walls.

By coincidence, Milton and his patrol were making their rounds, arriving just in time to cross paths with Oliver. Isolde, her face veiled, carried the young heir slumped against her shoulder, his back turned to Milton. The encounter lasted only a moment, fleeting as a shadow in the fading light. Milton reined in his horse, turning to watch Oliver disappear around the corner, his expression dark with suspicion.

“Was that Oliver Valois just now?” he asked one of his soldiers, his tone sharp.

The soldier hesitated, then replied, “Marshal, I couldn’t make out the man, but judging by the horse, it must have been.”

Milton’s scowl deepened. “Even as one of the Emperor’s favorites, he has no right to act so arrogantly. Galloping through the city as if it were his own—is there no one bold enough to report him to the imperial censor?”

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. As a fellow rising star in the military, Milton found Oliver insufferable. A boy barely past twenty, his rapid ascent could only be credited to the Marquis of Eldermere’s patronage. The Marquis was clearly grooming him. Without that backing, there was no way he could hold such sway.

A soldier ventured cautiously, “Marshal, who would dare file a complaint? They say the Queen Dowager herself favors him greatly. And why wouldn’t she? His father was the famed Marshal, Douglas Valois, and his adoptive father, the Marquis of Eldermere, is a figure of renown. Both the Valois and the Valen families boast illustrious legacies, serving loyally across three reigns.”

Milton’s expression darkened further as he rode on in silence. His own lineage had always been his weakness. The most accomplished of his ancestors, a great-uncle, had risen no higher than a fifth-rank gate commander. As for Milton himself, it was only through the remnants of that great-uncle’s connections that he’d secured a position at the city gates. Years of maneuvering and quiet scheming had eventually earned him a post in the North Camp, but the shadow of his humble origins lingered.

Meanwhile, at the princess’s manor, the guards stood vigilant. Oliver reined in his steed at the gates, dismounting swiftly. Turning to Isolde, he gave a curt instruction. “Take the heir inside. I must return to muster the troops.”

“Be careful, Oliver,” Isolde replied. She knew time was running short. The mountain bandits could slip away at any moment, and a delayed pursuit might mean losing them entirely.

Oliver nodded, his eyes lingering on her briefly before he turned to mount again. As she ascended the steps, he glanced back once more to ensure she entered safely before riding off into the gathering dusk. When he saw her walk up the steps, he felt relieved and urged his horse away.

“Halt! Who goes there?” one of the princess’s guards barked, stepping forward to block Isolde’s path.

“Lady Isolde of the Duke’s estate, escorting Lord Theodric,” she replied steadily. “I seek an audience with Her Highness and Lord Garraway.” She adjusted Lord Theodric on her shoulder, but he remained utterly still. Whether unconscious or merely asleep, she could not tell.

The guard stiffened at her words, then glanced at the child in alarm. “Lord Theodric?” Without waiting for confirmation, he called out urgently, “Quickly! Inform the Princess—Lord Theodric has returned!”

A flurry of motion followed, with some rushing inside to deliver the news while others surrounded Isolde and the child.

“Can someone fetch a physician?” she asked, her voice strained. “The Lord is burning with fever.”

Isolde was ushered into the grand hall, where she sank into a seat, her arms aching and nearly numb from the boy’s weight. Theodric showed no sign of waking.

After a wait, hurried footsteps broke the silence. A woman in her forties, dressed in rich garments but clearly distraught, stumbled into the room, followed closely by several maids.

“Theodric!” Her voice broke as her eyes fell on the boy in Isolde’s arms. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed forward.

Isolde rose carefully, recognizing Princess Aveline despite the haggardness that now dulled her regal features. “Your Highness,” she said, bowing respectfully.

The princess nodded absently, her focus entirely on the boy. She reached out, lifting Theodric into her arms. As if sensing her presence, the child stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw her clearly, he burst into tears.