Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

”Done,” Kaelus muttered to the empty cabin.

He stood up, intending to step outside, stretch his legs, and wait by the door to scold the knights for undoubtedly buying Seraphina too much sugar.

He unlatched the carriage door and pushed it open.

The stifling, humid heat of the Verdant Gate hit him instantly, accompanied by the chaotic, rising din of the night market.

The city was coming alive.

Lanterns were sparking to life in the distance, and the smell of roasting meat was thicker than ever.

Kaelus stepped out onto the boarding step, crossing his arms over his chest, his violet eyes scanning the perimeter.

His junior knights were patrolling the camp in strict formations.

The horses were secured.

The supply wagons were locked.

Kaelus looked toward the main thoroughfare leading to the market, expecting to see the towering frames of Boris and Lucas parting the crowd, with a tiny, dark-haired girl skipping between them.

The street was full of people.

Mercenaries returning to taverns.

Merchants packing up their stalls.

But there were no silver cloaks.

There was no giant with a war hammer.

There was no little girl in a linen dress.

Kaelus frowned.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver pocket watch, clicking the cover open.

The hands of the watch read six o’clock.

Kaelus looked up at the sky.

The sun had already dipped below the canopy of the jungle tree line.

The sky was rapidly transitioning from orange to a deep, bruising purple.

Dusk had not merely approached; it had arrived.

He had explicitly ordered them to return one hour before sundown.

Sir Lucas was a veteran commander.

He was a man who lived and died by military precision.

He was not the type to miss curfews, even if it were for Seraphina.

Sir Gallahan was terrified of Kaelus’s wrath; he would never willingly delay an extraction.

And Sir Boris was obsessively protective of the child.

If they were late, it was not because they had lost track of time playing games.

The annoyance that had been simmering in Kaelus’s chest, the typical, petty jealousy of a father missing out on the fun, evaporated instantly.

A sudden terror replaced it.

Kaelus stepped off the carriage, his heavy boots hitting the dirt with a loud thud.

”Lieutenant,” Kaelus barked, his voice slicing through the camp’s ambient noise like a blade of ice.

A junior knight sprinted over, saluting crisply. ”Your Grace?”

”When did Commander Lucas report in last?” Kaelus demanded, his violet eyes locking onto the man with terrifying intensity.

The lieutenant swallowed hard, sensing the sudden, catastrophic shift in the Archduke’s aura. ”T-They have not reported in, Your Grace. Not since they departed the perimeter four hours ago.”

Four hours.

Kaelus looked back at the chaotic, lawless city of the Verdant Gate.

The shadows were growing thicker.

The night was taking over.

And his daughter, along with his three greatest, most lethal commanders, was gone.

Kaelus von Nacht did not wait for a messenger.

He did not issue a command to form a search party.

The Reaper of the North drew Requiem from its scabbard, the dark steel singing a keen, deadly note in the humid air, and marched directly into the chaotic, darkening streets of the jungle city, his eyes glowing with the promise of unmitigated slaughter.

The Verdant Gate was not a city; it was a living, breathing organism.

It lacked the sterile, imposing geometry of the Northern Bastion or the bright, sun-washed architectural harmony of Oakhaven.

Instead, the city was a chaotic tangle of wooden platforms, canvas tents, and stone foundations built directly into the colossal, winding root systems of the ancient jungle trees.

The air here didn’t just carry a scent; it carried weight.

It was a thick, cloying soup composed of eighty percent humidity, ten percent roasting exotic spices, and ten percent danger.

Through this bustling, claustrophobic labyrinth of mercenaries, merchants, and mystics, the Black Bastion’s most lethal babysitting squad was currently attempting to navigate a path.

”Sir Boris, if you eat another unidentified, deep-fried jungle reptile on a stick, I am going to petition the Duke to have your digestive tract audited,” Sir Gallahan complained, fastidiously sidestepping a puddle of questionable, glowing blue liquid.

The pristine knight had long since abandoned the hope of keeping his cloak clean; the hem was already stained with a tragic gradient of mud and crushed vegetation.

”It builds immunity, Gallahan,” Boris grunted, happily tearing a massive chunk of meat off a wooden skewer. He chewed loudly, a look of barbaric satisfaction on his scarred face. ”The vendor said it was Basilisk tail. Tastes like very spicy chicken. Besides, a knight of the North must be prepared to eat off the land.”

”We are not in the wilderness, you absolute savage; we are in a heavily populated commercial zone,” Sir Lucas hissed, his eyes darting back and forth from beneath the hood of his coarse woolen disguise.

His hand rested casually but permanently near the hilt of his concealed broadsword. ”Keep your eyes on the perimeter. The Duke’s orders were explicit. We have to keep maximum vigilance.”

Walking safely in the dead center of the impenetrable, triangular formation of giant men was Seraphina von Nacht.

She was having the time of her life.

She was currently holding a massive, brightly colored fruit that looked like a cross between a pineapple and a dragon scale, which Gallahan had meticulously peeled and cored for her using a silver paring knife.

She happily munched on the sweet, tangy flesh, her mind marveling at the fantasy-aesthetic of the market.

’It’s like an anime convention crossed with a black-market arms bazaar,’ Seraphina thought, watching a passing merchant haggle over a jar of glowing, sloshing green eyeballs. ’I love it here, but Papa Duke is always missing out on everything. He’s probably back in the carriage writing a very angry letter about taxes while sitting in the dark.’

She looked up at the canopy of the massive trees overhead.