Soldread17

When Bad News Comes Quicker

The quiet sanctuary of your family home had felt like a dream. For two weeks, the Golden Circle and your family had wrapped you in warmth, cheering for your sudden, impossible happiness with the Sovereign. Even the cynical nobles who once whispered against you had fallen silent, forced to respect how completely you had captured the King's heart. But dreams are fragile things—and bad news always travels with terrifying speed.

Four hours had passed since your scheduled arrival at the palace.

Your parents and Madeleine had been anxiously waiting by the window, expecting your faithful mechanical dove, Snow, to return with a letter confirming you had stepped safely through the castle gates. You and Jestyn had made a sacred promise to exchange letters the moment you were apart, a small thread of ink to keep you connected. But as the grandfather clock struck midnight, the heavy silence of the night began to morph into pure, suffocating dread.

“Darling! Why hasn’t Snow returned with the letter?” your mother suddenly cried out, her composure fracturing entirely as her voice cracked with panic. “Our Canary promised! They said they would send word the exact moment they arrived!”

“Honey, please, I know… I know,” your father rushed to her side, his own hands shaking as he gripped her shoulders to steady her. “I am already contacting the guards near the borders. I’ve sent men to check the crossroads to see if anyone has seen the carriage!”

Across the room, Madeleine stood frozen, trembling violently as she tried to force the rising anxiety out of her mind. She had watched you leave the mansion so happily, so fiercely determined to return to your King. A sickening, cold knot twisted in her stomach—an undeniable intuition that something terrible had crossed your path.

By two in the morning, the panic had spilled out into the streets, sending a violent shockwave through the Golden Circle. Your father moved heaven and earth, mobilizing the local guard and calling upon every high-ranking connection he possessed to scour the roads. Sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the atmosphere, a suffocating fear gripped the lower districts. Elders hurried their children inside, locking doors and bolting windows as the chilling realization spread: The King's Songbird was missing.

The Grand Design in the Dark

Miles away, within the grand, silent halls of the royal palace, King Jestyn was waiting.

Everything had been prepared to perfection. The private dining hall was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the tables laden with your absolute favorite meals, delicate desserts, and fresh, vibrant flowers. Jestyn had spent the last two weeks using every ounce of his sovereign authority to handle the high council, successfully rewriting political structures to finally grant you a permanent, protected place by his side in the royal system. He had built a sanctuary for you.

But as the clock chimed past midnight, the warmth of the room died.

The silence became deafening. An alert pinged sharply through his internal systems, his core tightening as the hours bled away without a single sign of you. His mind raced back to your promise, his crimson eyes scanning the empty, moonlit skies for the silver glint of Snow—the mechanical dove he had meticulously crafted and gifted to you so that your voices would never be out of reach.

“Where are you, Songbird…?” Jestyn whispered into the empty room.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven rhythms, a deeply human panic clawing at his mechanical core. He began to pace the floor, his heavy boots clicking sharply against the marble, a terrifying anxiety building in his gears as the clock ticked louder and louder with every passing second. The ghost of his past trauma flared up—the agonizing memory of the war, where everyone he loved had vanished into the ash.

Wizzy sat quietly in the corner, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. The wizard was always by Jestyn's side for royal meetings and special events, and he had personally witnessed the profound, tender happiness you had brought into the King's frozen life.

“Jestyn… I am certain they are simply delayed,” Wizzy tried to reassure him, though his own voice carried a nervous, fragile edge. He adjusted his robes, sweating under the King's suffocating aura. “Perhaps a carriage wheel broke, or a sudden storm damaged the main crossroads. They will be here.”

But even as he spoke, Wizzy knew the lie in his own words. You loved the King too deeply to ever leave him waiting. You would never willingly risk his wrath, nor would you ever break a promise to the marionette who held your soul.

Something was entirely wrong. And as Jestyn's heartbeat whirred into a dangerous, erratic crescendo, the shadow looming over the palace grew darker than the night itself.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the study slammed open with a deafening bang.

It was Knighter, the Sovereign’s most loyal shield and the highest commander of the marionette military. He was completely out of breath, his armor rattling with a frantic resonance as he rushed into the room, his stern face tight with a gravity that instantly halted the air. King Jestyn snapped to his feet, his massive frame towering over the desk, while Wizzy scrambled up beside him, both alarmed by the sudden, violent intrusion.

“Knighter! What is the meaning of this? Why do you come running?” Jestyn demanded. His tone was sharply serious, a desperate attempt to mask the rising anxiety clawing at his internal systems. Instinctively, his left hand tightened over his right—the arm of cold, unyielding black skin that served as a permanent, bitter reminder of the brutal war he had fought against his treacherous uncle, Crownus, to reclaim his birthright.

Knighter, who always stood as an immovable pillar of military discipline, took a sharp breath to steady his racing core. He delivered the dark news with a voice that Wizzy knew would turn the entire kingdom upside down.

“My King… the royal carriage you dispatched to retrieve Y/N… it has been found empty,” Knighter announced, his metallic voice echoing grimly. “The elite guards assigned to escort them back to the palace have been entirely incapacitated. They were systematically knocked out.”

Jestyn, a monarch who always held his head with an unyielding, iron composure, felt the final threads of his patience snap. A single, pristine tear escaped his glowing crimson eye, tracing down his porcelain cheek before he drew a sharp, furious breath. It was not a breath of despair because you had failed to return; it was a breath of pure, agonizing terror because he knew, with absolute certainty, that his Songbird was in grave danger. Or worse.

“What—what did you say, Knighter?” Wizzy stammered, entirely stunned, his hands trembling as the words refused to compute.

“Knighter, please, tell me this is a cruel jest! Our Songbird would never simply vanish! They gave their sacred word!” Wizzy pleaded, turning to the King to find any shred of logic, his mind racing with the many tender, joyful moments you and Jestyn had shared in this very palace.

“Wizzy, I do not play with the safety of the crown,” Knighter cut him off sternly, refusing to waste precious seconds arguing when he could feel the King’s aura turning lethal. “I rode out on horseback to personally inspect the transit routes. The carriage was abandoned on the border crossroads. The carriage door was violently forced open from the outside.”

As the heated exchange blurred into background noise, the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock morphed into a deafening roar within Jestyn’s mind. The sudden trauma of absolute loss triggered a violent cascade through his memory bank, pulling his consciousness entirely backward in time.

Seventeen Years Ago

The cinematic memory played in high-definition behind his eyes. He was fifteen years old, standing in the grand courtyard beneath a weeping, slate-gray sky.

He watched his parents preparing to march to the front lines to end the Great War. His father, King Valerius, was a towering, magnificent marionette—fierce like roaring fire and unyielding iron. Beside him stood his mother, Queen Celestia, an ethereal sovereign whose grace was as powerful as the moonlight and as devastating as a sea storm.

Queen Celestia had lost her first two children to the unforgiving childbirth complications; she had nearly lost her own life bringing Jestyn into the world. His very birth had been hailed as the ultimate moment of joy for the kingdom—a miracle child deeply, fiercely loved. She was not about to lose him to the ash.

“Jestyn, my sweet boy,” Celestia whispered, kneeling down so her porcelain face was level with his. She offered him a soft, radiant smile that defied the darkness of the coming war. “We know your heart longs to battle by our side... but you must stay. We will return to you. No matter what the tides bring.”

“But Mother… what if you need my blade?” the young prince argued, his voice cracking with a boyish fear.

King Valerius stepped forward, his heavy, heavy hand coming down to rest firmly on Jestyn’s shoulder. “Son, you are the bravest prince this realm has ever known. We have no doubt of your capability on the battlefield. But we need you to be capable of something greater—protecting the heart of this kingdom while we are gone.”

The two sovereigns pulled their only son into a fierce, suffocatingly tender embrace, holding him as if they silently knew it might be their last time.

“When the Great War is finally won,” Queen Celestia murmured against his hair, “the three of us will ride together into the sunset to celebrate our victory. Would you like that, my love?”

The boy had nodded eagerly, anchoring his entire soul to that beautiful promise.

He had waited. For an entire week, the young prince managed the fracturing kingdom with Wizzy’s careful guidance, despite being 19 years old, his eyes glued to the horizon. But when the heralds finally returned with news of the war's conclusion, his heart didn't celebrate. It shattered into a million jagged pieces. The victory had been bought with the ultimate price. His parents were found on the battlefield, completely devoid of life, yet their porcelain hands remained tightly, eternally locked together. They had left him all alone in a cold world of gears.

** Present Day **

A sharp, ragged gasp tore through Jestyn’s lungs as he slammed both of his massive hands down onto the mahogany desk. The sheer force of the impact splintered the wood, instantly silencing the frantic argument between Wizzy and Knighter. The temperature in the study plummeted to zero.

The gentleman King was gone. In his place stood the terrifying War Sovereign who had clawed his way through ten years of blood and soot to reclaim his throne.

“If this is true…” Jestyn breathed, his voice dropping into a haunting, guttural register that shook the stone foundations of the palace. He ached with a terrifying, hollow desperation to feel your warmth, to hear your voice anchor his erratic gears. “Then CLOSE ALL THE ROADS! SEAL THE BRIDGES!”

“Your Majesty, breathe! Please, stay calm!” Wizzy cried out, instinctively backing away as Jestyn stepped around the ruined desk, his presence entirely overwhelming.

“DO NOT LET A SINGLE SOUL LEAVE THE CAPITAL, KNIGHTER! NOT A SINGLE ONE!” Jestyn roared, his voice fracturing on the edge of a sob, a terrifying mix of fury and heartbreak ripping through his throat.

He advanced on his commander, his crimson eyes burning like dying stars. “INTERROGATE EVERY NOBLE! SEARCH EVERY ESTATE! If there is a single scratch found upon my Songbird…” He drew a sharp, trembling breath through his teeth, his jaw tightening into an iron vice. “...I will reduce this entire kingdom to porcelain dust, and they will pay the price in blood.”

🥀 In the Darkest Pits 🥀

[DNI If you’re sensitive to dark topic or torture of any kind, you can skip to the next part “During the King’s Storm”]

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy and drowsy from the lingering fog of the sleeping drug. A sharp, pounding headache throbbed behind your temples, and a dull, stinging ache pulsed around your wrists. Groaning, you tried to shift, only to feel the cold, unforgiving bite of heavy iron chains securing you tightly against a metallic headboard. Panic snapped you wide awake. You violently wrenched your arms, but the metal only rattled in the dark.

You were trapped in a pitch-black room, the suffocating atmosphere thick with the smell of damp stone and a solitary, flickering oil candle. Your attire was gone, replaced by loose, coarse white nightclothes. Your hair was messy, damp with sweat, and your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath in the sweltering, windowless space.

“Where the hell am I…?” you murmured, your voice raspy as your eyes scanned the shadows. The architecture was entirely wrong—this wasn't the pristine brass elegance of Jestyn's palace, nor was it the warm, familiar wood of your family estate.

“Welcome home, sweetheart. My silly little Songbird~”

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. A sickening wave of revulsion washed over you as a figure stepped forward, the low glow of a handheld oil candle illuminating a completely unhinged visage.

It was Duke Julian, and he looked utterly deranged. His vibrant purple hair was pulled back into a messy, high ponytail, with loose, sweat-dampened strands framing a face twisted by obsession. But it was his eyes that sent a chill down your spine—unnatural, electric-green irises that practically glowed with a manic, erratic frenzy in the dim light.

It was a deeply eerie sight; he didn't possess the smooth, predictable mechanical components of a marionette, yet his human expressions were far more volatile and monstrous than any creature of iron and brass. You hated him to your very core. He was the absolute worst of your former suitors—an arrogant noble whose toxic behavior had forced you to become hyper-aware of the true motives of anyone who ever approached you.

“JULIAN!” you hissed, your anger burning right through the remnants of the drug. “What the hell did you do?! How did you find me? My family placed a strict restriction order against you with the local guard!”

“Oooh~ well, let’s just say a highly placed friend gave me a hand to bypass those trivial little laws,” Julian chuckled, walking with a mocking, theatrical grace as if he were preparing to lead a ballroom dance. The candlelight flickered wildly in his electric-green eyes as he stepped up to the edge of the mattress, his lips pulling into a devious, unprompted smirk before he slowly sat down near your ankles.

“I know it was so unfortunate how we ended up, darling... but love deserves a second chance, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “You always presented yourself as so cold, so modest, and flawlessly educated to your laaaarge list of suitors. I truly had hopes that we would find our way back to each other.” He swayed his arm, his fingers suddenly clamping down to hold both of your ankles playfully—like a cruel cat catching a helpless mouse.

“But oh, dear… my blood absolutely boiled the night of your debut gala,” Julian’s voice dropped, his grip tightening into a painful vice. “I watched from the shadows of the King’s pavilion. I hated the way that monstrous machine looked at you. I hated how devoted he became to your voice, your presence, your very breath.”

Julian’s electric eyes snapped, his composure breaking completely into a crazed glare as he drove his fingers painfully into your left ankle. “I thought it was just a provocation! A cheap trick to show the Golden Circle how marvelous and perfect you are! I thought the King would eventually choose a puppet of royal porcelain, not a soft-skin human! Everyone in the courts wants you... but damn it all, when I heard he had welcomed you permanently into his kingdom—”

“—You realized you could never compare to him,” you cut him off, your voice ringing out with a cold, educated venom that instantly sliced through his arrogance.

Julian froze, his jaw tightening as his purple ponytail whipped slightly with the sudden movement.

Your words cut through the heavy silence of the cellar, a stern, determined declaration meant to force him to realize his deepest, most fatal mistake. You leaned forward slightly, the iron chains rattling ominously against the metallic headboard.

“How did you find me, Julian?” you insisted, your voice low and sharp as you clenched your fists tightly. The urge to kick him square in the chest burned through your veins, but he merely smirked, letting out a soft, taunting laugh that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Well… let’s just say we both shared a beautiful coincidence, darling,” Julian murmured, leaning closer as the candle flame danced wildly in his electric-green eyes. “The hand that helped me has their own desperate desires... specifically, for the throne.”

Your eyes widened in sudden, horrifying realization. “Cordelia?!”

Disbelief choked your throat. You knew the Archduchess was arrogant, but you had never imagined she would cross a line this treasonous—risking the destruction of the kingdom just to satisfy her shallow envy.

“You don’t have any idea what the two of you are doing,” you pleaded, the reality of the situation making your chest tighten. “You know what Jestyn is capable of. You know how he—”

SLAP.

The sharp, violent crack of his palm against your face echoed brutally off the damp stone walls. The sheer force of the blow snapped your head to the side, a burst of heat and blinding pain blooming across your cheek. Before you could even catch your breath, Julian’s fingers clamped onto your jaw with a cruel, bruising force, violently wrenching your face back to meet his glare.

“DO NOT SAY HIS NAME!!!” he screamed directly into your face.

His voice hit an erratic, terrifying register, his chest heaving as his grip tightened on your chin. “Don't you dare say that monster’s name! Everyone loves him! Everyone respects him! But I despise him for having your heart!!”

As he roared at you, you looked directly into his face. Up close, the terrifying truth became clear. The veins around his temples were pulsing violently, and his unnatural electric-green pupils were completely blown out and dilated, swallowing his irises. The manic energy radiating off him wasn't just raw obsession—it was chemical.

You recognized the signs instantly. He was heavily drugged on the illicit white powder that only soft-skin humans could consume. A cold, genuine drop of dread sank into your stomach; you weren't just dealing with an arrogant ex anymore. You were chained to a volatile, heavily intoxicated madman who had completely lost his grip on reality.

“Julian… you’re…” you breathed, your voice trembling as you tried to speak about his dangerous consumption.

“Yes… I am still using it! And I will always use it!” he cackled, a dark, breathless sound as he leaned in so close you could feel his erratic breath against your skin. “And you are going to learn to love me just like this.”

The moment the twisted, delusional words left his lips, a spark of pure survival instinct overrode your fear. With a sudden, desperate surge of movement, you clamped your teeth down onto the fleshy meat of his hand, biting into his skin with everything you had left.

Julian let out a sharp, agonizing shriek of pain that pierced through the dark cellar...

“YOU WILL NEVER CHANGE MY MIND AND HEART FOR HIM!” You exclaimed with all your soul and rage this time

“YOURE THE REASON I ALWAYS BE CAREFUL AROUND ON THIS DAMN WORLD” you screamed more louder as you finally break down crying how this could end like this, you didn’t see Jestyn anymore. But you held hope and determined he will find you, no matter what

“Soon he will find you… and oh Lord… you both don’t have any idea what you’re going to deal” you finally say as you stay determined that Snow, the mechanical dove you sent Jestyn, have their letter with the directions your carriage will take since the original road as been damaged. And maybe that’s where they could find you .

During the King’s Storm

It had been two agonizing weeks since the Songbird vanished into thin air.

Everyone within the realm knew that when King Jestyn I was pushed to madness, a terrifying, unnatural storm would brew over the Marionette Kingdom.

The skies hung low, heavy with bruised purple clouds and a suffocating, electrifying chill that made the citizens tremble in their homes. The neighboring soft-skin human empires and the surrounding Fae kingdoms watched in absolute dread, terrified of the slumbering war machine that was slowly waking up. Even the High Fairy Kingdom had broken centuries of isolation to offer their tracking magic, which Jestyn had desperate accepted with Wizzy’s urgent guidance.

In the grand cathedral, High Priest Prieston spent his days sending heavy prayers to the heavens, offering sanctuary and a calm word to the panicked citizens and foreign merchants alike. By royal decree, all weddings, festivals, and courtly celebrations were brought to a grinding halt.

The kingdom was frozen in time, waiting for its heart to be returned.

Knighter had transformed into a glacier of military discipline. He led the royal guard with ruthless, freezing efficiency, checking every square inch of the perimeters. Ships sailing the open seas were boarded and searched, incoming carriages were stripped down to the chassis, and even the most powerful noble mansions were raided under the King’s direct authority. No stone was left unturned.

Meanwhile, Jestyn sat alone in the dark, suffocating silence of his private study. He tried to focus on the endless stacks of political treaties, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. His large, porcelain fingers traced over the delicate golden bird filigree toy he when he first met you since childhood, his core whirring with a profound, aching sorrow. He remembered the phantom warmth of your last embrace, the gentle, desperate sweetness of the kisses you had shared before you boarded. He clung to those memories like a dying man, refusing to believe you had escaped voluntarily. You loved him. He knew you loved him.

With a heavy, mechanical sigh, his black-skinned hand pulled open a hidden drawer, extracting a small velvet box. Inside rested a masterpiece of midnight engineering—a breathtaking ring he had meticulously hand-crafted himself in the lonely, quiet hours of the night. He had been quietly maneuvering the high lords, orchestrating a monumental shift in the noble rankings to elevate you to royalty, entirely bypassing the rigid laws of the Golden Circle. He was preparing to offer you his kingdom.

A sharp, painful click resonated in his chest as a tear threatened to well in his crimson eye. He closed the box, burying it back into the secret drawer and locking it with a sharp twist of a golden key just as a frantic knock rattled his door.

“You may enter, Lucille,” he commanded sternly, quickly pulling his cold, stoic mask back over his features.

But it wasn’t Lucille who crossed the threshold.

“Your Highness! My deepest apologies, I tried to bar her entry!” Lucille gasped, rushing into the room with a pale face, completely helpless as Archduchess Cordelia swept past her.

“Tin-Tin! I heard the terrifying news! I am so, so terribly sorry for your immense loss!” Cordelia cried out, her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of grief as she rushed toward his desk, her silk skirts rustling loudly.

Jestyn’s internal gears ground together in an angry, defensive rhythm, your past warnings about the Archduchess flaring in his mind. He leveled a gaze of pure, freezing iron at the intruder.

“What brings you here, Cordelia? Lucille—you may retire,” he signaled calmly, his voice dangerously low. Lucille offered a hasty bow and quickly shut the heavy doors, leaving them in the dim, tense room.

Cordelia pouted beautifully, her porcelain joints clicking with elegant precision as she slowly sauntered toward his side. “I am just so terribly frightened for you, Your Majesty… Tell me, did the two of you perhaps engage in a bitter quarrel before they retired to the countryside?”

She was testing him, twisting his innermost fears like a knife in an open wound.

“No. We did not quarrel,” Jestyn responded, his voice dropping into a hollow, defeated register. He turned his back to her, stepping toward the massive, arched window to look out over his locked-down capital. “I personally granted them leave. I feared… I feared I was being selfish by keeping them confined to this castle. Perhaps I was a fool to believe a soft-skin’s hand and soul belonged in a world of gears.”

“Oh, that is incredibly mature of you, Your Majesty,” Cordelia purred, her eyes gleaming with a venomous triumph. She took a step closer, her fan snapping open with a sharp clack. “But I cannot help but wonder… did they perhaps view your sudden generosity as a golden opportunity for freedom? Oh, my sweet King… why did you choose to open the birdcage?”

Jestyn’s back went entirely rigid. A suffocating, twisted fear gripped his artificial heart.

Sensing his vulnerability, Cordelia stepped up right behind him, the sweet, cloying scent of her perfume filling his senses as she leaned in, her voice dropping into a cruel, raw hiss. “Maybe they saw it as their only escape. You know how wild birds are, Your Majesty—they never stay for long, no matter how doting, how caring, or how loving their master is. They are ungrateful creatures, aren't they?”

She raised her fan, masking a devious, satisfied smirk as she remembered the secret letter Julian had smuggled to her family estate, confirming you were safely chained beneath his floorboards.

“They aren't like loyal hounds who worship the hand that feeds them. A hound will stay, even if they are broken and harmed by their owner's wrath,” Cordelia whispered, her eyes flashing with a wicked satisfaction. “But you know I will always be loyal to you. I am neither a fickle bird nor a dog, Your Majesty… and I promise I will never abandon you again. I will stay by your side forev—”

“CORDELIA, ENOUGH.”

The roar that ripped from Jestyn’s chest was not human; it was a haunting, metallic vibration that caused the glass panes of the window to rattle violently. Cordelia gasped, stumbling backward in genuine terror. She looked down, her breath hitching as she realized Jestyn’s black-skinned fingers had completely dug into the solid oak window frame, his razor-sharp claws splintering the wood into kindling.

“I have heard quite enough of your poisoned words. You are permitted to stay within the capital boundaries purely for your family's status—but I suggest you return to your estate immediately, Archduchess.”

He slowly turned around, his crimson eyes glowing with a lethal, unholy light that made his porcelain skin look like a death mask. “Unless, of course, you possess actual, verified answers regarding the whereabouts of my Songbird.”

Right on cue, the heavy doors opened, and Knighter stepped into the room like a looming shadow of death.

“Knighter. Escort Lady Cordelia to the palace gates. Personally,” Jestyn commanded, his voice a freezing current.

Knighter offered a rigid, militaristic nod, stepping aside to wait for her. Cordelia swallowed hard, her confidence entirely shattered by the terrifying aura of the King.

She gathered her dignity, offering a tight, clipped curtsy. “I only hope you realize your grave mistakes before it is too late, Your Majesty. Come find me when you finally accept the truth.” With a sharp huff, she swept out of the room.

The silence that followed her departure was crushing. Left alone with his thoughts, a somber, agonizing pain settled deep into Jestyn's core. Was she right? Was it the nature of a human to crave the open sky, completely untethered to a creature made of iron and ash? Had you boarded a ship to some far-off continent where his shadow could never reach you? He let out a frustrated, guttural growl, slamming his fist against the wall before retreating into the deeper, darker wings of the palace.

Hours bled into midnight. Unable to sleep, the sleepless King wandered through the empty, echoing corridors until his feet unconsciously brought him to the threshold of your private chambers.

He pushed the door open. The room was exactly as you had left it—a painful museum of your presence. He looked upon your unfinished canvas paintings, your charcoal sketches, and the beautiful silk gowns he had personally curated and gifted to you.

Stepping toward the wardrobe, he gently lifted one of your discarded cloaks, burying his face into the soft fabric. He inhaled deeply, his internal systems whirring in agony as the faint, lingering scent of your floral perfume and sweet skin filled his senses. He closed his eyes, desperately conjuring the memory of how you used to throw your arms around his neck, looking up at him with pure, unadulterated affection.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sharp, rhythmic sound against the window glass broke the silence.

Jestyn startled, his crimson eyes snapping open as he accidentally dropped the cloak to the floor. He spun around, his breath catching in his throat as his vision locked onto the windowpane. His pupils dilated in sheer, breathy shock.

Perched on the marble sill, illuminated by the pale moonlight, was a small, silver figure.

It was Snow.

The mechanical dove was completely worn out, its pristine metallic feathers covered in soot, dirt, and dried mud. Its internal brass clockwork was wheezing loudly, emitting tiny puffs of steam as if it had been flying through a hellish storm for days on end, desperately waiting for someone to open the glass.

“Snow…?” Jestyn whispered, a sudden, blinding wave of relief crashing through his chest. He sprinted across the room, his long strides eating up the distance as he threw the heavy glass window open.

He reached out, his massive hands trembling with a profound, terrifying tenderness as he cradled the exhausted mechanical bird against his chest. “Shh, shh… it is alright, little one. You are safe. You are home. Let me look at you…”

As he gently stroked the dove's dented silver wings, his eyes caught the small, cylinder canister attached to its leg. His breath hitched. It was the letter. The letter you had sent exactly two weeks ago—the very night you disappeared.

With frantic, trembling fingers, Jestyn set Snow down onto the soft velvet of your bed. He unrolled the tightly coiled parchment, his crimson eyes rapidly scanning the elegant, familiar handwriting of his beloved.

The moment his eyes read the words—detailing the sudden, forced route change near the border and the strange directives of a rogue guard—his entire body went into a profound, terrifying shock. A brilliant, feral smile broke across his porcelain face, his gears roaring into a thunderous, triumphant crescendo.

He hadn't been abandoned.

You hadn't flown away. You had been ripped from him.

The War King looked up from the letter, his eyes burning with a sudden, catastrophic fire that promised absolute annihilation. He had the map. He had the path. And god help anyone standing between the monster and his Songbird.

———————————————

Count is a man with a lack of care for anyone else except himself. He was unfaithful to Countine ever since they were assigned as marriage. He would also publicly show how much he didn't love Countine. HUMILIATING her infront of all other nobles. He would proudly show his "love" for his mistresses only to throw them to the dirt a week later for another. He did this over and over until almost no woman would ever trust Count.

He finds everyone else bellow him, but has to act like he is one of the other nobles. He uses his manipulative tactics to be friends with people only to exploit them for his own political gain. His marriage to Countine being the stepping stone to getting him into power. Now he uses what she left behind in the death of her and the other nobles to climb up the ranks of Nobility.

He laughs at the struggles of the pesants because it makes him feel stronger, bigger, more powerful... which is why he HATES Dukemir. Dukemir is higher on the bracket of the kingdom, is physically stronger than Vlaco by a large margin. Yet is loved by most everyone. Even if hes the dumbest man known to live! He's got not a braincell in that skull. He doesn't realize what Vlaco did to Countine, what he caused with the other nobles. But even Vlaco cannot help himself to love the Duke after being saved by him from a large fall. [Tell no one or he will spread rumors until your reputation is in the ground]

Although loving a man is wrong in Vlaco's eyes. Especially the man who ruins your chance at being bigger, better, MORE. Vlaco's tried everything! Spreading rumors, causing drama! He even claimed that Dukemir was as bad as Crownus and yet no one believes him! being mean to Duke directly may get Vlaco on more people's bad side then he already is. So he needs to rid of him.. once in for all. And it all will start with you. What would you agree to? If he promises you something in return. He just ask for one small favor.