Chapter 55 – Duke Vaelora POV
The scent was gone.
Duke Vaelora's steps echoed sharply down the corridor, each footfall spaced with near-military precision. The long mantle of his station fluttered behind him, but none of the envoy dared walk in its shadow. The tension radiating off his frame was not anger.
It was something colder.
More surgical.
Zyrenia was missing.
And her attendants—his attendants—had not returned either.
He did not stop walking. He did not pause to question. His mind was already calculating timelines, pathways, scent trails, intersections of exits and noble crowds. Every second she remained missing narrowed the perimeter. Every breath of wasted movement condensed into one conclusion:
Someone had taken his daughter.
"Sector sweep, now," he ordered, voice low but resonant. "I want all twenty staff split into arcs. Four corridors. Two on the west slope, three to the inner rings, and five to the arena halls."
A rustle of movement behind him, but not fast enough.
"Now."
The sharp crack of command cut through the hallway. Vampires scattered.
He pivoted without warning, golden eyes snapping toward a servant halfway down the back line. "You. Elevation tower. I want scent tracers thrown from the upper windows. Wind currents were spiraling clockwise. Find the last exit she passed through."
"Yes, Your Grace—"
"Don't answer. Move."
He was cracking.
Not openly. Not yet. But the precision was becoming too exact, the micro-management too granular. The Duke of Vaelora—one of the highest nobles in the vampiric dominion—was now personally directing escort teams like a field officer on a raid.
It was beneath him.
And yet no one dared comment.
Because they had all seen his daughter cling to that crippled human. And they had all seen him let it happen.
From the rear, Sevrin stood motionless.
He hadn't been ordered to move.
And part of him was relieved.
Because if he had been given a task—he wasn't sure he would've succeeded.
His fangs pressed slightly into the corner of his mouth, not in hunger, but in tension. His eyes followed the sharp flicks of his father's hands, the constant redirection of personnel, the effortless breakdown of the academy's interior structure into viable grid searches.
This was command.
This was control.
And yet—Sevrin's thoughts wouldn't quiet.
She would've done better.
The truth tasted bitter.
Zyrenia—his younger sister—would have taken charge already if their roles were reversed. She wouldn't be standing still. She wouldn't be hiding behind formality. She'd be delegating. Snapping orders. Tearing open doors if she had to.
Even now, missing and possibly in danger, Sevrin couldn't help but think she would've made a better heir.
He hated that.
And hated himself more for not disagreeing.
Still—he stepped forward.
"Father—" he began. "Let me—"
Vaelora didn't even turn.
"If I lose both of you in one hour, I will consider that an act of divine mockery."
Sevrin flinched.
"Stand where I put you."
The words weren't cruel. They were measured. Exact. But they left no room for identity. No son. No heir. Just one more piece on the board that had already failed him once today.
The Duke turned down the east corridor sharply, head low, nostrils flaring. And there it was—just the edge of a familiar trace.
Not Zyrenia.
Not the attendants.
Perfume. Spiced rose. Powdered silk. Overwritten by sweat and irritation.
He knew the scent.
Princess Seraphina Halden.
He stepped in front of the ornate side-door without knocking. Two human guards moved to intercept—until they felt it.
Pressure.
Not aura. Not magic.
Just presence.
He opened the door without a word.
Inside, Seraphina was standing before a long silvered mirror, mid-way through fixing her hair. Her crimson academy dress robes had been replaced with a sleek dark-green overcoat, sleeves rolled in a formal double-braid, gold threading along the cuffs. Her maid had just stepped out—probably to fetch water or finish arranging her match report.
She didn't flinch when the door opened.
Her eyes flicked to the intruder in the mirror. Her posture shifted slightly—prim, ready, but not welcoming.
"Did you lose your sense of knocking, Your Grace?" she said smoothly, voice dry as ash. "Or are we suspending courtesy today?"
"Where is Jessica Moran."
Seraphina blinked once. Then twice.
A small mental sigh followed.
What the hell did she do this time?
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she offered a neutral tone. "She's likely finishing her evaluations. If this is about an emergency on your end, I suggest you bring it to the academy administration. It isn't one on mine."
Then she turned away, resuming the coiling of her long silver hair into a smooth ponytail. Her movements were unhurried. Poised. Meant to underline the fact that she wasn't in a rush.
The Duke stepped forward.
And with a single motion, grabbed her hair.
His fist clamped around the tail just as it looped back from the ribbon, and in one brutal yank, he pulled her head back, jerking her body flush against his.
Her breath caught—not from pain, but from sheer disbelief. Her eyes, still locked on the mirror, registered the impossible: she couldn't see the man holding her. Not even his outline. As if the glass refused to reflect him. The mirror in front of her showed only her own face, tilted back, the man behind her too close, too low to be reflected. She couldn't even see him—just her own startled expression.
He leaned in, his voice low, almost beside her ear.
"You will bring me to her. Now."
Seraphina froze, her spine straightening on instinct, breath tight in her throat. She didn't cry out. Didn't lash back. She just stood there, eyes fixed on her own reflection unable to see the duke holding her in the mirror other than a piece of his sleeve.
And then, her thoughts snapped.
That fucking bitch.
Not the Duke. Not the guards. Not even the pathetic academy that was letting him stomp through like this.
Jessica.
Because somehow, impossibly, this was being blamed on her.
The Duke wasn't here because of politics.
He was here because of her.
The Princess of Halden had never wished death on another student. Had never once considered using her rank to harm someone.
But right now?
If Jessica were in reach, Seraphina would have hanged her.
"She was with your daughter," the Duke hissed. "And now my daughter is missing."
Her mind went blank.
Missing?
He let go.
The fury vanished beneath her skin, replaced by something deeper. Something uglier. Not concern. Not sympathy.
Betrayal.
Jessica had been with the girl.
And now the girl was gone.
And Seraphina hadn't even noticed.
The Duke stepped back, eyes still burning. "She was taken for medical care."
Seraphina didn't hesitate. "Come with me. I'll take you to the infirmary."
She turned on her heel, not waiting for confirmation, not checking her hair.
Her reflection still stared after her, the ponytail half-done.
It didn't matter anymore.
She would find Jessica.
And if the girl was responsible, there wouldn't be a court in the empire that could save her.
___
They walked quickly. Seraphina's strides were tight, composed, but carried the tension of someone resisting the urge to sprint. Every hallway they passed, every delayed footstep from the guards, made her jaw twitch.
Jessica, Jessica, Jessica.
Always that bitch lately.
The infirmary wing came into view—the main one. The one Lucien would obviously have taken her to. Of course. Where else?
She pushed the door open with a decisive snap and swept inside, the Duke following two paces behind her.
And stopped.
Jessica wasn't here.
Only Tobias. Magnus. Hannelore.
No aura-ridden cripple. No demon-tagged strategist. Just the three most injured nobles of the day recovering under silk sheets and medical haze.
Seraphina felt her lungs stop working.
She didn't turn around.
She couldn't turn around.
That damn presence behind her was watching every inch of her spine like it held answers she didn't have.
She focused on Magnus first—no. Useless. Then Hannelore—blank. Still pale. Recovering.
She forced her voice not to shake. "Tobias. Was your sister brought here and transferred?"
Tobias blinked up at her, confused. "No. She was never here."
"She what?"
"Never came through." Magnus said quietly.
"Lucien carried her off," Tobias added, shifting with a wince. "But I thought... you know. Paralyzed. Medical wing."
Seraphina didn't reply.
Shit. Shit. Gods dam her. Where the hell did Lucien take her?!!
Behind her, the Duke took a step forward.
Tobias tensed immediately.
"Why," the Duke said, voice neutral, "do you smell like a vampire has been near you?"
Seraphina turned, one brow arched.
Tobias froze.
Color drained from his face so fast it was like watching blood retreat.
"I was near your daughter earlier—"
"Do not insult me," the Duke said, cutting him off.
His tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"I know that scent. She's missing. I saw her beside you. I smell her still."
Tobias said nothing.
"I am not speaking of her."
The room went still.
"I am speaking," the Duke continued, stepping closer, "of the other vampire I smell all over you."
Seraphina's eyes sharpened.
What... other vampire?
The Duke studied Tobias. Cold. Measuring.
"Is that scent your sister? Is that why you're silent?"
Tobias' lips parted.
No sound came out.
The Duke straightened. "Very well."
He turned to the corridor and raised his voice.
"Team Two. Come here. Smell this man. Find me the vampire whose scent he wears. Now."
The Duke and his team caught the trace immediately, darting off down the hall like bloodhounds released from a leash. He didn't even glance back at Seraphina.
Tobias, still pale, slowly turned his face toward her. "Are they accusing Jessica of something?"
Seraphina looked at him, cold and unreadable. Her gaze drilled into him.
"Who knows."
She wasn't even surprised anymore.
Jessica again.
Smells like a vampire. Of course she does.
But something was off.
She and Hannelore exchanged a glance.
When the Duke asked what vampire had been near Tobias, he should have been confused. Because unless he was hiding something, he shouldn't know Jessica smells like one.
But that look—that haunted, clammy silence—he looked like he already knew.
And when the Duke asked if the scent was his sister, Tobias should've denied it immediately.
He didn't.
Which meant he wasn't shocked. Just… cornered.
Seraphina's throat tightened. Not from fear.
Just exhaustion.
She didn't even want to humor this conversation anymore. Jessica was like a spreading fire—silent, smokeless, but eating through the walls of every institution they had.
If Tobias had been hiding a vampire… if Jessica was involved in the kidnapping of a noble envoy child…
The Moran family wouldn't be suppressed anymore.
They'd be finished. Burned down and erased. And no one would stop it.
No one could.
Hannelore looked like she had something stuck in her throat. Her eyes were locked on Tobias, and Seraphina could see the cracks.
Her ice had broken earlier today. So had her pride.
And now?
Now she understood what asking the obvious question might mean.
And Seraphina could see it clearly:
She liked him. Because of that, she is unable to ask the question on the tip of her tongue.
Magnus looked between them, visibly concerned—but clearly missing the undercurrent.
He hadn't picked up what was unspoken.
But Seraphina had.
And she was so, so tired of Jessica Moran.
___
The Duke was already gone.
He and his search team surged down the east corridor, fangs sharp, focus tighter than ever. The scent was still faint—no longer distinguishable by origin—but it was present. Trailing. Moving.
Toward the private infirmary wing.
Not the main one.
Not where the princess had led them.
As they rounded a corner, the group halted—blocked by a figure standing calm and composed.
Lucien von Hohenfeld, who had recently sent a healer to examen Jessica
He tilted his head, red eyes narrowing. "You have no reason to be in this wing."
The Duke didn't stop. "We do now."
Lucien frowned. "Whatever it is involving Jessica Moran, it can wait."
That was a mistake.
Duke Vaelora's patience snapped like a steel wire under pressure.
"One more delay," he said coldly, "is an act of war."
Lucien's mouth opened slightly—but no words came.
The Duke stepped forward.
"I will speak to Jessica Moran," he said, "unless you can explain where my daughter and her attendants are."
Lucien's expression changed.
For the first time that day, he looked shaken. His mind reeled—Zyrenia is missing? That wasn't just serious. That was bad. Bad enough that no explanation would clean it up if it went wrong.
And Jessica—he wanted to protect her from this, from whatever storm was about to be unleashed. But standing in the way now would only escalate it. The Duke was past protocol. Past reason. He wasn't here to interrogate. He was here to find his daughter.
The Duke didn't wait.
He moved past him, cloak flaring as his personal guard followed like hounds tasting blood.
___
Jessica sat upright in the cot, posture precise even under the weight of fatigue. Her shirt had been loosened at the collar and shoulder for the medical scan. Thin metal instruments hovered at various pressure points, runic-tipped, flickering with gentle pulses.
"Reflex response is consistent with deep shock-state paralysis," the Academy doctor muttered. "Not permanent. Impressive stabilization response."
Jessica didn't answer.
She didn't need to. She already knew she'd be fine. Her muscles had locked cleanly, her internal sense of damage was linear, contained.
But Lucien had insisted.
She sat there.
Unaware.
Completely unaware of the storm now coming down the hallway, its fangs bared and eyes set on her name.
And the door was about to open."