Chapter Text
Darling, you're with me, always around me Only love, only love
Colin Bridgerton had never been known as a man who lost his calm easily. Even as a boy, when Anthony’s temper could scorch a room and Daphne’s tantrums could darken it, Colin had been the steady one, the peacekeeper, the fool who smiled through hardships. Even during wars, when the world burned and friends bled beside him, his hands never trembled, his sword never faltered. He knew how to hold himself together.
But the instant the North Gate closed behind him, Penelope and the other soldiers in his charge, calmness was the first thing to vanish.
Darkness surrounded them. It was a suffocating void that devoured sound and air alike. And to make matters worse, one moment, Penelope’s shoulder brushed against his body, and the next, she was gone as if her wind had scooped her from him.
He called her name, “Pen?” Once, twice, louder. Then a third time, “Penelope?!” His voice didn’t echo, or he would have heard the desperation in his tone. And for a moment, panic threatened to take him. An ugly, monstrous panic that tightened his chest and made the world tilt. But instinct cut through it. He forced himself to breathe, to focus; if he despaired, he would not be able to find her.
He’d visited Penelope in Royal Crescent Castle since they were children. Had walked its courtyards and towers enough times to know his way around—but as he moved through this place, he quickly realized this wasn’t the same. The halls twisted like veins through stone, corridors shifting and looping back upon themselves. Strange-looking banners hung from walls that shouldn’t exist, doorways opened into rooms that vanished when he turned back.
“Bloody brilliant,” he muttered under his breath. “Mic was right, and it’s a damned maze. I think we will never hear the end of this once the war is over… on how she is always right.”
He sighed and started moving. The sapphire sword at his hip caught the dim glow of a torch as he passed, its reflection blue as ice. His mind racing faster than his feet. He needed to find Penelope. Now. It wasn’t that he doubted her ability to survive—her wind could tear through entire battalions—but he wanted her close. Needed her close.
He had sworn more than once that he would protect her, and not just in ceremony. He had knelt before her and pledged his sword before they left Aubrey Hall to find the Mystics, a formal and lawful vow, but he had always thought the truest vows were the quiet ones, the ones he had whispered into her skin while she moaned his name in the dark. He had promised her more than once that she would never have to face the storm alone again, and he couldn’t break that promise now.
A subtle shift stirred the quiet—a faint sound threading through the stillness, metal scraping stone. Colin slowed, hand sliding to the hilt of his sword. Then came the footsteps, too many to count.
He drew in one smooth motion.
A cluster of sellswords emerged from the shadows, armor mismatched and ready to fight him. He wasn’t sure how many were coming his way, but it was a good lot.
He took a step forward, blade angled low. “Where is Queen Penelope?”
The first man grinned, teeth yellow in the dim light. “You’ll find your lady soon enough in the afterlife.”
Colin step forward, his sword was an extension of his breath, his body, his will. He sidestepped a lunge, twisted his wrist, and the man’s blade went spinning away. He parried another, drove his elbow into a gut, and brought his sword down in a clean, merciless arc. Each motion was exact, trained, and controlled.
The clang of metal and the grunt of dying men echoed through the chamber, then faded just as quickly. The fight lasted less than a minute.
When silence returned, it was heavier than before.
Colin stood still, chest heaving lightly, the weight of his breath loud in the empty hall. He wiped the blade on a fallen cloak, sheathed it, and forced the rising dread back down.
He looked toward the dark end of the corridor. “I’m coming for you, Pen,” he said softly, the words swallowed by the windless air. “Just hold on.”
Then he started walking again, faster this time, the sound of his boots the only heartbeat left in the hall.
However. he soon lost count of how many corridors he had crossed. The maze stretched endlessly, every turn leading to another shadowed passage, another echo of footsteps that might have been his own.
He had been fighting for what felt like hours. Groups of sellswords emerged like the castle itself was spitting them out, their blades catching the faint flicker of torchlight before they fell. He had stopped asking where Penelope was; none of them knew, and none of them lived long enough to lie convincingly. He moved on instinct—forward, always forward—even though there was no map to follow, no sense of direction beyond his heartbeat and her name pounding in rhythm with it.
Frustration began to build in his chest, slow and suffocating. It wasn’t the kind that came from fear, but from helplessness, from the realization that all his training, all his vows, meant nothing in a maze that refused to obey reason. His body ached; his sword arm burned. He was tired, but the kind of tired that was a bone-deep fatigue that came from knowing Penelope was somewhere in this twisting ruin, and he had no way of reaching her.
He exhaled, trying to steady himself, but the breath came out like a growl. Fighting gave him an outlet, at least, a way to drown the rising panic in motion. But every fight ended the same: a few more bodies on the ground, a few more bruises, and the same silence pressing against the walls.
He was deeply frustrated and, frankly, angry, and something in his state of mind forced his thoughts back to the last morning they had all shared at Aubrey Hall.
It had been so early that the sun hadn’t even risen yet. Colin had left, reluctantly, Penelope’s chamber, dressing in the dark and fast even before Dunwoody would arrive at his own room. Both men made their way to the stables and worked hard at tightening the horses' girths. He noticed Benedict coming from the courtyard, jesting as he walked with a few of the men who were leaving, his usual lazy grin already plastered on his face.
“Oh, brother! There you are. We missed you at dinner last night—but Mother understood, of course. Your time with Penelope is, after all, precious,” Benedict commented, his tone deceptively casual, though mischief curled beneath it.
Colin ignored him, focusing instead on the horses beside Dunwoody. Benedict, undeterred, shifted topics. “So, are you ready to go?”
“People are never ready for war, Benedict.”
His older brother tilted his head, watching him. “That’s not what I asked. I know you’re ready for war, Colin. I’m asking if you’re ready to let her run into it.”
He’d looked up then, truly looked at him, the tension between them stretching like a drawn bow. Benedict’s voice softened. “You and Anthony are more alike than either of you cares to admit. You both think you can stand between the world and the people you love, and most of the time, you are bound to fail; that is just how life is.”
Colin had held his brother’s gaze for a moment before letting out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked up, brow raised. “Wonderful. Another morning, another unsolicited character assessment.”
Benedict grinned. “Not my fault you’re allergic to sincerity.”
“Terrible affliction,” Colin nodded with humor. “Inherited from my brothers, I’m told.”
The words between them had barely settled when Penelope appeared, stepping through the pale morning mist as though it parted for her. Whatever Benedict might have said next was lost to the sight of her because the world seemed to be still now that she was here. Penelope moved with such quiet certainty that the hem of her cloak brushed the dew-soaked grass, and for a fleeting moment, Colin forgot how to breathe.
Every time he saw her like this—unguarded, unhurried—something inside him loosened. It wasn’t awe, not exactly. It was as though some part of him had been waiting for her to appear, to transform his dull world into a colorful one, and now with her here, everything seemed brighter.
Benedict, of course, noticed the change and muttered under his breath, “Good gods, the man’s head over heels in love.”
Colin didn’t even bother to look at him. He was too busy pretending he wasn’t smiling.
And now, hours later, with blood drying on his sword and the Grimoire changing the configuration of the walls, Benedict’s words came back to him with cruel precision.
You both think you can stand between the world and the people you love, and most of the time, you are bound to fail.
He pressed a hand against the cold stone beside him, closing his eyes for a moment. “You were right,” he muttered. “I can’t stand between her and this, but Gods help me, I’ll die trying.”
A faint hum broke the silence that followed.
At first, he thought it was another trick of the castle, but then the wall ahead of him began to shimmer. A strange light pulsed beneath the surface, forming a rectangular outline that grew brighter and clearer with every heartbeat.
He stepped closer, sword raised. The glow intensified until the rough wall transformed into smooth glass, its surface rippling like liquid light. Then, images began to form, indistinct at first, then sharpening into a familiar figure seated on a throne.
Jack Featherington.
Colin’s jaw tightened.
The man’s likeness filled the wall; he presented himself as regal, composed, draped in stolen power. A crown glinted on his head, and behind him, Portia Featherington’s throne gleamed like a wound reopened.
That bastard.
“People of the continent,” Jack began, “I am your rightful king—Jack Featherington of the Royal House of Featherington, Lord of the Crescent Throne.”
Colin froze, eyes locked on the image as the speech continued. Every word he spoke was deliberate, poisoned with pride. And from his words, Colin realized with growing horror that Jack meant to broadcast the battles within the castle to the entire continent—a grotesque spectacle. Death turned into entertainment.
But an even sharper thought struck him, cold and merciless: Penelope would see this.
The realization landed like a punch to the ribs. His Pen, already carrying so much guilt, would be forced to watch his friends fight and witness every loss as if it were her doing. The thought burned through him, spurring his pulse to a furious pace. He had to find her. And he had to find her now.
He shook his head and continued to listen in silence as Jack taunted them all, offering mock mercy, twisting the truth into theater. He spoke of invaders and traitors, of thrones and rights, of gods and doom, until Colin’s grip on his sword hilt ached with the effort of not hurling it through the projection.
When the speech ended with that final, “Good luck—and goodbye,” the glass flickered once more and went dark, leaving only the faint echo of his voice behind.
Colin stared at the empty wall, the reflection of torchlight trembling across the steel of his armor. Then, quietly, he said the only thing he could.
“This would be the last time you hurt her.”
He turned, and started running again.
He had seven hours.
Seven hours to find Penelope, free Eloise, and end the reign of terror of Jack Featherington for good.