Several minutes before Adrian's fight against Romulus.

Lysander stood by an open window as he took one final drag from his cigar. The ember glowed faintly against the twilight sky, a fleeting speck of light swallowed by the deepening shadows outside. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the cool evening air before flicking the burnt stub into a nearby bin.

Behind him, Merrick lounged against the edge of a polished oak desk, arms crossed. “That’s your fifth one today, getting nervous in your old age?”

Lysander chuckled as he adjusted his coat. “Old age hasn’t caught me yet, and I intend to keep it that way.” He turned, flashing Merrick a faint smirk. “Though I’d argue you’re better suited to worrying about the future."

"Bah, you’re unbearable. Get lost already.” Merrick scoffed.

“Gladly,” Lysander replied, inclining his head slightly. “I’ll leave you to your solitude, or whatever it is you pretend to enjoy.”

"Just leave."

"Already on it."

Soon, Lysander left Merrick behind. As the door shut softly behind him, the quiet of the corridor enveloped him. His thoughts drifted toward Natasha and Adrian, tugging at the corners of his mind like threads. I've left those two alone for a while, best to find them before the night drags on too long.

The thought of an early night held a certain appeal. The day had been long, filled with the usual tedium of obligations, though his instincts whispered that peace would be fleeting. It always was. His hand brushed the edge of his coat, adjusting the fit as he walked down the corridor.

Suddenly, a deep, guttural rumble tore through the place. The ground beneath his feet jolted violently, sending a sharp tremor through his entire frame. Lysander reached out instinctively, his hand bracing against the wall as the floor beneath him quaked. The distant sound of stone groaning under pressure carried through the air, mingled with the faint echo of something breaking far below. What in the world was that?

His pulse quickened, the calm veneer slipping from his thoughts as his sharp gaze darted down the corridor. Dust drifted from the ceiling, the vibrations subsiding just enough for him to straighten. His jaw tightened, unease worming its way into his chest. That wasn’t natural. Something’s wrong.

Lysander's stride quickened as he headed toward the nearest stairwell. Thoughts raced through his mind, each one more urgent than the last. Adrian. Natasha. If they’re caught in this—

He cut the thought short, unwilling to entertain the possibilities. Whatever had caused the quake, he intended to get answers. And if someone was behind it, they would learn that Lysander Whitewynn was not a man to be trifled with.

The tremors continued as Lysander strode down the corridor toward the grand ballroom. The faint echoes of laughter and music that had filled the halls earlier were gone, replaced by muffled shouts and hurried footsteps. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and cracks spiderwebbed through the stone near his feet. Damn it all, where's Natasha and Adrian?

He pressed forward, each step deliberate as he pushed past growing unease. When a particularly forceful quake struck, Lysander stumbled, catching himself against the cold stone of the wall. Before he could regain full balance, another deep rumble surged through the ground, throwing him off entirely. He fell to one knee, his sharp reflexes the only thing that saved him as a deafening crash sounded behind him.

The chandelier.

Lysander rolled to the side just in time, the massive chandelier crashing into the floor where he had stood only moments before. The impact sent a deafening crack through the ballroom as shards of crystal exploded outward, glittering like fractured starlight in the dim chaos. His heart thundered in his chest as he crouched low, his sharp, calculating gaze slicing through the mayhem.

That was far too close, he thought, brushing a sliver of crystal from his sleeve.

Taking a steadying breath, Lysander rose to his full height, his sharp silver eye scanning the wreckage for any sign of Natasha. The air was thick with dust and panic, the shouts of servants and the groaning of the collapsing ceiling filling the vast space. If she’s not outside by now, she must be somewhere in this mess.

His instincts didn’t betray him. Near the far end of the shattered ballroom, Natasha emerged from beneath a table, dusting off her dress as if she had simply brushed against a cobweb rather than survived a violent collapse.

A panicked servant rushed to her side and pointed toward the nearest exit. Natasha waved him off dismissively.

Lysander stepped forward, weaving through the debris. “Natasha!”

She turned, her posture impeccable despite the bedlam around her. “I’m fine, Daddy. Don't worry."

Lysander’s lips tightened, but his relief was evident in the quick scan he gave her, ensuring she was unharmed. “Are you sure, Princess?"

Natasha let out a smug grin. "Yes, daddy, I'm really fine. Everyone was running out, so I decided to hide under a table rather than risk getting trampled."

"Well, I'm just glad you're safe."

“You worry too much, Daddy. But anyway, do you have any idea what’s happening? This place is falling apart.” Natasha asked.

"No clue, I just wanted to find you and Adrian before leaving."

"Oh, so you haven't seen Adrian either, Daddy?"

"Obviously not, I was busy. When was the last time you saw him?"

"He… was taken in by Romulus Blythe's men. I told him not to go, but he was really insistent."

"Romulus? You mean Merrick's oldest son?"

"Yes, Daddy, him."

Lysander nodded, though his unease deepened. Romulus probably decided to intervene on Remus's behalf. If that's the case, there's no telling what he might try and pull. I should try to resolve thighs fast. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small, glass vial. Inside, a faint swirl of crimson liquid shimmered in the dim light.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Whose blood is that?”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Lysander’s mouth as he cradled the vial in his palm. “It’s a secret,” he said lightly, though his tone held a dangerous edge that silenced further questions. He pulled the cork from the vial, holding it aloft as the blood rose of its own accord, swirling in a slow, deliberate motion.

Lysander’s eyes flashed silver as his magic surged. He held his hand steady, his fingers curling as the blood formed a thin thread in the air, stretching outward like a compass needle. It pointed firmly toward the far end of the room, where a secondary corridor led deeper into the structure.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He recorked the vial, sliding it back into his pocket. “Adrian’s alive, and I know where he is,” he said, turning his attention back to Natasha. “Go outside and wait for me.”

“What? I’m not just going to stand outside like some helpless child while you—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Natasha, I’m going after him, and you’re not coming with me this time.”

Her eyes flared with defiance, but the firmness in his tone gave her pause. She clenched her fists at her sides, her jaw tight. “I don’t need protecting."

“I’m not protecting you,” Lysander countered, his voice softening slightly. “I’m ensuring I don’t have to worry about you while I’m dealing with whatever’s out there. Trust me, Princess. You’ll only slow me down.”

Her shoulders stiffened at his words, but after a long moment, she exhaled sharply and stepped back. “Fine, but you’d better bring him back.”

Lysander smirked faintly. “Always so demanding.” He touched her shoulder briefly before turning toward the corridor, his coat flaring behind him as he strode away.

***

The Whitewynn Patriarch moved through the hallways and followed, the faint thread of blood magic still pulling him forward. He went back to the Blythe family’s territory within the sprawling estate, a separate wing of the building that radiated a cold, unwelcoming air even in calmer times. Now, the dimly lit corridors echoed with a foreboding silence, broken only by the occasional tremor that caused dust to fall from the ceiling. His jaw tightened as he pressed forward, brushing past startled staffers who gawked at his presence.

“Sir, you shouldn’t—”

“Look away,” Lysander interrupted, his voice low and cutting as his silver-gray eye flicked toward them. “Unless you wish to involve yourself in something far beyond your understanding.”

The staffers hesitated for a moment before stepping back, their wide eyes betraying their fear. Lysander dismissed them with a curt glance, his focus already back on the faint pull of the blood magic. Adrian’s not too far away. I can feel it.

The corridor twisted and turned, leading deeper into the Blythe family’s secluded domain. The faint trail guided him to an ornate door covered in enchanted runes, though the scent of charred wood and faint traces of blood seeped through its edges. Lysander reached for the handle, but the intricate seal refused to yield.

His lips curled into a faint snarl. I don’t have time for this.

Taking a step back, he raised one hand, his magic flaring to life. Blood-red energy coiled around his fingers like living tendrils before condensing into a concentrated pulse. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed the force against the door. The heavy wood splintered, the runes shattering as the lock gave way.

The broken door swung inward, revealing a hidden staircase that spiraled downward into darkness. Lysander’s sharp gaze swept over the passage before he descended. The air grew colder with each step, carrying an oppressive weight that pressed against his chest.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a vast, labyrinthine space carved into the earth. The walls glistened faintly, as though moisture clung to the stone. Rows of unlit sconces lined the passage, casting long, angular shadows that flickered with his movements. An underground complex? Even for the Blythes, this is excessive.

The pull of Adrian’s presence grew stronger, leading him deeper into the maze. The twisting corridors stretched endlessly, but Lysander’s steps never faltered. Until finally, he stopped in front of a cavernous chamber, its entrance partially blocked by a pile of rubble.

His eye narrowed as he surveyed the destruction. Jagged pieces of stone lay scattered, the remnants of collapsed pillars and fractured walls. Faint traces of magic lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of smoke. Despite the chaos, the thread of blood magic pointed directly into the ruined chamber. Adrian is here. Or… he was.

Before he could act further, a voice called out from behind him, sharp and unmistakable. “Lysander. What are you doing down here?”

Lysander turned slowly, his expression guarded as he faced Merrick, who stood a few paces away. “None of your business,” Lysander replied evenly, his voice devoid of warmth.

Merrick’s lips twisted into a humorless smile. “You’re standing in Blythe territory. That makes it very much my business.”

Lysander exhaled through his nose, his tone laced with reluctant honesty. “I’m searching for someone.”

“Natasha’s still above. That means… you’re looking for Adrian.”

Lysander didn’t respond, his silence answering the question. Merrick, don't make this hard for me.

Merrick’s expression tightened as he glanced toward the rubble. “What happened here? Do you have any idea?”

“No, do you?”

“Not a clue… but, have you seen Romulus?”

“I haven’t. Why?”

“Romulus was supposed to be meeting someone here. If Adrian is also in this chamber…”

Lysander’s jaw tightened. “Are you insinuating something, Merrick?”

“No,” Merrick replied quickly. “But… it raises questions.”

“That’s ridiculous, Adrian is a nine-year-old boy. Whatever’s happened here, it’s far more likely that Romulus did something reckless.”

“Be careful with your words, Lysander. It wouldn’t be difficult to frame this however I like.”

Lysander took a measured step forward, his gaze boring onto Merrick with unflinching intensity. “And it wouldn’t be difficult for me to make sure you regret it.”

Merrick’s lips curled into a snarl, and arcs of lightning crackled at his fingertips, illuminating his face with flickering light. “You’ve always been arrogant, always looking down on the Blythes. But this time, I know you’ve gone too far. You’re behind this, aren’t you? Adrian’s just your pawn.”

Lysander raised an eyebrow, utterly unfazed by the accusation. “You’re unhinged if you think I’d stoop so low as to involve a child in your family’s games. Do you really want to do this, Merrick?”

The words hung in the air, but Merrick’s agitation only grew. His fingers twitched, and the arcs of electricity snaked up his arms, crackling louder. “Don’t lie to me! I know you’ve been circling Romulus for months, waiting for a chance to strike. And now—”

Merrick lashed out, the crackling energy coalescing into a bolt of lightning that surged toward Lysander. But the strike never landed.

Lysander didn’t even blink as Merrick froze mid-motion. The Blythe man’s eyes widened in shock, his outstretched arm trembling as if restrained by invisible chains. His fingers spasmed, the lightning fizzling out as his entire body stiffened. “What…?”

The Whitewynn Patriarch's expression darkened, his hand lifting ever so slightly. Merrick staggered backward, boots dragging against the stone floor as if pulled by an unseen force. Blood seeped from the corners of Merrick’s mouth, and he doubled over with a cough, crimson droplets splattering onto the ground.

“Did you really think you’d get the upper hand on me?” Lysander asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

He took a measured step forward, his presence towering over Merrick’s crumpled form. “Let me make something clear. You have two choices, Merrick. You can leave now, while I’m feeling generous, or you can die here. Decide.”

Merrick’s knees nearly buckled as he forced himself upright. His glare held defiance, but there was fear there too, buried beneath the surface. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, he stepped back. “You… should be careful from now on, Lysander. I won’t forget this.”

Lysander didn’t respond. He simply lowered his hand, allowing Merrick to stumble his way out of the area. The faint echoes of his footsteps faded into the labyrinth, leaving the Whitewynn head alone once more.

His gaze shifted back to the rubble that blocked the entrance to the chamber. With a slow exhale, he extended his hand, blood magic swirling around his fingertips in a crimson haze. The stones groaned as they shifted, sliding apart with a harsh grind. Dust filled the air as the rubble cleared, revealing the wreckage of the chamber beyond.

His steps faltered as his eye caught sight of the devastation. Where the chamber’s floor should have been was now a massive, gaping hole. Jagged edges of shattered stone framed the void, and faint traces of magic lingered in the air, heavy and volatile. Lysander peered into the abyss, the darkness below impenetrable.

What in the gods’ names… His thoughts trailed off as he stepped closer to the edge. The depth of the chasm was impossible to gauge, the faint echoes of dripping water far below hinting at its enormity.

He closed his eye briefly as he held the vial of Adrian’s blood once more. The blood thread stretched downward, pointing firmly into the void. His breath left him in a long, drawn-out sigh. So, you’re alive. And you’re down there. What have you gotten yourself into this time, Adrian?

Lysander tucked the vial away. This is no ordinary accident. Whatever happened here, it’s far beyond the Blythes’ usual schemes.

He rested a hand on the edge of the broken floor, fingers brushing against the jagged stone. “This won’t be simple,” he muttered under his breath. His thoughts churned, calculating his next steps. If Adrian’s alive, I’ll need to pull him out. But this mess… this might require more than just me.

Finally, Lysander turned away from the edge. I’ll need to call in some help.