Under the Oak Tree - Riftan's POV - Multiverse

Chapter 47: The Letter

Aquarias had passed—and in the worst way possible. Riftan had weathered many campaigns, many winters, but none had ever felt so hollow, so stripped of meaning. After hearing the news about Maximilian, despair rooted itself deep in his bones.

He told himself he would not step anywhere near the Croix Castle again. Part of him knew it was not only because he feared rejection—it was because if he saw Kuehl with her, he would kill him. He had no doubt of it. And once blood was spilled, there would be no return. So he stayed away.

Instead, he turned all his fury, all his torment, on Anatol. He rebuilt and repaired with a madness that frightened even his men. Each day was consumed by stone, mortar, and timber, as if by raising walls he could wall off the agony burning inside him. But no matter how high the towers grew or how many roofs were mended, he could not rebuild his crumbling self-esteem, nor mend the heart that had been broken beyond repair.

When the summons came for campaigns in Livadon, Riftan seized them without hesitation. He craved battle, blood, anything that could dull his thoughts. He hurled himself into every campaign offered, every monster subjugation, every border skirmish. The coin and prestige would serve Anatol well, yes—but deep down, he knew the truth. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to be stronger, richer, untouchable, so that one day he could shove his success into the Duke's face and make him choke on the memory of dismissing him.

Whether that made sense or not, Riftan didn't care. It was the only ember left that kept him moving forward.

So through Aquarias he fought, and when Ignisias came, he fought still. Livadon was cooler than Anatol, the crisp air cutting like a blade, but it suited him. He didn't wander too far—he always returned to Anatol to check on the walls, the farms, the people. Yet every return only drove the knife deeper.

He was a madman for coin, for distraction. And when he could not fight, when the weight of silence pressed too heavily, he would retreat to his chamber and open the treasure chest.

Jewelry. Pendants. Crowns. Silken ribbons. Trinkets he had bought with her in mind. Trinkets he had no right to purchase, no right to dream of giving.

In the dead of night, when no one could see him, Riftan would sit hunched over them. His hands would tremble as he let the gemstones catch the candlelight. He would imagine her pale fingers tracing them, her red curls catching the glow of a crown, her wide eyes softening when she finally stood as Lady of Anatol. Then the fantasy would crack, splinter, and crumble. He would curse himself for the fool he was—for dreaming of a life that had never been his to take. And still, some quiet, stubborn part of his heart whispered that Maximilian had loved him. That what they had was real, even if it had been shattered.

It was that fragile belief he clung to when despair threatened to swallow him whole.

The men saw less of him. When he was not training them, he was gone—hunting monsters, or chasing down contracts in foreign lands. When he was not on campaign, he was bent over plans for Anatol, his expression like stone.

He had become solitary, a shadow of himself, but it was the only way to stay sane: to keep moving, to keep fighting, to keep building. To keep from remembering her face every time he closed his eyes.

Etherias was well over halfway, and that day had started like any other—stone, wind, the endless ledger of repairs—but everything changed with the creak of a courier's boot on the castle steps.

A plain rider had come in from the capital, breath puffing in the cold; the seal on the letter made Riftan's chest drop. Not the king's mark alone, but a smaller, more private stamp as well — Princess Agnes's personal cipher. He broke the wax with hands that did not feel like his own.

The letter inside was polite and careful, and every line cut him deeper than any blade.

Riftan,

I hesitate to write this, for the court is buzzing with talk—talk that you have been seen too often in Livadon, whispers that you are being courted by one of Duke Lombardo's daughters. I do not wish to believe such rumors, yet they have gained too much breath to ignore— but I write as one friend to another.

Lady Maximilian is to embark for Nouri in a fortnight past half Etherias. The ship will sail from the western quay of Wedon on the evening tide; the vessel is the Adelpha, bound for Nouri. She will be accompanied by two of my personal knights until the outskirt of the town.

If you have ever cared for her, if your heart is what it was, this is your one chance to see her before she departs for many years. Be discreet. Burn this letter when read. I wish you the best in whatever choice you make.

— Agnes

Riftan read the line twice, three times, as if more reading could alter the fact. Staring at the words until they blurred. Maxi. Leaving. Not to another man's side, but to Nouri—the isle of Magic Towers. A place across the sea, unreachable for years. Hope and despair warred inside him until he could not breathe. He did not stop to think whether the letter was trap or truth.

He had twenty days, at best, if he rode without stopping. He had fourteen. The numbers blurred. He did not consider the impossibility. He only knew that the letter was a map back to her.

"Prepare the horses," he barked to the nearest knight, voice cracked and raw. "Gird my saddle. We ride for the western quay at once."

They said it would take eighteen or twenty days at a normal pace, with proper rest and safe roads. Riftan laughed at the notion. He swung into the saddle before the sun had fully set and set his men to chase him like hounds after a scent. The journey was madness. He slept in spurts, letting the horse walk while he dozed, rising with the cold and spurring again. Snow and sleet, washed-out passes and a night when wolves howled at the edge of his camp—none of it slowed him. The march became a blur of wind and leather and the single, unbearable image of her leaving.

He arrived at the quay the day the Adelpha was to cast off. The port smelled of tar and brine; ropes creaked and sailors shouted. Lanterns swung over the black water. As he slowed his mount at the edge of the crowd, a shape under a cloak caught his eye—copper hair spilling like a torch against the dark, the very curve of a shoulder he knew by memory. He urged his horse into the shadows and dismounted, letting the thrum of the crowd swallow his approach.

She was there, smaller than he had ever seen her, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Maximilian. Cloaked, hair spilling copper in the wind, a bundle clutched to her chest. She moved quickly, furtive, eyes darting as if she feared pursuit. Not the daughter of a duke leaving in state, but a fugitive clutching freedom in her arms.

Then a hand caught her wrist.

"Kuehl," Riftan breathed, rage coiling instantly.

The holy knight's pale hair gleamed under the lanterns. His grip was iron, yanking Maxi to a halt. She twisted, tried to pull free.

"You think you can just vanish?" Kuehl's voice was a low snarl. "Do you think I wouldn't find you?"

"Let go!" Maxi's voice cracked with desperation. "This is my choice. I won't—"

"You gave me no chance! You belong with me, not hiding behind some false freedom!" His grip tightened, and she winced.

"I did give you a chance," she shot back, trembling but fierce. "But you only e-ever cared for my father's approval—not me. I -I deserve a life you'll never give."

"You are mine!" Kuehl roared, drawing stares from nearby sailors.

And that was when Riftan moved.

Silent, precise, out of the shadows—until his sword was at Kuehl's throat, the tip biting just enough to draw a line of red.

Kuehl froze. His green eyes widened, then burned.

Riftan's voice came from somewhere deeper than rage, rough and raw:

"Mine."

Writer Note: 

I wrote the word "MINE" from Riftan when I saw The Witcher. That was over 3 years ago. Sorry for the delay of this one... Got sick and could not posted it last week! I hope you like it! :)