Chapter 65: Attack on Alaric’s Aunt Cassandra

The private residence Alaric had arranged for the four wives of Edgar Farrow was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that made the ticking of the clock seem deafening.

Evanthe, Zoey, Sigrid, and Elin sat in the living room, their faces clouded with worry and frustration. Each of them bore the weight of their circumstances differently—anger, fear, sorrow, and defiance mingling in their expressions. The fine silk gowns they wore, forced on them by Alaric, felt more like chains than garments, a cruel reminder of their captivity and the twisted desires of their captor.

Sigrid broke the silence, her icy blue hair shimmering as she shook her head in frustration. “We can’t keep letting him control us like this,” she said, her voice low but firm. Her words carried the undertone of barely restrained fury. “But we can’t act recklessly. That bastard knows exactly how to keep us in line. He’ll use our children against us if we push too far.”

Zoey nodded in agreement, clenched her fists. “He’s already taken everything from us. Our home, our family’s dignity… and now this.” Her voice cracked, betraying her effort to hold back tears. “But if we try to strike back, and he even suspects, he’ll destroy what little we have left.”

Evanthe, her deep blue eyes shadowed with thought, leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Then the question is how. How do we fight him without making ourselves targets? How do we push back without giving him more power over us?”

Elin hesitated before speaking. “If we can’t confront him directly, we need to make sure the retaliation doesn’t trace back to us. There has to be a way… something we can do to plant the seeds of his downfall.”

Sigrid leaned forward, her lips curving into a grim smile. “We don’t need to act openly. We make use of the connections our family built over generations. There are still people loyal to us—people who won’t forgive or forget what the Steele Family has done. We can rally them.”

Zoey frowned, skepticism flickering in her brown eyes. “But how? They probably think we’re already dead or completely powerless. Why would they risk their lives to help us?”

Evanthe straightened, her expression brightening as an idea took shape in her mind. “Not everyone. Yvonne,” she said firmly, her voice tinged with hope. “Yvonne’s still out there. Edgar’s daughter with one of his concubines. She’s studying at the Martialist Academy, and from her letters, she’s made connections—talented ones. If anyone could rally help, it’s her.”

Zoey’s eyes widened at the suggestion, her skepticism melting into cautious optimism. “Yvonne… you might be right. She’s resourceful and headstrong. If she learns what happened to us, she won’t sit idly by.”

“But we can’t tell her everything,” Elin interjected, her pale cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Not about what he’s done to us personally. It’s too humiliating… too degrading.” She dropped her gaze to her lap, her fingers twisting nervously in her gown.

Evanthe placed a reassuring hand on Elin’s arm. “We won’t,” she said softly. “We’ll focus on the bigger picture. The Steele Family destroyed our home, imprisoned our family, and turned us into their pawns. That’s more than enough for Yvonne and her friends to act.”

The women exchanged glances, a glimmer of determination sparking between them. Their resolve was strengthening with each word, their despair transforming into a fragile hope.

“Then we write to her,” Sigrid declared, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “And to anyone else who might still hold allegiance to the Farrow Family.”

Elin rose gracefully from her seat and crossed the room to a small writing desk. She opened the drawer, retrieving a sheet of parchment, a quill, and ink. Her movements were deliberate, as if each action carried the weight of their collective hopes. Sitting down, she began to write, her elegant handwriting flowing across the page.

“We need to be careful with our words,” Elin murmured as she wrote. “We can’t afford for Alaric or his spies to intercept this.”

Zoey stepped closer, leaning over her shoulder. “Make sure you mention how they slaughtered our people, looted our treasures, and imprisoned Edgar and his brothers. Paint them as the villains they are.”

“I’ll make it clear,” Elin replied. Her quill scratched against the parchment as she detailed the Steele Family’s crimes—the ruthless attack, the destruction of the Farrow legacy, and the imprisonment of their loved ones. She emphasized their need for allies, for action.

When she finished, she looked up at the others. “This will go to Yvonne and to any of our family’s old allies we can still reach. If we can ignite even a spark of rebellion, it might be enough.”

Evanthe took the letter, reading it over carefully before nodding in approval. “It’s perfect. Now, we just need to ensure it gets delivered discreetly.”

Sigrid crossed her arms, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Leave that to me. I still remember a few contacts who owe me favors. They’ll get this to Yvonne without raising suspicion.”

As the women discussed the logistics of their plan, a renewed energy filled the room. For the first time since their capture, they felt a glimmer of control over their fate. Their captivity hadn’t broken them; it had only sharpened their resolve.

The tension eased slightly, and Evanthe allowed herself a small smile. “We may not be able to fight him directly, but we’re not powerless. He’ll regret underestimating us.”

Zoey nodded, her expression hardening. “For Edgar, for our children, and for everything the Farrow Family stood for. We’ll make sure the Steele Family pays.”

Their conversation continued late into the evening, their whispered voices weaving plans and strategies. The oppressive silence that had once filled the residence was now replaced by the hum of determination. While Alaric believed he had broken them, he was unaware that his captives were far from defeated. Instead, they were quietly orchestrating the first steps of their revenge.

In the meantime, the Steele Mansion was alive with energy, every corner of the grand estate buzzing with purpose. Servants bustled about, their arms laden with goods and ledgers, while guards stood vigilant at every entrance.

The air hummed with the sounds of clinking coins, rustling documents, and the occasional bark of orders. Outside, wagons trundled through the gates, laden with supplies or carrying messages to the newly acquired territories. The victory over the Farrow Family had not only secured the Steele Family’s dominance but had also set the stage for an era of unprecedented growth.

Lyra Steele stood in the center of it all, a figure of grace and authority. She exuded a quiet confidence as she reviewed a map spread across the polished mahogany table in her study. Red and blue markers dotted the parchment, representing trade routes and strategic points of interest. Her gaze was sharp, her mind whirring with possibilities.

Alaric leaned casually against the table’s edge, a small smirk playing on his lips. His dark eyes scanned the map, his mind working in tandem with his mother’s. “You’re overthinking that eastern route, Mother,” he said, pointing to a line that curved through the forested outskirts of the newly annexed city of Havenmoor. “The terrain’s too rough for consistent trade flow. Shift it west, closer to the river. It’ll save us on transportation costs and make it harder for bandits to target our shipments.”

Lyra looked up, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re right. Again. Honestly, my dear son, it’s a little annoying how often you’re right these days.”

Alaric chuckled, the sound warm and unbothered. “Just trying to keep up with you, Mother. Besides, someone has to ensure the Steele legacy doesn’t falter.”

Her expression softened for a moment, a flicker of pride crossing her face. “You’ve done more than that. You’ve been indispensable through all of this. I don’t think I could have navigated the aftermath of the Farrow debacle as smoothly without your insight.”

“High praise from my dear mother,” Alaric teased, earning a mock glare from her. “But in all seriousness, we’re just getting started. The new cities we’ve claimed—Havenmoor and Redspire—have untapped potential. We could expand not just our trade routes but also our production capabilities. Think guild partnerships, specialty crafts, even local exports. It’s about integrating them into our fold so seamlessly that they’d never think to rebel.”

Lyra nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the edges of the map. “Havenmoor’s artisans are known for their metalwork. If we invest in their infrastructure, we could monopolize the production of enchanted weaponry. Redspire, on the other hand, has fertile lands and a history of producing rare medicinal herbs. Both cities could serve as pillars of our new economic strategy.”

“Exactly,” Alaric agreed, his tone growing more animated. “And we could introduce Steele trade outposts in both locations. Use them as hubs to distribute goods to smaller settlements in the region. We’ll need trustworthy overseers, though.”

Lyra tapped her chin, considering. “I’ll pull candidates from our existing networks. We need people who are loyal and capable. The last thing we need is another Farrow situation on our hands.”

Alaric smirked. “Speaking of loyalty, have you noticed how quickly some of the old nobles have started cozying up to us? I’ve had more invitations to dinners and hunts in the past week than I can count.”

“Of course they’re cozying up,” Lyra said with a soft laugh. “We’re the family with the power now. They see the writing on the wall and want to make sure they’re on the right side of it. Don’t get too distracted by their flattery, Alaric. Most of them would turn on us in a heartbeat if the tide shifted.”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Alaric said, his voice smooth and self-assured. “I know how to play the game.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. A steward entered, bowing deeply. “Apologies for the intrusion, Lady Steele, Master Alaric. The reports from the newly acquired territories have arrived.”

“Perfect timing,” Lyra said, gesturing for the steward to place the documents on the table. She and Alaric began to sift through them, scanning the detailed accounts of population demographics, trade prospects, and resource availability.

“The population of Havenmoor is larger than we estimated,” Lyra noted, her brow furrowing. “That’s a double-edged sword. More labor potential but also more mouths to feed and more chances for dissent.”

“True,” Alaric agreed, “but look at this. The local militia is still intact, albeit understrength. If we offer them proper funding and integrate them into our forces, we could gain their loyalty and maintain order without needing to deploy our own troops.”

Lyra’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Smart. Keep them invested in their own city’s stability while tying their fortunes to ours. I’ll send an envoy to handle the negotiations.”

The hours passed as the two worked tirelessly, their synergy evident in the ease with which they discussed and debated strategies. By the time they called for a break, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the room in a warm, golden glow.

As they stepped out of the study, the sound of bustling activity greeted them. Servants hurried past with trays of food and wine, and the faint strains of a lute drifted from the grand hall. Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Are we hosting a feast?”

Lyra smiled slyly. “Not a feast. A celebration. Our recent victories deserve recognition, don’t you think? Besides, it’s good for morale. Let the household and our allies feel like they’re part of something greater.”

Alaric laughed softly. “You do have a knack for keeping people loyal, Mother.”

The celebration was a lively affair. The grand hall was filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. Alaric moved through the crowd with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries and charming the guests. He was a natural, his charisma drawing people in effortlessly.

At one point, he found himself in conversation with a merchant from Havenmoor. The man, a portly fellow with a jovial demeanor, was effusive in his praise. “Master Alaric, your foresight in establishing trade routes has already brought prosperity to our city. I can’t thank you enough.”

Alaric smiled, his tone modest but confident. “It’s only the beginning. The Steele Family believes in fostering growth, not just for ourselves but for those under our protection. Havenmoor has great potential, and I’m eager to see it flourish.”

The merchant beamed, clearly won over. “With leadership like yours, I have no doubt it will.”

As the night wore on, Alaric returned to his mother’s side. Lyra was seated at the head of the table, her presence commanding. She looked up as he approached, a glass of wine in her hand. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, a knowing smile on her lips.

“More than I expected,” Alaric admitted, taking a seat beside her. “But it’s clear the people are responding well. They see us as strong, capable. That’s half the battle won.”

“The other half is keeping them convinced,” Lyra said, her tone thoughtful. “We’ve made great strides, but we can’t afford complacency. Power is a fleeting thing if not carefully managed.”

Alaric nodded, his expression serious. “Then we keep building, keep expanding. The Steele Family’s name will be synonymous with strength and prosperity. No one will dare challenge us.”

Lyra raised her glass, a spark of pride in her eyes. “To the future, then.”

Alaric clinked his glass against hers, the sound ringing out like a promise. The Steele Family was on the rise, and with Lyra and Alaric at the helm, there was no limit to what they could achieve.

The peaceful rhythm of daily life in the Steele Mansion was shattered one sunny afternoon when a messenger burst through the gates, his face pale and his breath coming in ragged gasps. Dust coated his boots and tunic, evidence of a relentless journey. He staggered toward the estate, clutching a sealed letter in his trembling hands.

Inside the grand hall, Lyra Steele stood by the window, the sunlight casting a golden glow over her elegant figure. Her sharp, perceptive eyes caught the commotion, and she turned just as the doors opened to admit the disheveled messenger. The man dropped to one knee, bowing deeply as he presented the letter.

“My lady,” he panted, his voice hoarse. “This… it’s urgent. From House Galanis.”

Lyra took the letter, her expression calm despite the urgency in the messenger’s tone. Breaking the seal, her eyes scanned the contents. The further she read, the darker her expression grew, her lips tightening into a thin line.

When she finished, she exhaled sharply, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the parchment. Turning to a nearby maid, she spoke with authority. “Summon my son. Immediately.”

The maid nodded and rushed off, leaving the room heavy with tension. Lyra paced, her heeled boots clicking against the marble floor. By the time Alaric entered, his confident stride and relaxed demeanor clashed starkly with the storm cloud on his mother’s face.

“Mother?” he greeted, his brow furrowing as he caught her expression. “What’s wrong?”

Lyra held up the letter, her voice cold with restrained fury. “A group of student martialists from the Lionheart Martial Institute has attacked House Galanis. They’re led by a commoner—Eskil. You’ve heard of him?”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “Eskil? The so-called prodigy everyone’s been fawning over? What’s his grievance with us?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed as she handed him the letter. “According to this, he’s been coerced by Yvonne, Edgar’s daughter. She’s convinced him to take revenge for the downfall of the Farrow Family.”

Alaric read the letter, his expression darkening with each word. “He’s sent a challenge,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “He wants me to come to House Galanis within a week. If I don’t, he’s threatening to harm Aunt Cassandra and Fiora.”

Lyra crossed her arms, her nails digging into her palms. “Yvonne must have promised him something. She knows his ambition. Perhaps she’s dangling herself as a prize, using her beauty to manipulate him. Foolish girl.”

Alaric’s fists clenched at his sides. “He’s after her, then. Figures. But to involve Aunt Cassandra and Fiora? That’s crossing a line he’ll regret.”

Lyra’s voice was steely. “We don’t have the luxury of delay. We leave for House Galanis immediately. Our family comes first.”

Alaric nodded, his mind already racing with strategies. “I’ll gather our warriors and prepare for the journey. Eskil may be talented, but he’ll learn quickly not to challenge the Steele Family.”

The Steele Mansion erupted into a flurry of activity. Servants scrambled to pack supplies, while guards and martialists armed themselves for the journey. The sound of metal clinking and boots pounding echoed through the estate. Horses were saddled, and wagons loaded with provisions lined the courtyard.

As Alaric supervised the preparations, Lyra appeared beside him, her presence commanding. “We need to tread carefully,” she said. “Eskil isn’t just a martial prodigy—he’s gained favor with influential figures in the Royal Court. If we act recklessly, it could spark political repercussions.”

Alaric nodded, his face grim. “I’ve been thinking about that. We’ll handle this swiftly and decisively, but we’ll also make it clear that Eskil was the aggressor. His actions jeopardized House Galanis and by extension, the kingdom’s stability. The Royal Court won’t have much ground to stand on if we frame it that way.”

Lyra smiled faintly, her pride in her son evident. “Good. Stay sharp, Alaric. He may be young and reckless, but prodigies are dangerous for a reason.”

By late afternoon, the Steele entourage set off. The journey was tense, the air charged with unspoken urgency. Alaric rode beside his mother at the front of the convoy, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His mind churned with thoughts of Eskil. The boy had talent, certainly, but Alaric doubted his motivations were purely noble.

“I am angry that this guy is using Aunt Cassandra and Fiora as pawns,” Alaric said aloud, breaking the silence. “It’s cowardly.”

Lyra glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Cowardly, perhaps, but effective. He knows our family values loyalty and blood. It’s a calculated move.”

“One he’ll regret,” Alaric replied, his tone dark. “I’ll make sure of it.”

As the convoy neared House Galanis, the atmosphere grew heavy with tension. The estate loomed ahead, its high walls and proud towers casting long shadows in the setting sun. Guards at the gates stiffened as the Steele crest came into view, their faces pale with recognition.

The gates opened slowly, creaking under their weight, and the convoy entered the courtyard. The sight that greeted them was unsettling. The usually pristine grounds of House Galanis were marred by signs of conflict—scorched grass, shattered stone, and the occasional dark stain on the cobblestones.