While the majority of Hadrian made merry down in the courtyard and the great hall, up in the bedchambers where the music and chatter didn’t reach, a young man lay prostrated on a lavish bed, bathed by the light of the newly-risen full moon, deep asleep.

In the murky shadows, the heavy wooden door opened and closed on its own. A slight draft fluttered the delicate curtains around the four-poster. The sleeping victim-to-be did not stir.

For a moment all was silent and still, then a figure clad from head to toe in black edged into the moonlight.

The intruder moved forth one step at a time, slow, precise and feather-light, then stopped at the edge of the bed. His gaze fixed upon his target, he unsheathed a curved dagger from his belt and lowered it towards the victim’s exposed neck.

The blade jittered above the young man’s pulsing jugular vein; the assassin’s hand was trembling. A moment of hesitance that would spell failure.

There was a blinding flash of moonlight on metal. A sword protruded from the shadows, its tip stopping just short of the assassin’s neck, as his free arm was pinned to his back.

The seemingly sleeping victim snatched the assassin’s wrist and twisted it. The dagger dropped to the silk blankets with a soft plop. A sharp slap was followed by a sizzle, then a matchhead bloomed into fire. Its flame was transferred to a candle on a stand, flooding the area with a halo of light.

Coris tightened his grasp on the assassin’s thin arm, his expression as cold as his voice.

“Who sent you?”

The assassin remained silent, dark green eyes downcast. Coris pressed his sword to her neck—she didn’t have the lump of an Adam’s apple. The realization did not stop him twisting her arm further.

“I will not ask thrice. Who. Sent. You?”

The woman met his gaze, eyes watering with pain, but refused to utter a word. Coris nodded, and Christopher moved in to unmask her. In his grasp, the assassin’s arm twitched. He heard the jangling of metal from her waist—

WHUMP!

A muffled explosion followed by billowing, dark gray smoke, snuffing out their candle and blocking out the moonlight. Particles of fine sand lodged themselves in the eyes of the three young men, blinding them. By the time Coris, Simon and Christopher had finished coughing, stumbling and rubbing their eyeballs, the assassin was gone.

“Fyr!” Simon swore. He kicked away the blankets in frustration as Christopher relit the candle, then turned to his charge, “Coris, I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you.”

Coris shook his head and waved it aside, then sheathed his sword. Wiping a pinch of dust from his tunic, he held his now blackened thumb and forefinger before his eyes, rubbing them together as he felt its texture. The dark gray dust was fine, oily as silk, sparkling like diamond dust.

He was familiar with it. As a little boy, he had sat with her on the banks of the crystal-clear rapids, kicking their feet about in the therapeutic gray sand as they debated the secrets of the three lands.

“Sand from the Graye River. Our old friend strikes again.” He whispered, pallor consuming his gaunt features. After a moment of stunned disbelief, a sudden realization sent a chill down his spine, rousing him, “We must get to the party. They probably knew Arinel had betrayed them now.”

The young Lord Hadrian dashed towards the door, his confused squires hurrying in his wake.

“Coris, she’ll be fine! Zier’s with her!” Simon called over the clatter of their rapid footsteps echoing around the spiral stairwell, picking his way over the legs of snoring guards. Meanwhile, hulking Christopher struggled to keep up with Coris’s lightweight, nimble frame.

“You don’t think—Is it possible she’s still—Was that...Agnes?” He panted, his sentences coming in fractured gasps. Coris felt an unbidden lurch in his heart. He pushed aside the irrational hope that came with it.

“Those weren’t Agnes’s eyes. And no, it’s not possible. Agnes is gone. How many times do I have to repeat this?” He snapped, annoyed.

“But—” Christopher made to argue. Simon silenced his friend with an understanding look, yet his question was directed at Coris.

“So this is it? The bandits Arinel was talking about?”

“I would guess so.” Coris panted, thankful for the change of subject. “Seems unlikely two separate heists would be carried out at the same time.”

Simon seemed satisfied, but Christopher was not as complacent.

“Not if you consider the rare opportunity window. How often do you get a manor-wide celebration and a suspected Axel holder marrying into Hadrian?”

They landed on the foot of the stairs. Coris threw open the doors to the great hall.

For a moment they stood there, gaping at the surreal spectacle, before they spotted familiar faces amongst the slumbering crowd.

“Father!”

Simon and Christopher echoed each other as they each dashed off towards their families. Only Coris was left standing there.

“Father! Mother! Oh no. Please no.” Simon skidded to his knees beside his father. Heaving up Lord Amplevale’s limp form, he bent low and listened to his breathing, then collapsed with relief. “They’re just sleeping. Oh, thank Freda.”

“Same here too. And there’s Fione and Heloise.” Christopher looked up from his assessment of his mother, then gestured with his chin towards their unconscious lady friends. That was when he noticed his charge still standing rooted where he was, glancing about the room.

“Coris?”

Lord Hadrian turned to him, his gaunt face paler than usual and his eyes wide with horror.

“They’re not here.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“What?” Simon blurted out. He and Christopher held their parents as they stared at Coris, who clarified in the same lifeless voice.

“Father. Mother. Zier. Arinel. They were lying right here.”

Coris nodded at his feet. He was standing in the center of an empty space before a snoring Marquess Fratengarde. Four empty glasses rolled on the carpet, dark stains of spilled drinks spreading from their mouths.

The two squires laid their fathers down and stood up, their eyes scanning the snoozing guests around them for a sliver of Hadrian Red. There were none.

Simon and Christopher looked back at Coris, wordless with shock and indecision. Coris knelt and picked up the glass of wine with his mother’s red rouge stain on it. His hands shaking, he hitched up a mirthless grin.

“Looks like you’re right, Chris. That woman wasn’t Arinel’s bandit.” As if he had anticipated his friends’ confusion, he clarified. “She assumed the Axel is inside me. Why would she need to drug the guests as well? This second group clearly needed to buy time for a search.”

“But why would they take your family, then?” Simon argued, brows tied in a frown. “Doesn’t this mean in case the woman failed, their backup plan is to take hostages instead?”

Coris hung his head. He turned and slammed his mother’s glass on the table behind him, then collapsed into a wretched heap.

“Fyr, I don’t know anymore.” He swore in frustration and fear, pulling at his hair with trembling fingers, “Zier was right. I should have let Father deal with this.”

“Coris.” Christopher breathed, then skipped over the sea of limbs back to his charge’s side. Simon slapped a hand to his forehead, raking back damp locks of dark hair.

“Oh, Freda. What do we do now?”

Feeling Christopher’s firm hand on his shoulder, Coris tried with all his might to gather himself. He’d have time to beat himself up later after he’d gotten his family back safely. After a few pats of thanks on Christopher’s arm, he turned to Simon,

“Either we wait for the ransom demand, or we—track them down before the ransom drop.”

Coris trailed away, his eyes fixed at something glinting on the carpet. He heaved himself up from the tabletop and scampered towards the winking light on unsteady legs, skidding to his knees.

He pinched the tiny crimson sequin up from the carpet, which was almost similar in color. It was then that he noticed several more beads and sequins scattered nearby, leading in a squiggly line towards the slightly ajar side door.

For a beat everyone was silent, then Coris barked out a brusque command.

“Follow the beads, go!”

The squires knew not to wait for their weary lord to lead the charge. Simon bolted out the door, stopping only to snatch a torch from the wall. Christopher helped Coris to his feet, heaving him off the floor in the process, then half-dragged, half-supported him along.

The three boys pelted through stone-paved hallways, squinting for the meandering line of tiny, at times kicked-about beads, dodging the snoring guards strewn along the way. Snippets of music and laughter as well as mingled smells of cooking food wafted in from the courtyard whenever they streaked past open windows. Celebrations were uninterrupted there, apparently.

The trail led them down to the ground floor, and towards the back of the keep. It turned sharply into an alcove in the wall, pooling before an ajar door showing a sliver of the outside night.

“The sally port?” Simon exclaimed as he skidded to a halt at the alley’s entrance, Christopher and Coris hot on his heels. “They’d only been here days. How come they know our castle layout so well?”

“They’re disguised as guards, remember.” Coris made his way back up to the front of the throng. His foot bumped against something heavy. He looked down and saw a picked padlock on the flagstone amongst a spattering of beads, glinting in the light of Simon’s torch. He pushed the door wide open.

A few steps before him, the moat rippled in the night wind, like a black ribbon on a blanket of silver grass. The sloping terrain fell out of sight in a steep dive, then evened out into a slight hillocky moorland that stretches towards the Lord’s Forest. In the middle of it, twenty-or-so dark figures were making their way towards them. Moonlight reflected on their crimson guard and maid uniforms.

“Oh, Fyr. Are those—” Simon gasped, poking his head out beside Coris, who finished for him.

“The Crossetians. Sent back with the ransom demand, apparently. Seems they’re already at the drop point. Probably the moorlands beyond the forest.”

Simon and Christopher did not react, yet. They knew that look in Coris’s unfocused eyes. He was not finished.

After about half a minute of rapid thinking, Coris snapped out of his trance.

“Simon, fetch the hounds.” He dished out commands in terse, clipped sentences, “All of them. Kit them out. Full battle attire. Meet me at the foot of the hill. Christopher, wake up the morning shift guards. Circle around the forest and wait at the stream. ”

"Battle attire? We’re talking scent hounds, right?” Simon challenged, incredulous.

Coris stared back, looking dead serious.

“I said all hounds, Simon.” He repeated flatly. “You know the rules of hostage-taking. First: Bring no man or the deal’s off. Second: Leave no witnesses if possible.”

Simon mouthed, still unconvinced but silenced by Coris’s icy look. Christopher braved another query.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait at the edge of the forest? Or go through it?”

Coris closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper in check.

“They’d be expecting us from this direction. Through the forest may be the shortest way, but it would slow our men down. And believe me, they won’t give us enough time to set up an ambush before they start killing off hostages.”

With that, Lord Hadrian turned back to keep watch on the approaching party. And though having nothing but a vague idea of what their charge was planning to do, the two squires could only purse their lips and hop to it. In the absence of both the Baron and Baroness, the Baron’s son’s word was law. And, in hostage situations such as this, time was always their worst enemy.