CHAPTER 117: SELVARIS

Selvaris had been waiting for quite some time now.

She stood beneath the shadow of a crumbling arch, dressed plainly—like a merchant’s wife or a traveling noble in disguise.

But there was no mistaking her.

Even in humble cloth, her poise radiated power.

The dusk painted her features in bronze and shadow, and her eyes, sharp as ever, scanned the narrow street for any sign of movement.

She checked the letter again, her lips tightening.

This is the place.

Her fingers made a subtle motion—almost like brushing hair behind her ear.

In response, the five magicians hidden in the surrounding alleys shifted.

Rank 3, all of them.

Talented. Loyal. Dangerous.

And herself—Rank 4, one of the strongest mages in the capital.

She had come prepared.

She didn’t believe Kael could leave this place alive.

Not if he had hurt her daughter.

A footstep echoed.

Calm. Unhurried.

From the far end of the street, a boy approached, walking as if he had all the time in the world.

Kael.

Selvaris’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance in his stride, the coolness in his expression—it made her blood burn.

But as he came closer, her gaze darted behind him. She searched the empty street, the rooftops, the alleys.

Where is Selina?

Kael stopped a few feet in front of her.

Without hesitation, Selvaris stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against the old stone wall.

"Where is she, you cursed bastard?" she hissed, her voice low, sharp, trembling with fury and fear. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt.

Her face was close—eyes wild.

The magicians didn’t move. Not yet. Her signal hadn’t come.

Kael didn’t flinch.

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a crooked, mock-innocent smile.

"Why are you molesting me?" he said softly, his voice almost playful.

"Am I really that handsome?"

Selvaris went pale, then black with rage. Her hand trembled on his collar, and she shoved him back harder against the wall.

"What have you done with her?" she snarled.

Kael’s smile faded.

Cold replaced it like frost creeping over still water.

"She’s alive," he said, flatly.

"Now... have you brought the money?"

Selvaris didn’t speak. She simply held up her hand and revealed a slender silver ring etched with ancient runes—the storage ring. With a flick, she let him touch it.

Kael pressed two fingers to the surface of the ring. A soft pulse of mana responded. He closed his eyes briefly.

"One hundred thousand gold," he murmured. "Neat. You’re a punctual mother."

She exhaled, biting down her fury. "Now give me my daughter," she said, carefully measured, voice calm and light—too calm.

The kind of calm you wear like a mask when you think the person across from you is stupid.

Kael looked at her for a moment. Then chuckled softly.

"Do I look dumb to you, bitch?"

Something in Selvaris cracked.

Her eyes flared.

Her aura surged, magic gathering like storm clouds behind her irises—an incantation already halfway formed.

But Kael didn’t blink.

He leaned closer, eyes sharp as obsidian.

"One signal," he said calmly,

"and my people will carve her into pieces before your mages even blink."

She froze.

The chant died in her throat like ash.

Her hands fell to her sides.

Her body trembled—not from fear of Kael, but from the weight of helplessness she hadn’t felt in years.

Then her knees weakened slightly.

Her jaw clenched.

Her voice, when it came again, was raw—stripped of pride.

"Please..." she said. "Give her back to me."

A tear slipped down her cheek, unnoticed.

And Kael... only watched her.

Kael sighed—softly, dramatically—and with a casual flick of his wrist, drew out a rolled parchment from his sleeve.

The paper shimmered faintly with mana seals, the golden script pulsing like a heartbeat.

Selvaris’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t expected this.

Not a contract.

She snatched it and scanned the contents. Her pupils contracted as she read each carefully woven line.

***

Kael Drenlor shall release Selina, unharmed and untouched.

In return, Duchess Selvaris shall provide the agreed sum of 100,000 gold coins and vow, under binding magic, to protect Kael from all known and unknown evils, magical or mundane, including those born of her own hand.

***

She choked.

For a moment, it looked like she might spit blood.

It felt like someone had served her a plate of dung and demanded she smile while swallowing.

Kael tilted his head with an expression so sweet it could rot teeth.

"What happened, Duchess?" he asked with mock concern. "Don’t you want your precious daughter back?"

The way he said it—like she was the unreasonable one—made her lip twitch.

Her fingers clenched around the parchment. All her plans of killing Kael the moment she got her daughter back crumbled, poofed away like dust in wind.

She had underestimated him—thinking him young, arrogant, reckless. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The boy was clever.

Disturbingly so.

Selvaris took a deep breath, swallowing the bile of pride and anger clawing up her throat.

Her voice came low, taut, each word forged through gritted teeth.

"What is this nonsense about protecting you, you little bastard?" she growled under her breath.

"Just give me my daughter and we’ll forget this ever happened."

Kael didn’t blink.

"Simple offer," he said coolly, "Non-negotiable. You’re a Duchess, aren’t you? Surely you understand the value of a firm deal."

Selvaris’s eyes burned. She wanted to scream.

Wanted to tear the smug look off his face with her bare hands.

But then Kael added, voice still calm, almost too casual:

"If you delay much longer... my people might get impatient. Burn her alive, perhaps.

Accidents happen, you know."

That was the last thread.

Selvaris’s aura flared for a split second—but she smothered it.

She had to.

One wrong move, and she’d lose her daughter forever.

The air between them felt like a blade edge, still and deadly.

She inhaled slowly, bit her finger, and let a single drop of blood drip onto the signature line.

The parchment glowed softly, sealing her oath into magic.

Irrevocable.

Kael followed suit. A clean prick on his fingertip, a drop of crimson on ink.

The contract flared once more—then vanished into smoke.

Bound.

Both were now tied to its terms, whether they liked them or not.