The morning at the Blue Rose estate began as peacefully as any other day.

The gardens shimmered with dew, petals unfolding under the pale sunlight. Servants went about their duties, the rhythmic sound of sweeping blending with birdsong. The manor, a towering monument of white stone and cerulean banners, stood proudly against the misty horizon of the northern plains.

Amy Blue Rose was the heart of that calm.

The daughter of Lord Edgar Blue Rose, she was known for her laughter that filled the halls, and for her habit of talking to the roses her mother had planted before she died. To the people of the manor, she was light — unassuming, gentle, and a rare warmth in the cold North.

That morning, she sat by the garden steps, her fingers weaving a crown of blue petals. "Father said the flowers will bloom longer this year," she murmured to her maid, a girl named Rina. "Maybe I'll bring some to Mother's shrine tomorrow."

Rina smiled faintly. "You always do, my lady."

Amy nodded, humming a soft tune. The moment felt so ordinary — so fragile — that even the birds seemed hesitant to interrupt.

And then the world shattered.

It started with a whisper — the faint crunch of boots behind the hedges. The sound was out of rhythm, wrong. Rina turned her head slightly, frowning. Before she could speak, a dark cloth whipped through the air and covered her mouth.

Amy's smile vanished.

"Rina?"

She didn't even have time to scream. A hand clamped around her neck, another over her mouth, and a bitter scent flooded her nose. The roses she'd been holding scattered across the ground. The world tilted, blurred — her vision filling with shapes in black coats, faces covered.

Then darkness.

By the time the guards found the garden, Amy was gone.

---

The Blue Rose manor was thrown into chaos.

Knights and servants scrambled through corridors, shouting orders, overturning furniture, checking every room and every corner of the estate. The silence that followed her disappearance was unbearable — the kind that pressed against the chest and made it hard to breathe.

Lord Blue Rose stood in his study, trembling hands gripping the edge of his desk. His face — once proud and composed — was pale and hollow.

"Where were the guards?" he rasped.

"Searching the forest perimeter, my lord," one of the captains stammered. "We found signs of struggle by the eastern wall, but—"

"But no trace of my daughter."

He slammed his fist against the table. Papers scattered like snow.

"Find her," he hissed. "I don't care how far you go. Bring her back."

But even as he spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of desperation.

Outside, the sky had darkened, and rumors began to spread like wildfire. The Blue Rose heir — kidnapped, right under the household's nose.

---

That evening, the guards gathered at the manor's west wing. Among them stood Noah Ashen — a man of quiet presence, his posture neither humble nor arrogant, his uniform plain but clean. To most, he was simply another of the Blue Rose guards, one who preferred solitude and followed orders without question.

Noah adjusted the gloves on his hands, eyes lowering as Lord Bluerose entered the room. Behind him were his advisors and two senior knights, each pale with exhaustion.

"The trail ends near the Frostmere woods," said one knight. "Whoever took her knew the patrol routes. They planned this."

Noah spoke, his voice steady but low. "If they went east, they'll be on foot. Horses leave tracks. The woods lead to the lower ravines — smugglers use that route."

Lord Edgar looked at him. "You're certain?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then you'll lead the retrieval unit."

The other guards stirred, some glancing at Noah in surprise.

"My lord," one of them protested, "with all due respect, Ashen's new to the household. He's not—"

"He's the only one who's thinking," Edgar interrupted sharply. "And I don't have time for hesitation."

His gaze softened, if only for a moment. "Bring her back, Ashen. Bring my daughter back to me."

Noah bowed. "Yes, my lord."

***

The forest stretched endlessly beneath a pall of mist, its tangled roots and dew-slick leaves whispering beneath the boots of the Blue Rose guards. The world around them felt like a graveyard of whispers—each sound heavy, each gust of wind an omen.

Noah Ashen led the group at the front, his dark cloak weighed down by the morning damp. His expression was unreadable, cold eyes fixed ahead, scanning every ridge and hollow for signs of the missing girl. Behind him followed five guards of the Blue Rose household, their faces streaked with fatigue and tension.

Amy Blue Rose had been gone for three days.

Three days since she vanished from her own home, under the eyes of servants sworn to protect her. Three days since the household erupted into chaos, and Lord Blue Rose himself had knelt before Noah, pleading for help.

Noah hadn't hesitated. Not because of loyalty, nor duty—but because of the gnawing thread of familiarity in the manner of her disappearance.

And now, after scouring roads, crossing borders, and tracing false rumors, they had reached the edge of the Frostveil Range—the line between civilization and the wild.

The mountain path ahead was veiled in fog. Noah's gloved hand rested on the hilt of his short dagger, his instincts screaming louder than any reason could.

"Sir Noah," said one of the guards, panting slightly, "we found tracks—three, maybe four men. Fresh. Heading uphill."

Noah crouched beside the prints, his eyes narrowing. "No... these aren't normal mercenary trails. Their spacing—too even. Professionals."

He straightened, his expression hardening. "We're close."

He didn't tell them what he already suspected—that the pattern matched something he'd seen before. A mark used by the Demonic Sanctuary, one of the elusive groups his other self—Machiavelli—had been trying to root out for months.

He remembered the journal he'd found months ago back at Ravenwood Academy. It had belonged to a professor, one who fled before being executed for treason. The man had written of forbidden research, of experiments done under the Demonic Sanctuary's name. Of betrayal. Of the Sanctuary hunting him down after he had seen too much.

And now, the same signature trails appeared before him again.

"So this is where you've been hiding..."