PRISON KING'S RETURN

Chapter 2

All eyes swung toward Drayce.

Even Selara’s composure cracked—her head lifting too fast, eyes widening despite herself. The word VVIP rang in her ears. How did a prison bum suddenly become someone even Aurelia treated with this kind of care?

“Me?” Drayce frowned, genuinely puzzled. He searched his memory and found nothing. He didn’t recall knowing anyone important in Aurelia.

“Yes, sir,” the stewardess said brightly, already stepping aside. “This way, please.”

Drayce rose with a shrug, as if this were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

He walked out of the cabin without a backward glance, leaving behind a trail of stunned silence and staring eyes.

The moment his boots touched solid ground, a tall, broad-shouldered man approached him. His presence alone carried weight—calm, disciplined, dangerous.

“George Philips,” the man said, bowing deeply. “Head of the Thirteenth Sect of Draculus Magna. At your service, Mr. Drayce. Welcome to Aurelia.”

A ripple went through the gathered onlookers.

George Philips.

Aurelia’s underworld warlord. Also known as the Black Dragon.

People knew that name. They feared it. But Draculus Magna—that was new. They weren't familiar with it.

Whispers spread instantly, confusion mixing with awe.

Drayce remembered then. One of the inmates had once rambled about a rising organization with roots everywhere. A guild that answered to no one.

So that’s what he meant, Drayce thought.

The chief warden must have let word slip of his release.

Drayce scoffed softly. They really went this far just to curry favor.

“Let’s go,” he said, already turning away. “Take me to Valtarre Villa.”

George straightened at once and followed.

The crowd slowly dispersed after that, voices low but urgent, speculation buzzing through the terminal as people tried—and failed—to piece together who Drayce really was.

Behind them, Selara stood frozen for a moment before forcing her legs to move.

Her steps were unsteady, her thoughts worse. She spotted the stewardess from earlier and hurried over, slipping a thick wad of bills into her hand.

“Please,” Selara said quietly, looking tense. “Tell me who Mr. Drayce really is. Who made the airport go on standby?”

The stewardess glanced at the money, hesitated, then sighed.

“I don’t know who Mr. Drayce really is,” she admitted. “And I don’t know who ordered the airport on standby. All I know is… the men who came for him were wearing tunics lined with gold.”

Selara blinked.“Tunics… lined with gold?”

That wasn’t any official uniform she recognized. No ministry dressed like that.

Her brows drew together.

Could it be…?

A hopeful thought surfaced, fragile but comforting. What if they weren’t honoring him at all? What if they were agents—sent quietly to retrieve a dangerous criminal who’d slipped through the cracks?

That had to be it.

Selara let out a breath, tension easing from her shoulders. Whatever Drayce was involved in, it wasn’t something she needed to fear anymore.

********* ******** ********** ******* ********

The Valtarre estate lay south of Aurelia, sprawling across two hundred acres of carefully sculpted land. Exotic flora lined the winding paths. Artificial streams glittered beneath the sun, feeding still ponds that mirrored the sky.

As Drayce’s car slowed near the gates, he leaned forward slightly.

“What’s with all these people?” he asked, nodding toward the crowd gathered outside.

The faces were varied young men barely past twenty, others well into middle age.

All waiting. All watching.

“You didn’t hear?” George asked, then continued without waiting. “Liora Valtarre fell ill a year ago. She started as sleeping a little longer than normal. Twelve hours. Then she was only awake for two hours a day.”

He paused. “Eventually, she stopped waking up at all.”

“A coma?” Drayce asked quietly.

“Something like it,” George said. “Chronic. Doctors from all over the world were brought in. None of them could help.”

“And her father?” Drayce prompted.

“Cassian Valtarre,” George replied. “He spared no expense.”

George hesitated before continuing. “One specialist claimed the only way for her to wake… was for her fated other half to appear.”

Drayce’s brow creased.

“That rumor spread fast,” George added.

“Every eligible bachelor in Aurelia showed up. You should’ve seen it a month ago. People camped outside like they were waiting for a concert.”

Drayce leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

What kind of mess did that old man drag me into?

First Selara, desperate to cut ties. Now Liora, trapped in some strange sleep tied to destiny and superstition.

A faint edge crept into his expression.

‘When I saw him again, he thought, he’s going to explain every last bit of this.’

A voice called out from behind the gates.

“Open them!”

Metal groaned as the gates parted. The waiting crowd surged forward, excitement rippling through them.

Drayce opened the car door.

“You can wait here,” he said calmly. “I’ll go in and see what this is about.”

The living room was vast, nearly two thousand square feet yet it felt cramped beneath the weight of expectation. Dozens of men stood shoulder to shoulder, all carefully dressed, all pretending calm.

At the center, Cassian Valtarre reclined on a sofa, his posture rigid despite the cushions beneath him. The exhaustion showed in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tremor of his hands resting on his knees. Worry had hollowed him out.

To his left stood an elderly man in flowing robes, his beard silvered, his eyes clouded with a serenity. To Cassian’s right waited a sharply dressed younger man, arms folded, gaze alert and defensive.

“Please examine the candidates,” Cassian said quietly. His voice lacked force, worn thin by months of sleepless nights. “Master Halvion… I place this in your hands.”

The old man inclined his head and stepped forward. He moved slowly along the line of bachelors, studying each face while murmuring low chants beneath his breath. The room held still, as if afraid to interrupt.

After a time, Master Halvion stopped.

“Each of you,” he said, lifting a shallow bowl, “will make a small cut. One drop of blood.”

A tray was passed around—blade, bowl, clean cloth.

The bachelors complied without hesitation. Some moved eagerly, others nervously, but none refused. The promise was too great. To marry the Valtarre heiress was to secure a future without struggle.

Drayce watched, unimpressed.

A quiet scoff slipped from him before he could stop it.

Cassian’s head snapped up. “What are you laughing at?” he demanded, irritation breaking through his fatigue. “Do you think this is amusing?”

The room turned toward Drayce.

He straightened, the faint curve of his mouth fading. “I’m laughing because this won’t work,” he said calmly. “If anything, it could make her condition worse.” His gaze flicked to the bowl. “Or maybe she’ll wake up from the smell of blood alone. Who knows?”

A sharp voice cut in. “How dare you?” The young man beside Cassian stepped forward, eyes flashing. “You come in here and mock our specialist? Do you take yourself for some kind of sage?”

Drayce met his glare without raising his voice. “That’s exactly what I am.”

A ripple of disbelief passed through the room.

“A paste made from June groundsel, devil’s milk nectar, and maybell fruit,” Drayce continued evenly. “Prepared correctly, it will stabilize her condition.”

The man exploded. “Nonsense! Groundsel and maybell are poisonous! Devil’s milk has been obsolete for decades!” He jabbed a finger at Drayce. “Say another word and I’ll have your tongue cut out. Mr. Valtarre, this man is here to make a mockery of us. Throw him out.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. He had heard promises before, too many of them. Specialists from across the world had failed his daughter. Why should this young man be any different?

And yet…

Desperation stirred beneath his doubt.

Cassian turned to Master Halvion. “What do you think?”

The old man snorted, contempt plain on his face. “Surely even you can see he is a fraud. He has no chance of being worthy of Lady Liora. Remove him at once.”

Something heavy settled in Cassian’s chest. Still, he lifted a hand, forcing himself to decide.

“Take him outside,” he said quietly.

Several guards moved in at once, their boots scraping softly against the marble floor.

“Wait.”

Drayce’s voice cut through the room—steady, unraised. He turned slightly, eyes settling on the robed elder. “Tell me something, old man. What makes you so certain I have no connection to the heiress?”

A low ripple of mockery spread through the crowd. Smirks appeared. A few men shook their heads. This stranger was pushing his luck far past the reason.

The man standing to Cassian’s right surged to his feet. “Watch your mouth,” he snapped. “Do not disrespect Master Halvion.”

“Enough!”

Cassian’s shout thundered through the hall. He rose halfway from his seat, face dark with anger. “I will not have my guests insulted in my home—especially not the one here to save my daughter.”

Silence fell.

Master Halvion lifted one thin hand, calming the room. His gaze lingered on Drayce, sharp despite his age.

“I may no longer stand at my peak,” he said slowly, “but I carry fifty years of experience.” He took a step forward, robes whispering along the floor. “I founded my first guild at the age of three. I met my master at eight. I have walked the paths of divination, dream-reading, and shamanic healing. I opened my third eye before most men learned to read.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Tell me, then—how could I possibly misread your energy where Lady Liora is concerned?”

Drayce didn’t answer right away.

He reached into his coat, moved unhurried, and withdrew a folded document. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it and held it up for all to see.

The marriage agreement caught the light.

“Would you still say I have no connection to her,” Drayce asked quietly, “after seeing this?”