Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Kaelen’s POV

The border raids were getting smarter. That was the problem.

“Three days, Your Majesty.” Sir Marcus rode beside me, his jaw tight. A fresh gash split his left cheek—still weeping blood, dark and sluggish in the fading light. His knuckles were raw, crusted red. “Three days of hit-and-run attacks. Always a different point along the line. Never the same approach twice.”

I stared at the map I’d unrolled across my saddle horn, the parchment edges curling in the damp forest air. Red marks dotted the border like a pox. Each one a skirmish. Each one a failure.

“Casualties?”

“Three knights badly wounded. Two more with minor injuries. No deaths—yet.” Marcus paused. “They’re not trying to kill us, Your Majesty. They’re testing us.”

“They’re mapping us.” I rolled the parchment shut. “Every raid hits a different section. They probe, we respond, they watch how fast our patrols arrive and from which direction. Then they vanish before we can engage properly.”

Marcus’s horse shifted beneath him, uneasy. The trees here grew close—ancient things with trunks wider than a man was tall, their canopy so dense the late afternoon sky was reduced to scattered coins of light on the forest floor.

“Reconnaissance,” Marcus said flatly.

“Sophisticated reconnaissance. Someone is coordinating these strikes. Planning them. This isn’t feral rogues acting on instinct—this is military strategy.”

I folded the map and tucked it into my saddlebag. The frustration sat in my chest like a stone. Every time we moved to intercept, they were already gone. Ghosts in the treeline. Shadows that struck and dissolved.

“Double the eastern patrols tonight. Rotate the watch every—”

I stopped.

Marcus looked at me. The two guards flanking us tensed, hands drifting to sword hilts.

“Your Majesty?”

I held up one hand. Silence.

The forest had gone quiet. Not the natural quiet of evening settling in—this was the wrong kind of still. No birdsong. No rustling. The insects had stopped.

And then I heard it.

Crying.

Faint. Distant. Carried on the wind like something fragile and broken. A child’s voice, raw with terror, sobbing somewhere deep in the woods ahead of us.

Marcus heard it too. His hand went to his blade. “Could be a trap.”

“Could be.” I turned my horse toward the sound. “Weapons ready. Concealed. Follow me—quiet.”

We moved off the path and into the undergrowth. Single file. My horse picked its way between the roots and fallen logs with careful, silent steps. The crying grew louder as we advanced—hitching, desperate sobs punctuated by gasping breaths. A small voice calling out words I couldn’t yet make out.

The scent trail on the ground told its own story. Rogue markers—urine and claw-scored bark, the sour musk of wolves who belonged to no pack. Fresh. Left not long ago. Whatever child was crying out here was doing so in territory that rogues had recently claimed.

My grip tightened on the reins.

Then the wind shifted.

It came from the east, curling through the trees like a living thing, and it carried something on its back that made every muscle in my body lock rigid.

Winter roses.

Parchment.

Sweet. Pure. Unmistakable.

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