The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1866

The tall, slender cultivator standing on the boat appeared behind Wynter in the blink of an eye. His hand, also tied with a red thread, grasped her wrist, pulling her back before pressing her into his embrace.

Wynter paused, her heart skipping a beat. She could feel the intense presence behind her and knew it was Dalton, who was always impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, exuding an air of restrained elegance with a blend of sharp business acumen and scholarly refinement.

In truth, Wynter's condition had deteriorated to its worst. Exhaustion was one thing. After all, losing so much blood would drain anyone. But it wasn't just blood she had lost, it was her merit.

No one could see the state she was in now. She had just broken free from the shackles of the evil spirits in the River of Forgetfulness through sheer willpower, and it had inevitably taken its toll. She hadn't been devoured, but the backlash was severe.

How much pain must one endure to remain standing like this, not only persisting in soul summoning but also attempting to purge the entire river? She wasn't just filled with despair—she was brimming with fury.

Seeing her like this, Dalton felt an ache in his heart he had never experienced before.

Her sweat-drenched black hair clung to her pale face. The blood on the boat had long dried, and the red thread around her left wrist had come loose, hanging messily. Dried blood had crusted beneath her eyes from a wound at her brow. There wasn't a single part of her that remained untouched by injury.

Dalton swallowed hard, his voice rough and strained. "Look at me. Listen—it's me."

Wynter closed her eyes wearily, like a migratory bird finally finding a branch to rest on after a long journey—a place where she could safely fold her wings.

Of course, she knew it was him. No one else would dare hold her in this state. After all, the weight of her resentful energy was overwhelming, and the black mist harmed not only her but anyone near her.

One step further, and she would plunge into an abyss. Yet, he was the one who kept her from falling. He was the only one who would grip her hand so gently, as if afraid of hurting her. His breath was warm against her ear, tender yet unwavering. It was as if no matter what, he would never let go.

Under the crowd's watchful eyes, Wynter gradually softened. The dark mist around her seemed to settle, as though soothed. She was no longer stepping forward, nor did she force the summoning ritual.

The malevolent spirits lurking in the depths of the River of Forgetfulness had never witnessed anything like this. They watched as someone more terrifying than any malevolent spirit slowly shed her obsession and killing intent, squeezing her eyes shut and allowing herself to be held.

Just moments ago, she had been radiating apocalyptic fury, every breath heavy with violence.

At that moment, as if sensing his presence, she nodded weakly, her voice barely a whisper. "I thought you didn't want to come back."

Dalton drew a deep breath, tightening his embrace around her. His thumb brushed away the blood on her wrist, weaving spells that amplified her dwindling fortune.

"I'm sorry I was late." He enveloped her hand, his breath warm against her hair. "I've made you wait for too long."

"It wasn't too long," Wynter murmured, watching the submerged evil spirits. "I was just... worried. I was afraid these filthy things would block your path and that you wouldn't let me explain myself."

After stopping her bleeding and tending to her wounds, Dalton's fingers traced the red thread on her wrist.

The swirling black mist seemed to find an anchor, funneling toward him instead. She knew he was absorbing her resentful energy.

Wynter tried to pull her hand back, but he held firm. "You don't need to explain anything. Not about Mt. Nyxvarn, nor the underworld."

Her brows suddenly furrowed. "Was it I who sealed you away?"

She had long suspected it, as they were fragments of memories tied to Mt. Lunther. She remembered how someone had obtained her horoscope, how she had lost control, committing acts beyond reason. There had been no consciousness left when she had been reduced to a puppet.

Dalton chuckled, his voice as rich and alluring as ever. "My bride is allowed to do anything. You should know that no one else would dare marry me."

Wynter glanced back at him.

His thumb grazed her brow before his lips brushed the dried blood beneath her eye, tender and reverent. "As for the seal, certain things only happen if I allow them."

Wynter hummed in acknowledgment, her arms wrapping around his waist. "I was always lying to you in the formation."

"I'm glad you're aware of that, Mrs. Yarwood," he replied, before his gaze dropped to her feet.

A living soul entering the underworld would always suffer, much less in the River of Forgetfulness. Before her outburst, the soles of her feet had already been cut and bruised. When resentment could no longer be suppressed, it took form as blades.

Using her own merit to save others came at a devastating cost. Dalton had always known about this. Yet, knowing and seeing were different. The sight twisted something inside him.

The heavenly law? He was the heavenly law. But for the first time, he realized that not everything bowed to his will.

A thousand years ago, when the sects had left her no escape, he had understood the depths of human treachery. If given the choice again, he would never have entrusted them with what he had.

But back then, he hadn't met her yet.

Mortals needed enlightenment. That was balance and order. Yet that very balance and order had hurt her.

Dalton's hand, hanging at his side, clenched briefly before he abruptly scooped her up into his arms. And Wynter, exhausted, didn't insist on walking.

The evil spirits wouldn't dare approach, but they weren't given a choice because Dalton had given an order. "Take us back to shore."

Just that single sentence sent an unprecedented wave of oppression crashing over the malevolent spirits floating in the river. Their innate terror left them no room for defiance, and they could only push the boat forward without protest.

Just days ago, Atwater had heard that Kaspar had gone to protect Wynter's soul. He hadn't joined him as he was tied up with other matters. Remembering this, he dialed Kaspar.

Kaspar, still in the hospital, picked up. "What is it, Kaspar?"

"Handle things in Colifernia for me. I'm heading to Aureth."

Hearing this, Kaspar frowned in confusion. "Why Aureth—" Then it clicked. "The Celestial Force?"

Atwater nodded. "Yes. I have to see for myself."

Kaspar's tone darkened. "Alright, then. Wynter should wake up soon. Once she's awake, I'll meet you there."

"Alright." Atwater hung up, packed lightly, and left for the airport.

…

Hours later, the plane to Aureth landed smoothly.

Atwater collected his bags, flagged down a taxi, and instructed the driver to head to the Celestial Force. However, just a few miles short of their destination, the vehicle suddenly broke down. The driver tried restarting it several times, but the engine wouldn't respond.

The driver sighed exasperatedly. "The car's dead. You'll have to walk the rest. I need to call a tow truck."

Atwater's eyes slid open slowly. "Very well." He paid, shouldered his bag, and strode ahead.

The driver, baffled, inspected the vehicle but found nothing wrong. Scratching his head, he watched Atwater disappear into the distance before trying the key again. This time, the engine roared to life. He considered catching up to Atwater to drop him off properly, but the car died a second time.

He was utterly confused as he'd never experienced anything like this. The driver gave the ignition another try, this time shifting into reverse. The engine finally held steady, leaving him with no option but to retrace his route and drive back the way they came.

Atwater pressed forward alone, an astrolabe in hand. Its needle spun wildly, as if manipulated by invisible forces.

His frown deepened. Never had he encountered such chaotic terrestrial energy.

"Something's not right," he muttered as he lifted his gaze to the central peak shrouded in storm clouds.

But there was no time to dwell. He had no choice but to quicken his pace.