CHAPTER 61: INTO THE DIVINA’S DEN

"I hope she tries," Lorraine said, her voice like honey stirred with steel. "Or maybe she’ll ask my father to do it for her. I doubt it would take much. He would oblige. A little blood on his hands, if it clears his precious daughter’s path? I’d be doing them all a favor by dying."

Sylvia’s breath caught. She stared at the woman in front of her—princess, seer, viper of the underworld—and the ache behind her words made her look otherworldly. Beautiful in a way that hurt to witness. Like looking at someone who had swallowed innocence, only to wear its ghost like a veil.

It must cut her to the bone, Sylvia thought. To know her own father might trade her life for convenience. That no matter how high she climbed, she would never be more than a piece on his board.

Sylvia exhaled, trying to shake the weight off. "I still can’t believe that after everything she’s seen... Seraphina thought he’d leave his wife for her."

Lorraine let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Love," she said, turning her face toward the flickering light. "It’s a dangerous illusion, isn’t it? Easy to believe, even when it poisons you. Even when it buries you."

She leaned forward, her voice quieter now. "It’s why people still whisper that the King of Dragons knelt to a single oracle—for love. That he touched no other woman after her death. That he remained faithful to a ghost."

She scoffed faintly. "Pretty, isn’t it? But it only happens in legends. Fantasies. Not in this world."

Not in a world where husbands bedded their mistresses under the same roof.

Not in a world where fathers traded daughters for treaties.

Lorraine rose from her seat slowly, the white silk of her robe brushing the floor like snowfall. "Love," she said again. "Be it cursed."

They were about to leave, but a noise broke through the stillness, a distant door clattering open, raised voices, and the unmistakable scrape of boots against stone.

Sylvia froze. "That sound..."

Neither of them moved at first. But instinct pulled Sylvia toward the panel behind the Divination Room, called the Glass Wings. She opened the small hatch built seamlessly into the wood and bent to peer inside the polished brass tube, twisting the handle to focus the lens.

The image came slowly into view.

A figure at the base of the tower. Broad-shouldered. Masked. Shadow-soaked despite the morning sun.

Sylvia gasped. "It’s the Prince."

Lorraine turned from the window, the veil still half-draped in her hand. "Which prince?" she asked, her voice dry. She already had two coiled at her feet, ready to ruin what little peace she owned. Which snake had slithered in this time?

"Your husband," Sylvia whispered.

Lorraine’s heart missed its rhythm. "What’s he doing here?" she muttered, but she was already moving. She bent toward the viewing scope, her knuckles white against the brass edge... and there he was.

Her husband.

Sylvia leaned close, concern tightening her brows. "Should we walk out before he sees us? Others might not recognize the Swan Divina, but he—he will."

Lorraine stared at the image, at the towering shadow of her husband at the base of the stairs, flanked by tension and whispers.

"Should we?" Lorraine murmured, though her voice had lost all doubt. Her eyes narrowed. Her back straightened. "No. Do exactly as I say," Lorraine said, standing tall. She snapped out her instructions. Quick. Controlled. Cold as a blade. Sylvia flinched at some of them.

"This could go very wrong," she warned.

"Then let it," Lorraine replied. Her voice was steady, but the tremor in her fingertips gave her away.

-----

Outside, beneath the swan-carved stairs, Leroy’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Two guards with their faces blank, expressions unshaken blocked him, but it was clear they recognized him. Everyone did. The golden mask, the broad shoulders, and the tall frame, along with the war-forged presence. Who else could it be other than the Crown Prince of Kaltharion?

Cedric stood beside him, equal parts guard and hostage, heat rising in his face as murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

Gods above. A prince picking a fight in the red-light district?

Not just any district. This was her domain. This was the Swan Divina’s sacred ground, where nobles and beggars alike tread softly. The place where women were seen, healed, and left whole. Not even drunks dared spill blood here. And now Leroy stood like a flame in the powder room.

Cedric cursed under his breath. Had the prince finally lost it? He stepped forward, whispering urgently, "Your Highness—don’t—"

But the guards moved first.

Before Leroy could unsheathe his blade, they drew theirs. A polished twin flash of steel gleamed under the silk banners overhead.

Cedric’s breath caught. They wouldn’t win against Leroy in a duel—no one would. And that was exactly why this was madness.

What was he doing?

But then... there was movement. A soft shuffle from the shadows. A woman emerged, dressed in flowing white, face half-covered with lace. She held a small silver cup on a tray, hands steady despite the tension in the air. With a bow, she stepped between the guards.

"You may pass," she said, offering the cup, "after you drink this."

The swords went back into their sheaths in perfect, practiced silence.

Leroy’s grip relaxed slightly, his arm falling to his side.

But Cedric’s panic rose.

"No—Your Highness!" he cried, pushing forward, trying to intercept the cup. "You don’t know what’s in that—!"

Poison. Curse. Tonic. Trap. It could be anything.

But Leroy didn’t hesitate. He took the cup, his golden mask catching the light as he raised it to his lips.

He drank in one motion, calm and deliberate.

Then, he handed it back and said only, "Take me to her. Now." His deep voice echoed up the narrow stone stairwell like a vow.

The guards parted wordlessly. The woman had already vanished.

Leroy stepped forward, and Cedric had no choice but to follow.

As they climbed, the light of the sun died behind them. Each step up was a step deeper into hush and shadow. The tower coiled tight, ancient, and watching like a serpent’s spine.

Cedric’s nerves prickled. "We should leave, Your Highness," he said again, lowering his voice.

Something about this felt too still. Too silent. Too prepared.

Leroy didn’t answer. His hand reached out, pressing flat against Cedric’s chest—gentle, firm. Without turning.

"Stay here," he said.

Cedric stopped.

His mouth opened, but then closed again. Perhaps it was strategic. Perhaps it was personal. Either way, he obeyed.

He watched as the prince approached the low-arched door, too short for a man of his height. Leroy bowed, his broad form folding like steel to pass through.

And disappeared into the mouth of the Divina’s den.

Inside...