CHAPTER 185: CREST OF HOUSE MIRAL

The air in the hall was still heavy with the metallic tang of wine and unspoken accusations. Liora’s eyes darted toward the exit, but her legs refused to obey; Lucien’s gaze pinned her in place like a blade against her throat.

"You’ll answer me," he said quietly, yet his voice carried like a command.

"I told you, I wasn’t..." She stopped herself, realizing too late that her voice had cracked.

"Weren’t what?" Lucien’s steps were measured, slow, and deliberate, as if each one was meant to cage her in. "Speaking with Alden’s men? Trading information? Or is there a third option you’d prefer not to name?"

Liora forced herself to meet his eyes. "If I wanted to betray you, I would’ve done it when you left me here without a single guard."

Something flashed in his expression...quick, sharp, gone too soon. "Bold words for someone standing in my house by the mercy of my name."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t remember it every time someone looks at me like I’m dirt?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He studied her instead, as if searching for a crack in her armor. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped aside, clearing her path.

"Go," he said.

Liora hesitated. "Just like that?"

"No." His gaze hardened. "Go... and think about whether you want to be my shield—or my enemy. Because after tonight, there won’t be room for both."

Her pulse quickened. She brushed past him, but the weight of his stare followed her until she disappeared around the corner.

Somewhere deep inside the estate, the faint echo of boots on stone hinted that this conversation wasn’t the last... only the calm before another storm.

The moonlight stretched across the gravel path, casting silver halos around the sculpted hedges. The royal gardens were not meant for late-night strolls, especially not for someone like Liora...an outsider in silk. Yet she wandered deeper, guided by the faint rustle of leaves and a whisper she could not name.

Her slippers crunched softly on the stones as she traced her fingers along the cool marble of a forgotten statue—its features worn away, its identity erased by time. A little like Lucien, she thought. A prince stripped of his crown, left to stand silent in the shadow of the palace.

A breeze stirred, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. It wrapped around her senses like an old memory, and for a moment, she felt weightless.

Then she heard it.

A voice, low and almost mournful, threading through the still air. "You should not be here."

She turned sharply. Lucien stepped out from behind the shadow of a willow tree, the lamplight catching the edge of his cheekbone, sharp as a blade. His gaze flickered over her, assessing, unreadable.

"I couldn’t sleep," she murmured, her voice small against the quiet.

"You’ll find no comfort here," he replied, but there was no heat in his tone. Only distance. "These gardens remember things. They whisper them to those who listen long enough."

Liora tilted her head. "And what do they whisper to you?"

Lucien’s eyes met hers, icy and calculating but hiding something beneath. "That beauty can be poisoned. That every flower has thorns."

She didn’t know whether he was speaking of the garden... or of her.

Before she could ask, footsteps echoed faintly in the distance. Lucien’s posture shifted, alert, his hand brushing the hilt of the dagger at his belt. He stepped closer to her too close and murmured, "Go back to your chambers. Now."

"But..."

His voice was steel this time. "Go."

Liora turned to leave, the weight of his gaze burning into her back.

She didn’t see the shadowed figure watching from beyond the hedge.

She didn’t hear the faint hiss of steel being drawn.

But she would remember the feeling, the sense that the garden had indeed whispered to her... and the message was a warning.

The palace’s great hall was abuzz with whispers. Courtiers clustered in small circles, their jeweled sleeves brushing against one another as servants moved silently between them with trays of wine.

Liora stood near one of the marble pillars, her fingers curled tight around her skirt to keep them from trembling. The wax-sealed envelope in her hand bore the unmistakable crest of the Queen Dowager. It was crimson a rare color for royal correspondence and an omen in itself.

She had received it only an hour ago. No explanation. No messenger willing to say more.

"Are you going to open it, or will you let the vultures guess all night?" Rowan’s voice came from behind her, low and edged with amusement. He had a talent for slipping in unnoticed, like a shadow in human form.

Liora glanced at him. "Perhaps I’d prefer them to keep guessing."

His mouth curved into a half-smile. "They already think you’re either being rewarded... or sent to the chopping block."

She broke the seal before she could second-guess herself. Inside, the message was brief, the handwriting elegant and sharp:

Lady Liora Miral, Your presence is required at the Scarlet Banquet. Arrive before the moon reaches its zenith. Attire will be provided.

Queen Dowager Lilian

She swallowed hard. The Scarlet Banquet was not an ordinary gathering. It was a royal tradition shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in servant halls an event where the queen dowager measured the worth of those she summoned.

"You’re pale," Rowan observed. "Worried?"

"Should I be?" she asked, slipping the letter into her sleeve.

He tilted his head. "That depends. The Scarlet Banquet is either the making of a court figure... or their silent ruin."

Across the hall, Liora caught sight of Lucien, speaking to a foreign envoy. His expression was unreadable, but she saw the flicker of awareness in his eyes when he noticed the crimson envelope in her hand.

For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the sharp twist in her chest was fear or something else entirely.

The banquet was only hours away. And whatever awaited her there... would change everything.

The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the lamplight, each puddle trembling as if remembering the downpour. The air felt heavy, too heavy, like a silence stretched thin over a wound.

Inside Lucien’s study, the fireplace crackled low, its warmth not quite reaching the tension that gripped the room. He stood with his back to Liora, staring at the shelves lined with books he probably hadn’t touched in years. His posture was rigid, but his fingers drummed against the edge of a chair a rhythm that betrayed his restlessness.

"You shouldn’t be here this late," he said without turning. His voice wasn’t cold, but it carried the weight of someone trying to draw a line they knew would be crossed.

"I had to ask you something," Liora replied. She stepped forward, her shoes soft against the carpet. The firelight caught in her eyes, making them look like polished amber.

Lucien finally glanced over his shoulder. "If it’s about the court gossip again, I’m not interested."

"It’s not gossip." Her words cut sharper than she intended. "It’s about the man who delivered the message to your gates this morning. He..."

He turned fully now, the faintest flicker of interest replacing the guarded indifference in his gaze. "Go on."

"He wore the crest of House Miral."

Lucien’s fingers stilled. A silence fell, not the comfortable kind, but the kind that pressed against the ribs, demanding a heartbeat to break it.

"And?" His voice was quieter now, but the question was heavier.

"My family," she said, her tone bitter on the word, "doesn’t send messages without poison laced inside."

The fire popped, sending a small burst of sparks upward. Lucien stepped closer, the shadow of his frame enveloping her.

"If they’re reaching for me," he murmured, "it means they already know where to strike you."

Liora met his eyes without flinching. "Then you’d better be ready to strike back."

For the first time in weeks, a ghost of a smile touched his lips not warm, not kind, but sharp as a blade.

"Always."

The door creaked open before either could speak again. Rowan stepped in, his usual calm expression tight with urgency.

"You’ll want to hear this," he said, eyes flicking between them. "Your brother’s moved his pieces earlier than we thought."

The warmth of the fire felt irrelevant now. The storm wasn’t over; it was simply changing shape.

Liora’s gaze caught on something small glinting in the morning light near the stable doors, half-hidden beneath the dusty straw. She crouched and brushed the dirt away, revealing a shard of polished wood with the royal crest faintly carved on it. Not any crest of Lucien’s.

She glanced toward the house, but no one was watching. Heart pounding, she slipped the piece into her sleeve. It was far too small to be from anything decorative. A personal object? A broken seal?

Rowan found her moments later, his eyes narrowing at her crouched position. "Lose something?" His voice was casual, but his gaze dropped to her hand.

She straightened. "Just... thinking."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You might want to keep your curiosity quieter. Not everyone here is loyal to him." His eyes flicked toward a group of servants whispering by the well. "Some of them would sell their own mothers for a noble’s favor."

Before she could answer, a sudden commotion erupted near the back gate. Edgar, the steward, was arguing with two strange guards in dark livery, not from this household. The guards held a sealed parchment, their posture rigid.

Lucien appeared from the shadows, unreadable as ever, but she caught the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth when he saw the seal.