CHAPTER 189: MERELY FOLLOWING HIS ORDERS.

The courtroom’s atmosphere shifted again as the judge cleared his throat, eyes scanning the room before settling on the plaintiff’s side."Proceed," he instructed, his tone clipped, as though unwilling to waste another second.

Liora kept her gaze forward, but her pulse was relentless in her ears. She could feel Evelyne’s smugness radiating beside her, a heat that made Liora’s skin prickle. Across the aisle, Lucien sat still too still hands folded loosely in his lap, the very picture of indifference. Yet she knew better. That calculated calm was his armor, and beneath it, his mind was likely cutting through every word, every gesture, every possible angle.

The plaintiff’s representative rose, a polished man with the kind of smile meant to look harmless but was sharpened with intent. "Your Honor, the matter before the court is not a simple case of property dispute, it is a matter of moral obligation and rightful restoration of honor to the Miral name."

Honor.The word was poison in Liora’s mouth. It was Evelyne’s favorite weapon, wielded only when it suited her. Liora clenched her fists under the table.

The representative continued, "For years, my client has carried the weight of responsibility for her late sister’s daughter. She has clothed her, fed her, sheltered her, and guided her in the ways befitting a noblewoman. But recent events have made it impossible for this arrangement to continue."

Impossible.Liora nearly laughed. Evelyne had made it her mission to find that "impossibility" since the day Liora had been left in her care. This this farce of a trial was only the final stroke in her years-long scheme.

"And so," the man went on, "my client has sought an arrangement that is in the best interest of all parties. His Grace, Prince Lucien Blackthorne, has generously agreed to take responsibility for Miss Liora Miral, offering her a place befitting her station as his concubine. This union will ensure she is both cared for and kept within the noble circle, while restoring stability to the Miral household."

Every word was dipped in oil, designed to glide past scrutiny.Lucien didn’t react not outwardly. But Liora caught it: a faint shift in his jaw, the smallest flicker of his eyes toward her before returning to the judge.

"Do you have anything to add, Miss Miral?" the judge asked suddenly, his gaze sliding toward her.

Evelyne’s fingers tightened on Liora’s arm under the table, a warning disguised as a gentle nudge. "She agrees," Evelyne said sweetly, answering for her.

But Liora did not speak right away. She let the silence stretch, her eyes locking with the judge’s. The faint hum of whispers rose in the room, and she could feel Evelyne’s grip becoming impatient.

Finally, Liora said, "If this is about honor, Your Honor, then perhaps we should start by defining whose honor is truly being served here."

Gasps fluttered through the gallery. Evelyne’s nails dug deeper. Lucien’s mouth quirked barely a fraction, but enough for her to know he’d noticed.

The judge leaned back. "You will have your chance, Miss Miral. For now, we proceed."

And just like that, the gavel came down, echoing through the hall.

The sword struck with a clang, sliding harmlessly off the armor, but the force of the blow sent Lucien stumbling back. He regained his footing instantly, his eyes cold and unyielding, his grip tightening on the hilt. The clash wasn’t just steel against steel it was the echo of unspoken truths, of grudges and betrayals neither had dared to voice until now. The crowd’s cheers blurred into a single roar in Liora’s ears, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to shake the ground beneath her. She could see the veins standing out in Lucien’s forearm, the way his stance shifted ever so slightly to invite his opponent in, a trap disguised as vulnerability.

His opponent took the bait, lunging forward with a grunt. The motion was fast, reckless, born from pride, but Lucien’s counter was faster fluid, precise, devastating. Their blades locked, the metal groaning between them, and for a brief moment, they were close enough for the other man to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of Lucien’s lips.

It was a dangerous expression, the kind that said he wasn’t just fighting to win he was fighting to send a message.

From where she stood, Liora caught it, and something in her tightened. This wasn’t about honor or the match; this was about dominance, about forcing his opponent and everyone watching to remember exactly who Lucien Blackthorne was, no matter how the court tried to bury his name in disgrace.

The push came hard and sudden. Lucien’s shoulder slammed into his opponent’s chest, the impact sending the man staggering backward. The crowd gasped, some jeering, others laughing, but Lucien didn’t bask in the moment. He moved in, relentless, his blade a silver arc cutting through the humid air, until the opponent’s weapon went spinning from his grasp and clattered onto the ground.

Silence fell.

Only Lucien’s breathing filled the space between them, heavy but controlled. He didn’t deliver a final blowhe didn’t need to. Instead, he turned his back on the man, sheathing his sword with deliberate slowness, as though dismissing him entirely.

The crowd erupted again, the sound swelling around him, but Lucien walked away as if none of it touched him.

Liora’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She told herself it was the heat of the fight that made her chest ache, but deep down, she knew it was the look in his eyes when his gaze briefly swept over her in the stands distant, unreadable, and entirely too dangerous.

If he kept fighting like this, she wasn’t sure whether the court would fear him more... or want him back.

Liora sat there for a long moment, the echoes of Evelyne’s accusations still ringing in her ears. Each word had been a dagger, deliberate and merciless. The fire from earlier had dimmed into a slow, seething burn that coiled in her stomach, refusing to be snuffed out. She tightened her grip on her skirts, her knuckles paling against the dark fabric. She would not give her aunt the satisfaction of seeing her crumble not now, not ever.

She forced herself to stand, the stiffness in her limbs a reminder of how long she’d been sitting. Crossing the room, she paused at the window. Outside, the palace courtyard was bathed in pale moonlight, the cobblestones glistening faintly after the evening’s brief rain. Guards patrolled in pairs, their armor catching the light in muted flashes. Somewhere beyond those walls, the world went on untouched by the venom that had been poured into her life tonight.

Her reflection in the glass was a stranger’s eyes rimmed red, hair tumbling loose from its pins, the faintest tremor running along her jaw. She pressed a palm against the cold window, as though the chill could numb the roiling inside her.

A soft knock broke the silence. She turned sharply, expecting perhaps a servant with another condescending message from Evelyne. But when the door opened, it was Edgar Allne. His usual stiff composure had softened, though the lines of formality never quite left his posture.

"My lady," he said with a slight bow, his voice low. "His Highness has requested your presence."

For a heartbeat, she almost refused. The thought of facing Lucien now when her mind was still raw was daunting. But she caught herself. If she wanted to navigate this web of politics and veiled hostility, she couldn’t pick and choose her moments.

"Where?" she asked.