CHAPTER 191: CLOCK WAS ALREADY TICKING

Lucien’s lips curved, though it wasn’t quite a smile. "A trade," he repeated, his tone brushing over the word as if testing its sharpness. "And what exactly was exchanged, in your opinion?"

Liora kept her gaze steady, though her heartbeat had begun to quicken. "Freedom for position," she said quietly. "Though I’m not certain which side got the better bargain."

The faintest glimmer of amusement touched his eyes. "Bold," he murmured. "Most in your position would be too frightened to speak so plainly."

"I’ve found," Liora said, her voice low but firm, "that fear is only useful if it keeps you alive. Beyond that, it serves no purpose."

His fingers tapped once against the armrest. "And yet, fear is what keeps most people in their place."

"Perhaps I don’t belong in the place you expect me to occupy," she replied.

This time, the pause between them was longer. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its light playing across the sharp planes of his face. Lucien’s gaze narrowed, studying her as if weighing whether she was a threat, a pawn, or something else entirely.

"Tell me," he said at last, leaning forward slightly, "do you know what they tell me about you?"

"I imagine none of it is flattering," she answered.

"They say you are dangerous," Lucien said, his voice soft but deliberate. "That you have a knack for slipping through the cracks of other people’s plans." He tilted his head, watching for her reaction. "And that makes you unpredictable. I don’t like unpredictable."

"Then you should know," Liora said, a faint trace of defiance in her tone, "that I don’t like being owned."

For a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to grow heavier. Lucien’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth, a sign, perhaps, that her words had struck somewhere they shouldn’t have.

"You speak as if you have a choice," he said.

"Everyone has a choice," she countered. "The difference is in whether they’re willing to pay the cost."

Lucien stood then, his height casting a longer shadow over her. He took a slow step closer, his presence filling the space. Liora felt her muscles tighten, her instincts bracing, though she didn’t back away.

"You intrigue me," he said finally, the words carrying a dangerous undertone. "But intrigue can turn to nuisance very quickly."

"I’ll try not to bore you, then," she replied, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.

For the first time, his own lips curved in something almost like genuine amusement. "Careful," he murmured, his voice low enough to make the fine hairs at the back of her neck stir. "You’re playing a game without knowing the rules."

"Then perhaps," she said, meeting his gaze, "I’ll just have to learn them faster than anyone else."

The corner of his mouth lifted again this time, sharper. "We’ll see."

The alley was quiet again, but the silence was deceptive. You could almost feel the city holding its breath, like it knew something was coming. A faint drizzle had begun, tapping against the cobblestones, turning the air damp and heavy.

Lucien didn’t move. He stayed in the shadows, the brim of his hood dripping with rainwater, his eyes fixed on the figure at the far end. Rowan had already melted into the darkness beside him, a silent presence like a blade waiting to be drawn.

The man they were watching stopped at the door of a small tea house, too ordinary, too quiet for someone carrying a satchel stuffed with palace correspondence.

Lucien’s voice was barely audible. "That bag doesn’t belong to him."

Rowan gave a short nod. "And the route he’s taking doesn’t belong to a simple errand boy."

The man hesitated before knocking a peculiar rhythm. Tap. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap. A coded pattern.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. "So the rat’s meeting the other rats."

The door creaked open just enough to let him slip inside.

The rain thickened, running in silver ribbons down Lucien’s jaw as he crossed the narrow street. The faint scent of jasmine tea drifted from the tea house’s cracked shutters, mixing with the tang of wet stone. He paused, letting his senses stretch into the silence, mapping every breath, every shuffle of movement within.

Rowan’s hand brushed the hilt of his knife. "Are you going in first, or am I?"

Lucien’s eyes flicked toward him, the answer unspoken. He didn’t like Rowan taking the lead when the stakes were this high, not because Rowan was incompetent, but because Lucien couldn’t shake the knot in his gut tonight. Too much was in motion. Liora’s face, pale against the dim light of her new quarters, flashed in his mind. He’d seen her from afar earlier, before she vanished deeper into the palace, swallowed by its walls. He should have reached her, but...

The satchel. The man. This meeting. If they didn’t intercept it now, every piece of information they’d bled to gather could be compromised.

Lucien pushed the door open without another word.

Inside, the air was warm and humid, perfumed with steeping tea leaves. A few patrons hunched over steaming cups, their eyes flicking up briefly before returning to their drinks. In the back, the man with the satchel was already leaning close to another figure, their heads bent, voices low.

Lucien moved like smoke, weaving between tables until he was close enough to hear snippets. "... tonight... pavilion... shift in guards..." The rest was swallowed by the clink of porcelain.

His heartbeat slowed with a deliberate control he’d trained into himself but his fingers itched to close around the satchel strap. Not yet.

Rowan took the far flank, drifting toward the rear exit like a man simply seeking a quieter corner. The movement was casual, but Lucien saw the twitch of the satchel carrier’s hand toward the table’s underside. A signal.

Two more men rose from a side alcove.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. So it was a meeting. But for what? And if they knew about the pavilion...

A flash of memory stabbed through him: Liora’s voice, soft but resolute, telling him she could handle herself. She couldn’t not in this game. Not against the kind of men who hid in tea houses and whispered about shifting guard schedules.

The satchel carrier stood. That was Lucien’s cue. He stepped forward, catching the man’s gaze just long enough for the tension to snap.

Chairs scraped. Rowan’s blade glinted.

And Lucien smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. "Going somewhere?"

The satchel carrier froze mid-step, eyes narrowing at Lucien’s smile. The two men from the alcove shifted their weight, blocking the main exit. Behind them, Rowan’s blade caught the lamplight again, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.

Lucien kept his hands loose at his sides, but his stance was deliberately balanced and ready. He could feel the entire teahouse watching, though most pretended to be lost in their cups. The scent of jasmine had sharpened, clinging to the tension in the air.

"You’ve been asking the wrong questions," the satchel carrier said finally, his voice low and gravelly.

"And you’ve been keeping the wrong company," Lucien replied, stepping closer.

The man’s gaze flicked toward the door. Lucien caught the movement, subtle but telling. A runner was waiting outside. If the man made it out with that satchel, whatever plans it held would be beyond their reach.

Rowan’s voice cut in, calm but edged. "We can do this quiet, or we can do it loud."

Lucien’s pulse drummed in his ears. He didn’t want loud not here, not with half the city’s eyes already on him from other fronts. But the satchel...

The carrier shifted, feinting left, and Lucien moved instantly, seizing the man’s wrist and driving him back against the table. Porcelain shattered, hot tea splattering across the floor. A patron cursed and scrambled out of the way.

One of the guards lunged. Rowan intercepted him, steel meeting steel with a ringing crack. The second guard reached for a hidden blade, but Lucien twisted the carrier’s arm, forcing him to drop the satchel. It landed with a dull thud on the floor.

Lucien’s boot pinned it before anyone else could reach it. "We’re done here," he said, his voice low enough for only the carrier to hear.

The man’s expression hardened. "You don’t even know what you’re stepping into."

Lucien leaned in, the rain outside a faint hiss beyond the walls. "I don’t need to. I just need to make sure you never step near the Moon Pavilion tonight."

The man’s eyes widened, just enough for Lucien to see the truth in them: there was something at the pavilion worth guarding, and it wasn’t just a shift change.

Rowan knocked his opponent into a wall, sending him sprawling. The teahouse fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the drip of rain from the open door.

Lucien picked up the satchel, feeling the weight of its contents. He didn’t open it yet. Not here. Not until he knew who else might be watching.

As they left, he couldn’t shake the image in his mind: Liora, alone in her chamber, with danger moving toward her in the dark.

And now, he had proof that the clock was already ticking.