CHAPTER 193: DON’T FREEZE

The lantern between them flickered, casting their faces into sharp planes of light and shadow.

Liora looked from one to the other, anger warring with disbelief. "And when were you planning to tell me any of this?"

"When it was safe," Lucien said, too quickly.

"When you thought I couldn’t run," Rowan countered.

Her pulse roared in her ears. The sense of betrayal pressed harder than the night’s chill. "So I’ve been a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing. You’ve both been moving me like a piece on a board, and I’m just supposed to... accept that?"

Lucien’s voice softened, though his eyes stayed fierce. "You’re not a pawn, Liora. You’re the piece they can’t afford to lose. That’s why you need to stay close to me."

Rowan’s gaze sharpened. "Or to me."

The choice they were silently laying before her was a trap and she knew it. Whatever move she made next would lock her into a path she couldn’t undo.

From somewhere beyond the Pavilion, a faint metallic click sounded in the darkness. Not the wind. Not the night insects.

A crossbow being cocked.

From the eaves, from the hedges, from the very walls themselves, dark-clad figures poured like a tide. Their blades caught the faint torchlight as they closed in, the scent of oiled steel mixing with damp earth.

Rowan’s warning came sharp and low.

"Lucien. Behind."

Steel hissed free. Lucien pivoted just as the first assassin lunged, his sword cutting through the man’s neck with clean precision. Blood sprayed, dark as ink in the night, and the body collapsed at Liora’s feet.

She staggered back, her chest tight, air searing in her throat. For a heartbeat she was frozen; this was no family squabble, no aunt’s cruel whispers. This was death hunting her.

Lucien barked without looking at her.

"Stay close. Do not run."

Another figure darted from the shadows, blade flashing toward her. Rowan was faster. His dagger met steel, sparks scattering like fireflies before he twisted, driving the blade into the assassin’s ribs. The man groaned and folded soundlessly. Rowan shoved the body aside, eyes already scanning.

More. Too many.

Liora’s hand shook as she clutched at the dagger Lucien had given her days ago the one she had never thought she would actually use. Its weight was small, almost laughable against swords, but in her palm it felt like survival.

Lucien cut another man down with a brutal sweep. "They’re not here for me alone," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "They want her too."

Her.

The realization chilled her. Evelyne’s voice slithered through her memory: You were never fit for any noble house.

Rowan drew up beside Lucien, back-to-back now, the unspoken rhythm of old comrades binding them.

"They’ve been tracking you since the palace gates," Rowan muttered. "I warned you."

"You warn too late, as always," Lucien spat, parrying another strike. His blade sang as it clashed against two at once.

Liora’s body moved before her mind did. The assassin who had slipped past Rowan lunged toward her, knife arcing toward her throat. She ducked clumsily, terrified and in the blur of panic, drove her dagger upward.

A wet sound. Heat on her hand.

The man gasped, eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing at her feet.

Her breath hitched. She had killed a man. Her hand trembled so violently she nearly dropped the blade, but Rowan’s voice cut through her shock.

"Good. Again, if you must. Don’t freeze."

His words weren’t comfort, but they steadied her.

The courtyard was chaos now, with grunts, steel meeting steel, and bodies falling into the shadows. The assassins were trained and coordinated; their movements were too precise to be common thugs. Someone had sent them.

Lucien fought like a man carved of fury, each strike decisive and merciless. Blood streaked his cheek, but his eyes burned with cold calculation. Beside him, Rowan moved like smoke, faster and quieter, his daggers darting with surgical cruelty.

And Liora breath ragged, heart hammering clung to their orbit, stabbing when they drove enemies too close, ducking when steel whistled above her head. The three of them formed a jagged circle, an unspoken pact sealed not by trust but by necessity.

But still, the enemy pressed. For every body that fell, another emerged from the dark.

Lucien snarled. "This is no raid. They mean to wipe us all out."

Rowan’s reply was grim. "Or silence us before the truth spreads."

The words twisted in Liora’s chest. Truth? What truth could be so dangerous it demanded blood in the dirt?

She opened her mouth to speak but the leader emerged before she could.

A figure cloaked in midnight, face hidden, stepped forward. The assassins parted, forming a wall behind him. His presence was heavier than all the rest, a predator among wolves.

Lucien’s blade stilled for the first time. His eyes narrowed, recognition flashing there.

"You," he growled.

The hooded man’s voice was calm, almost amused.

"Still breathing, Blackthorne? A pity. That can be remedied."

The name dropped like a stone into water. Blackthorne. Liora’s breath caught. The family Lucien had been cast from, the bloodline tied to disgrace, to whispers of treachery.

Rowan’s grip tightened on his daggers. "This changes nothing. We end him here."

But the hooded man only lifted a hand. Shadows stirred, a fresh wave of blades gleaming behind him.

"No. You won’t even reach me."

The assassins surged again.

Steel crashed. Lucien’s snarl tore through the night. Rowan’s daggers flashed. Liora’s dagger shook in her hand, but she raised it again.

Because if she faltered now, she would be the one lying lifeless in the dirt.

The courtyard drowned in blood and shadows.

And above the chaos, Lucien’s cold promise cut through like steel:

"Whoever sent you will regret not finishing me years ago."

Lucien’s blade flashed, catching the moonlight in quick arcs as he cut down the first wave. Rowan moved like a shadow beside him, staff sweeping in deadly circles. Liora, unarmed, pressed herself back against the pillar, every instinct screaming to run, yet her eyes refused to leave the two men fighting in tandem their movements a fierce contradiction of fury and precision.

"Stay behind me," Lucien barked, his voice cutting through the chaos as another soldier lunged.

Rowan intercepted the blow with a sharp crack of wood, his teeth bared. "I told you not to come here, girl! You’ve put yourself in the noose."

"I didn’t ask for your..." Liora’s protest was drowned as a soldier broke past Rowan, swinging for her throat.

Time slowed. Lucien’s hand shot out, catching the attacker’s wrist mid-swing. The blade missed her skin by a breath. With a brutal twist, he disarmed the man and drove his sword through him in one motion. The soldier fell, his weight thudding against the stones.

For a moment, silence. Then the remaining men hesitated, forming a rough circle around them.

Lucien and Rowan stood shoulder to shoulder, unwilling allies bound by necessity. Rowan’s eyes flicked toward Lucien, cold but calculating. "You’re fast. No wonder they fear you."

Lucien’s answering glare was fire and ice. "Save your compliments for the grave."

Liora’s heart pounded as she gripped the pillar behind her, every nerve alive. She had never seen Lucien fight like this, stripped of restraint, and the sight shook her not just from fear but something deeper, a pull she could not name.

The leader of the soldiers stepped forward, his armor catching the moonlight. His voice carried, low and merciless.

"Orders were clear. The girl dies tonight. Kill them all if you must."

At those words, Lucien’s grip tightened on his sword, a tremor of rage rippling through him. Rowan’s staff spun once more into guard, his stance lowering.

Liora froze. The girl. They wanted her.

Her blood went cold as she realized this wasn’t about Lucien’s disgrace alone. Whoever had plotted his downfall had cast her into the same fire.

"Liora," Lucien said suddenly, without looking back at her. His tone was iron. "If I fall, you run. Do you understand?"

Her throat closed. "And if I refuse?"

His jaw tightened. "Then you’ll damn us both."

The leader raised his hand. The circle closed.

And all at once, steel clashed again, the courtyard shattering under the storm.

The pavilion smelled of iron and smoke. Burnt fabric fluttered in the rafters like black wings as the last of the assassins fled into the forest. Their footsteps melted into the night, leaving behind only groans of the dying and the hiss of torches guttering in pools of spilled oil.

Liora stood rooted where she had been pulled into Lucien’s shadow, her dagger still clutched, though her arm trembled too much to lift it. She could still feel the way his hand had closed over hers during the fight, unyielding, steady, and commanding.

Rowan stepped into the clearing of broken bodies, shaking blood from his blade. His coat was torn along the shoulder, his dark hair plastered to his temple with sweat. But his eyes, those sharp, cutting eyes, remained trained on Lucien.

"You shouldn’t have come here." His voice was low and dangerous.

Lucien ignored the warning. He wiped his sword clean with a flick of his wrist, sheathing it before turning his gaze deliberately to Liora. "And leave her to die in an ambush you failed to anticipate? No. I don’t abandon what’s mine."

The words cracked through her like thunder. Mine. Her pulse leapt and faltered all at once.

Rowan’s jaw hardened. "She isn’t yours to claim."

"Everything in this kingdom is someone’s claim," Lucien answered softly, menace laced beneath the calm. "And you know better than to think otherwise."

Liora’s throat constricted. Their voices were iron colliding, sparks leaping between them, and she stood caught in the storm’s center. She had no breath to speak, no courage to ask the question hammering inside her Why him, Rowan? Why, Lucien?

Rowan finally turned his eyes on her, and for the first time she saw something beyond calculation there. A flicker of regret. A shadow of truth he hadn’t yet given.

"You don’t understand, Liora," he said, softer now, though his hand never left his weapon. "The enemy is not only the one you think. Blackthorne," he added, cutting his gaze back to Lucien, "is as dangerous to you as the blades you just fought."

Lucien laughed quietly, bitterly. "And yet, I’m the one who kept her alive."

The silence stretched taut, broken only by the crackle of dying flames.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn blew, a long, low call that chilled the air. Liora’s head jerked toward the sound. Rowan froze, every line of his body stiffening, while Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

"That," Rowan said under his breath, "wasn’t meant for me."

Lucien’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword again, his voice steel. "Then it was meant for me. Which means this night isn’t over."

Liora clutched her dagger tighter, heart pounding. The Moon Pavilion no longer felt like a sanctuary but a battlefield waiting to ignite again.