CHAPTER 197: WAVE OF ATTACKERS

The clash of steel rang in her ears, but Liora couldn’t look away from Lucien. The way he fought wasn’t like the cold, detached man who had sat at the head of the dinner table. Here, in the chaos of firelight and steel, he was alive, terrifyingly so. Every movement was precise, measured, yet ruthless, as though he’d been born for nothing but battle.

Rowan fought like his shadow, the two of them moving with a rhythm too practiced to be coincidence. One parried while the other struck; one feinted while the other delivered the killing blow. It was a dance of death, and the courtyard was littered with proof of it.

"Stay behind me," Edgar barked, pulling Liora back just as an arrow whistled past where her head had been.

But she had already seen it, one of the assassins breaking through the circle, his blade glinting as he charged straight for Lucien’s exposed back.

"Lucien!"

Her voice tore out of her before she could stop it.

Lucien turned, but not fast enough.

The assassin lunged.

Liora didn’t think. She shoved past Edgar, her hand grabbing the first thing she could find, a broken spear haft from the ground. She swung with all the force in her body.

The wood cracked against the assassin’s jaw, sending him sprawling sideways. His blade missed Lucien’s back by a hair.

Lucien’s eyes snapped to her, lightning flashing in a storm. For a fraction of a heartbeat, surprise flickered there.

Then his sword finished what she had started.

The assassin dropped, lifeless.

Lucien caught her wrist before she stumbled forward, his grip iron. "Are you out of your mind?" His voice was low and harsh, his breath hot with fury. "You could have been killed."

Liora’s chest heaved, her knuckles white around the shattered spear shaft. "So could you."

For once, Lucien faltered. He stared at her, as though her words cut deeper than the blades swinging around them.

But there was no time. Rowan’s voice snapped the spell apart. "Above!"

Another wave of attackers spilled from the walls.

Lucien released her, spinning back into the fray. Rowan’s blade cut a path toward him, their formation snapping together like iron gears locking into place.

And Liora—despite Edgar’s desperate grip—found herself clutching the broken spear tighter, refusing to stay hidden.

Because for the first time, she understood something.

She wasn’t only fighting for her life.

She was fighting for him.

The clash had left behind a trail of bodies and silence that felt heavier than the storm itself. The last of the masked assassins lay crumpled at Rowan’s feet, his sword dripping a steady line of crimson that pattered against the stones. The air stank of iron and smoke, mingling with the rain-soaked earth.

Lucien’s hand finally lowered from his blade, his knuckles pale. His breath came ragged, though his stance remained unbroken, as if sheer will alone kept him upright. Rowan, by contrast, looked as though he had emerged untouched, his cloak torn, yes, but his movements precise, efficient, and deliberate.

And Liora.

She stood between them still, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face with rain and blood. Her dress was shredded, her skin cut in places that stung under the cold night air, but her gaze burned. The adrenaline had not yet left her. If anything, her trembling was not weakness; it was rage, restrained and searching for an outlet.

"You’ll tell me now," she said hoarsely, looking first at Lucien, then Rowan. "Who were they? Why did they come for us? And why..."her eyes snapped on Rowan, "...did they know you?"

Rowan flicked the blood from his blade with an easy motion before sheathing it. His eyes, dark and steady, did not flinch from her demand.

"They weren’t here for you, girl." His voice was calm, but there was something heavier beneath it. "They were here for him." He nodded toward Lucien.

Liora’s heart thudded against her ribs. She turned to Lucien, but his silence was worse than denial. His eyes were fixed on Rowan, an old storm churning behind them, as if he had expected this truth but hated hearing it aloud.

"They called you a traitor," Rowan continued, stepping closer. His boots splashed through the puddles of blood without hesitation. "But I know better. These men don’t act alone. They move when commanded. And the hand that guided them..." He let the words hang, watching Lucien carefully. "...comes from within the palace."

The chill that cut through the air had nothing to do with the rain.

Lucien’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his sword even as he lowered it to his side. "Names, Rowan. Give me names."

Rowan tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Not here. Not with ears that could be listening. But you already suspect who would dare do it, don’t you?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Liora felt caught between them, her questions twisting into a sharper coil of fear. The palace. Again, always the palace. The weight of its shadow stretched even out here, where they had thought themselves away from its gaze.

Rowan’s hand brushed his cloak aside, revealing a sealed parchment tucked against his belt. "This was meant for you, Blackthorne. I intercepted it." He pulled it free and held it out, his fingers steady despite the faint tremor of tension that betrayed the stakes.

Lucien hesitated, then took it, breaking the wax seal with a snap. His eyes scanned the letter quickly, and for the first time that night, something broke in his composure. His shoulders stiffened. His breathing hitched.

Liora tried to catch a glimpse of the script, but he folded it too quickly, stuffing it against his chest.

"What does it say?" she demanded.

Lucien did not answer.

Rowan’s lips curved faintly, but it was not a smile it was closer to grim acknowledgment. "He won’t tell you. Not yet. But you should know this much, girl: tonight was no accident. You are caught in the center of a game that began long before you were sent to his door."

The thunder rolled again, shaking the air.

Liora’s throat tightened. She looked from Rowan to Lucien, her fists clenched at her sides. "Then tell me this," she said, her voice raw but unyielding. "Do I matter in this game? Or am I just another pawn?"

The words struck like a blade.

Lucien’s gaze flicked to her then, sharp, wounded, and furious at her question, at Rowan, and at the truth pressing in from all sides. His lips parted, but no words came.

And in that silence, the weight of the storm bore down harder than ever.

Lucien’s blade slid free from the last assassin’s chest, the man’s body collapsing with a wet thud on the dirt. For a moment, the world stilled only the ragged sound of their breathing remained. Liora pressed a hand against her ribs, half from pain, half from the shock still coursing through her veins. Rowan stood nearby, his knife dripping with crimson, his usually careless expression sharpened into something wolfish.

Lucien straightened, sword lowering but not sheathing. His eyes swept the field like a hawk, searching for any movement. Only silence answered. The night air smelled of iron and sweat.

"They were not common blades," Rowan muttered, nudging one of the fallen with his boot. "Their coordination was too tight. Whoever sent them... wanted us all gone in one strike."

"Not us," Lucien corrected, his tone low. "Me."

Liora’s head snapped toward him. "Why would they target only you? They tried to kill me as well."

Lucien’s gaze flickered to her, unreadable. "Collateral. You were simply in their way."

Her lips parted, fury rising, but Rowan interjected, stepping forward with that maddening half-grin. "Ah, but here’s the twist, little dove sometimes being in the way tells us more than being the target. Someone knew you would be with him tonight. Someone close enough to watch."

The words sank into the tense silence like stones cast into water. Liora felt her stomach churn. The implication wasn’t lost on her.

Lucien’s grip tightened around his sword hilt, his jaw set like stone. "Enough riddles, Rowan. Speak plainly."

Rowan tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting. "Very well. The blades they carried bear a mark...see here?" He crouched and turned the dead man’s wrist, revealing a faint sigil etched into the leather bracer. "This is the sign of the Black Veil. Assassins for hire. But they don’t choose contracts lightly. Someone paid dearly to have you erased."

Liora leaned in, her breath catching as the symbol came into view. A serpent biting its own tail.

Her mind reeled. She had seen that mark before. Not here, not in Lucien’s world no, years ago, when she was still under Evelyne and Hector’s roof. In hushed whispers, in shadows cast on her parents’ memory.

Her hand trembled. Could it be... connected?

Lucien’s sharp eyes caught the flicker of recognition on her face. "You know this mark."

It wasn’t a question it was an accusation.

Liora swallowed hard, feeling both Rowan’s curiosity and Lucien’s suspicion pinning her in place. The weight of her secrets pressed against her chest until she could scarcely breathe.

She could lie. Pretend she didn’t remember. But something in Lucien’s expression wounded trust, thinly veiled fury made her words stick in her throat.

Before she could speak, Rowan gave a low whistle, breaking the tension. "Well, isn’t this cozy? Enemies in the dark, secrets in the air... I’d say someone’s house of cards is about to come tumbling down."

Lucien turned on him sharply, voice like steel. "Not another word."

But Rowan only smirked wide