CHAPTER 198: SHE WASN’T JUST A PAWN.

The clang of metal still rang in the air when silence fell again. Not the silence of peace, but of a battlefield holding its breath. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, assassins either fled or were dead, their black hoods torn and bloodied. The torches along the wall sputtered, shadows flickering like restless spirits.

Liora’s chest heaved, her hands trembling as she tightened her grip on the dagger Rowan had tossed her. The weapon was slick, not just with sweat but with blood. Her eyes darted from the bodies to Lucien, who stood tall, blade angled down at his side, breathing steadily as though this were just another night’s work. Rowan was a step away, his own sword lowered, gaze locked on his master.

"Not a word of this leaves these walls," Lucien said at last, his voice quiet but sharp, like the edge of a knife. His eyes, burning in the torchlight, swept between Liora and Rowan. "If word spreads that they breached this house, it will be read as weakness. Weakness is death."

Rowan inclined his head slightly. "Understood." His tone was neutral, though his shoulders remained taut.

But Liora, she couldn’t keep still. The words ripped out before she could stop them. "Weakness? They came for you! They came into your home like wolves in the night. And you..." her voice shook, wavering between anger and fear. "...you speak of weakness as though the fault is yours?"

Lucien turned, his gaze pinning her where she stood. The force of it made her knees threaten to buckle. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"They came because I am not weak," he said slowly, as though each word weighed more than steel. "Because I am a threat worth killing."

Liora swallowed hard, her chest tight. She opened her mouth but closed it again when she saw the look in his eyes. Not pride, not arrogance, but something else. Something colder. A truth he carried like a burden.

Rowan stepped forward then, sword sliding back into its sheath with a faint hiss. "They were professionals," he said. "Not street knives. Trained. Paid. Sent with purpose." His voice carried a warning, one meant only for Lucien.

Liora caught it all the same. "You mean..." Her gaze darted between them. "This isn’t over, is it? Whoever sent them, they won’t stop."

Lucien’s silence was confirmation enough.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. "We need to move them. The bodies. If they’re discovered..."

"I know," Lucien cut in. He ran a gloved hand across his blade, wiping the blood away with grim precision. Then, without looking at her, he spoke to Liora. "Go inside. Now."

Something in her rebelled at the command. Her pulse screamed that she had a right to answers, that after nearly dying tonight, after fighting for breath and life, she deserved to know who hunted them and why.

But the way he said it, calm and absolute, rooted her to the spot.

Rowan stepped toward her, his voice gentler than his master’s. "Do as he says, my lady. It’s not safe for you here."

Her throat tightened at the words. Not safe here. Not safe anywhere.

Still, she turned, stepping back toward the house. But as her hand touched the doorframe, she paused.

"Lucien," she whispered, her voice trembling, "if they come again... will you still call it weakness to fight for your life?"

For the briefest moment, she thought she saw something flicker across his face. Not anger. Not disdain. Something else. Something like sorrow.

But then it was gone, and his gaze returned to the dark horizon beyond the walls.

She slipped inside, leaving him and Rowan in the night, standing among the dead.

The clash rang in her bones. Sparks shot like fragments of stars, steel against steel. Rowan’s dagger had found the hilt of the assassin’s blade just in time, saving Lucien’s exposed side. The two men didn’t exchange a word, but their movements began to mirror each other, an unspoken pact, a rhythm born of necessity.

Liora pressed her back against the wall, heart hammering as she searched for a weapon, anything that could make her more than dead weight. The overturned table yielded nothing but splinters, so she snatched up a shard of broken porcelain from a shattered cup, gripping it so tightly it cut her palm.

The assassins didn’t relent. Two more slipped from the shadows, circling like wolves. Their eyes glinted with the sharp, cold precision of men trained for only one task: kill.

"Stay behind me," Lucien barked, his voice rough and protective, even as he met the strike of another blade. His sword arm drove forward, cutting a clean arc that forced one assassin back.

Rowan shifted, covering Lucien’s blind spot, his movements economical and practiced. He fought with a brutal elegance, as though every strike had been honed in blood-soaked alleys rather than polished courts.

But there were too many.

One assassin feinted toward Lucien only to pivot, lunging at Liora. She froze, the porcelain shard trembling in her grip. The blade gleamed as it cut through the air,

Rowan intercepted. His dagger caught the assassin’s sword mid-swing, their faces inches apart, both snarling in effort. "Move, Liora!" he shouted, his voice sharp, almost breaking.

Something in her cracked. She wasn’t just prey. She wasn’t just a pawn.

Her hand shot out, slashing with the shard. It wasn’t much, but it left a crimson streak across the assassin’s wrist. He hissed, grip faltering. Rowan finished the motion, driving his dagger into the man’s side.

The body fell.

Liora staggered back, chest heaving, the shard slick in her bloodied hand.

Lucien’s head whipped toward her, fury blazing in his eyes. "I told you..."

But his words choked off as another blade came for him.

Rowan moved before thinking, shoving Lucien aside and taking the strike across his arm. Blood spattered, vivid against the dim light, but he didn’t falter. He twisted, wrenched the blade free from the assassin’s hand, and drove it into the man’s throat.

Silence followed, jagged and trembling.

Rowan’s breathing was ragged, his sleeve already soaked through. Lucien turned toward him, eyes unreadable, torn between anger and something dangerously close to reluctant gratitude.

Liora clutched her shard, knuckles white, her heart echoing every beat of their silence.

Outside, faintly, the sound of more boots approaching. Reinforcements.

This wasn’t over.

The stench of blood lingered, metallic and suffocating. Lucien’s blade gleamed faintly as he lowered it, his breath steady, too steady, as if killing were nothing but muscle memory. Rowan crouched, fingers pressed against the pulse of the fallen guard. No life. No chance to question him. His jaw tightened.

"He swallowed something," Rowan muttered darkly, prying open the guard’s lips. A faint trace of black foam stained the corner of his mouth. "Poison. Loyal to the grave."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. "They were trained to die before they could talk. That means someone higher ordered this someone who fears exposure."

Liora’s heart pounded. She looked between them, her voice breaking the silence. "Then... it wasn’t just chance they found us tonight." Her gaze flicked to Lucien, searching his unreadable face. "Someone sent them. Someone who doesn’t want the truth out."

Rowan rose, his cloak sweeping back, his expression hard as stone. "And we’ve just confirmed something far worse..." He looked at Lucien. "They know she’s with you."

The words struck like a blade. Liora stiffened, clutching her hands together, trying to steady the storm inside her. She had always known she was walking a dangerous path with him, but to hear it spoken aloud... it made her suddenly small in a world of shadows and unseen predators.

Lucien turned to her then, his gaze unreadable, sharp, and heavy with something unspoken. For a long moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the three of them.

"We leave before dawn," he said at last, his tone a command that brooked no argument. "Rowan, erase all traces. If their trail leads here, I’ll have their masters believe it led nowhere."

Rowan inclined his head, though his eyes flicked to Liora with something like warning. "If you keep her close, you’d better be certain you can protect her. They won’t stop now."

Liora swallowed hard. Her chest tightened, torn between fear and defiance. She wanted to demand answers, to tear through the walls both men kept around themselves, but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she whispered, almost to herself, "What have I stepped into?"

Neither man answered.

But Lucien’s hand brushed hers, just for an instant, a fleeting, near-invisible contact that burned like fire. A silent promise, or maybe a warning.

The flames that had devoured the manor still hissed in the distance, leaving behind a charred skeleton of wood and stone. Smoke curled into the night sky, thick and acrid, smothering every breath with the bitter taste of loss.

Liora stood between Rowan and Lucien, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. Her chest heaved with anger, fear, and something sharper: resolve.

Rowan broke the silence first, his voice low and controlled, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath.

"They weren’t after the manor," he said. "They were after us. Or rather...after you, Lucien."

Lucien’s jaw tightened, his gaze locked on the dying embers. "And they burned it anyway. To erase the trail. To send a message." His voice dropped, carrying a weight that pressed against them all. "This was no random attack. It’s a warning."

Liora turned sharply toward him. "A warning to whom? The world already believes you’re nothing more than the disgraced prince who killed his wife. Who would waste such effort unless..."