CHAPTER 199: THE KING

The forest had fallen quiet again, the battle’s echoes swallowed by the damp earth and dark canopy. The air smelled of iron and smoke, thick with the memory of blood. Rowan crouched by one of the fallen assassins, his fingers deftly prying a crest loose from the man’s leather harness. He turned it in his hand, eyes narrowing at the familiar etching of a serpent coiled around a crown.

Liora watched him carefully, her own breath still unsteady. She kept close to Lucien, though he had stepped forward into the shadows, his back rigid and unreadable.

"This isn’t random," Rowan finally muttered, tossing the crest to Lucien. "They weren’t after you only. They were after her."

Liora flinched, feeling the weight of both men’s gazes fall on her.

Lucien caught the token, his jaw tightening as he studied it. "The Serpent Sigil," he said flatly. "House Valcour’s hidden hand."

Liora’s heart skipped. "Valcour?" she whispered, her lips barely moving. "That’s... Ellora’s family."

Rowan’s eyes darkened. "Exactly. Which means this wasn’t an assassination to silence a prince, it was a warning. They want both of you bound in their game."

Lucien’s hand closed around the crest until his knuckles whitened. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. "Alden’s marriage wasn’t only about power. It was a chain. And if Valcour is pulling strings this deep, it means they’ve already woven a web around the crown itself."

Silence stretched, taut and heavy. Liora could feel her chest constrict. Every word Rowan and Lucien spoke peeled back a layer of safety she thought she still had.

"Then why me?" she asked finally, forcing her voice to hold steady. "Why would they care about me?"

Rowan’s eyes softened, though his tone remained grim. "Because you’re not just a discarded niece anymore. You’re tied to him." His chin tilted toward Lucien. "And if they can’t kill him outright, they’ll break him through the people closest to him."

The words sent a shiver straight through her.

Lucien turned sharply, his cloak swirling like a dark blade in the wind. "Enough. Standing here and bleeding over their intentions won’t save us. We move. Now."

Rowan rose smoothly, brushing the dirt from his hands. "And where do you think we’ll go? Back to that cursed manor you pretend is a home? They’ll burn it down by morning."

Lucien’s glare cut sharp. "You presume too much."

Rowan smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I presume survival. Something you’ve been toying with instead of ensuring."

The tension between them was thick enough to choke on. Liora’s hands curled at her sides. She wanted to scream at both of them to stop talking like she was a pawn in their duel of words, to stop ignoring the trembling weight in her chest that said her world was no longer her own.

Instead, she drew a slow breath and spoke, her voice quieter but sharper than she expected.

"Then tell me," she said, eyes darting between them, "what exactly are we running into? Because if I’m to be used as bait, I’d rather know before the trap snaps shut."

Her words cut the air like a blade. Rowan’s brows lifted slightly, impressed. Lucien, however, turned his head away, shadows hiding his expression.

But his voice, when it came, was softer than she’d ever heard it.

"You’re not bait, Liora. You’re the only reason I’m still standing."

And then, without waiting for her reply, he strode into the darkness ahead.

Rowan lingered only a moment longer, his gaze flicking over her face. Then he followed.

Leaving Liora caught between two men, two truths, and a serpent’s shadow curling closer with every step

The night had finally stilled. The rain thinned to a cold drizzle, leaving the forest drenched and heavy with silence. Ash and the sharp tang of iron clung to the air, remnants of the chaos that had just swept through their path.

Lucien stood at the edge of the ruined clearing, sword sheathed but his hand still resting on the hilt as if it had grown into his flesh. His eyes never stopped scanning the darkness beyond the treeline, and his jaw was tight enough to snap stone.

Rowan crouched over one of the corpses, silent as a shadow. He had stripped away the black mask of the attacker, revealing a face that bore the faint sigil carved just below the ear and was not of the king’s guard, not of the common sellsword, but of something darker. His fingers brushed the mark as though confirming a suspicion he had long carried.

Liora hugged her arms close to her body, trembling despite herself. She had not broken during the fight; she had held, she had endured, and she had even survived what should have been her death. But now, with the silence pressing in, her heart began to pound again with delayed terror. She felt Lucien’s presence near her, heavy and grounding, though he did not touch her.

Rowan finally rose, his hand dragging across his mouth as if wiping away poison. His gaze cut toward Lucien, then lingered briefly on Liora before snapping back.

"They weren’t random," Rowan said, voice low and grim. "This mark... It belongs to the Shadow Blades. They move only at one command."

Lucien’s shoulders stiffened. "The King."

Rowan nodded once. His eyes burned. "He sent his assassins into his own forests. After you."

The words struck Liora like a blade. She looked between them, her breath catching. "But... why? You’re his brother..."

"Exactly," Lucien interrupted, his tone bitter, edged with old scars. "The brother he cast aside. And in his eyes, one that lived is one too many."

Rowan stepped closer, tension rippling in the space between them. "You think this was about removing you? No, Lucien. This was a warning. The Shadow Blades do not waste effort on warnings unless the throne feels threatened."

"The throne," Lucien muttered, almost to himself. His eyes narrowed. "Or the truth."

The word hung between them, heavy and dangerous.

Liora felt the weight of it sink into her chest. "The truth?" she whispered.

Rowan’s gaze flicked toward her. "The death of your first wife," he said quietly, carefully. "The fire that ruined your name. You’ve always known it was no accident, Lucien. Tonight proves it. The same hand that pulled her into the grave now wants you buried beside her."

Lucien’s fists clenched, his knuckles pale against the dim light. His silence was not one of disbelief but of fury contained so tightly it seemed ready to tear through his skin.