CHAPTER 211: BAD NEWS

Her chest tightened, her nails biting into her palms. "Then what were they?"

His voice lowered, roughened.

"They were silenced. Used as pawns in a war of influence between factions in court. And yes—my family’s name is tied to it. Not because I ordered it, but because Blackthorne blood was behind the command."

The corridor tilted. Liora gripped the wall, her body rigid. "Your family..."

Lucien stepped closer, urgency cracking through his control. "I swore to uncover who gave the order. I swore to make them pay. That vow is why I was marked, why they branded me guilty of treason. Because I refused to play their game in silence."

She stared at him, torn between the sharp sting of betrayal and the fragile thread of trust still tethering them.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Because I needed you safe." His words came quick, raw. "If you had known, they would have seen it in your eyes. They would have destroyed you to reach me. I couldn’t—" His voice cracked. "I couldn’t lose you the way you lost them."

Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.

Liora turned her face away, tears brimming though she fought them back. "And now? Now I know. What will they do to me?"

Lucien’s hand hovered, aching to touch her, but he let it fall back to his side. His answer was steady, grim.

"Now, dove, they will come for you. And that is why you cannot leave my side—not ever again."

The torchlight flickered, shadows dancing across his face, and for the first time, she saw not just the disgraced prince... but the predator waiting for his chance to strike back.

Liora’s breath came shallow, as if the walls themselves were closing in. The cold stone behind her felt steadier than her own legs. She wanted to deny him, to reject the words that had just unraveled her world—but the truth in his eyes was merciless.

"Don’t ask me to trust you when you’ve built everything on silence," she whispered. Her voice shook, yet it still landed like a blow.

Lucien’s gaze flinched, the briefest fracture in his iron composure. He took a step toward her. "Liora...."

She lifted her hand sharply, stopping him. Her fingers trembled, but her stare was unwavering. "Don’t. Not now."

The corridor’s shadows deepened as the silence between them thickened.

From deeper within the palace, a bell tolled—a low, resonant sound that made both of them turn. Three slow strikes. The summons for the council’s adjournment into private chambers.

Lucien’s expression hardened again, the moment shuttered behind cold calculation. "Lilian won’t wait. She wanted Darius paraded before the nobles for a reason. This was only the opening move."

Liora swallowed the knot in her throat. "Then what comes next?"

His answer was curt, edged with resolve. "The noose."

Before she could respond, Rowan appeared at the end of the corridor, his face shadowed but his stride urgent. He bowed once, his tone clipped. "They’re calling you both. The Queen Dowager isn’t finished with her test."

Liora’s chest tightened. The thought of returning to that throne room, of standing beneath Lilian’s eyes while her own world had just cracked, felt unbearable. Yet there was no choice.

Lucien offered his arm,not as a lover, not even as an ally, but as a shield. For a long, suspended moment, Liora stared at it, her heart torn between anger and the quiet, stubborn pull of survival.

At last, she placed her hand upon his sleeve. Her touch was light, but it steadied them both.

Together, they walked back toward the chamber.

The double doors opened with a groan, revealing the sea of courtiers still lingering, their whispers swelling like waves. Lilian sat upon her throne, the faintest smile upon her lips, as though she had been waiting for them to return fractured.

Her voice rang out, cool and commanding.

"Now that truths have been spoken," she said, her gaze slicing toward them, "let us see whether truth can bind or destroy."

And with a gesture, she summoned the next piece of her game forward.

The Queen Dowager’s hand lifted, graceful and sharp as a blade’s edge.

At her signal, the guards brought forward another object, not a man this time, but a table draped in crimson cloth. Upon it sat two goblets of hammered silver and a small, black-lacquered box.

The murmurs rippled instantly through the hall. Even Liora, unversed in court rituals, felt the weight of what was about to unfold.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He knew.

Lilian’s smile did not falter as she addressed the court.

"The kingdom cannot thrive under divided hearts. If the disgraced prince and his chosen companion are to stand as one, then let their bond be tested."

Her fingers tapped once upon the armrest, commanding silence.

"Before you are the Cups of Oath. One is filled with water from the sacred springs. The other with poison. To drink is to pledge loyalty, not to me, but to one another. To hesitate is to expose weakness."

A hush fell so thick that even the courtiers scarcely breathed.

Liora’s blood ran cold. She glanced at Lucien, but his face remained carved from stone.

Lilian leaned forward slightly, her voice silk and steel.

"One will choose first, blind. The other will follow without question. That is how trust is proven."

The challenge hung like a blade suspended above them both.

Darius Vale’s laugh, low and scornful, broke the silence. "Perfect," he drawled. "Let us see if the Blackthorne bastard trusts anyone but himself."

Lucien’s eyes flickered with fury, but he said nothing. He stepped forward, his movements controlled, his shadow long beneath the torchlight.

He turned to Liora. His voice was low enough that only she could hear.

"This is the game, Liora. Trust, or fall."

Her heart hammered. Every instinct screamed danger, yet when her gaze met his, something steadier stirred beneath the storm, the memory of his hand brushing hers in defiance of the world.

Lilian’s gaze sharpened, enjoying the spectacle. "Choose."

Lucien reached forward. His hand hovered over the two goblets, pausing only a breath before closing around one.

He lifted it.

The weight of the entire court pressed against them.

Slowly, he turned to Liora, extending the untouched cup toward her.

"Together," he said, his voice steady, though his eyes told her he would carry the risk alone if she refused.

Liora’s breath caught as Lucien extended the goblet toward her. The silver trembled faintly between them, though his hand itself did not.

Every eye in the chamber was fixed upon her,their judgment sharp, their anticipation hungering.

Her fingers hovered, cold and trembling, before she finally closed them around the cup. The metal was heavier than she expected, pressing down on her hand as though it carried more than liquid inside,it carried their fates.

She looked at him, searching, pleading for something, an answer, a sign, even the faintest betrayal of doubt.

But Lucien’s face remained carved in shadow and resolve. Only his eyes softened, dark and unwavering, speaking what words could not: Trust me.

Lilian’s voice sliced through the stillness.

"Drink."

The command echoed like a tolling bell.

Lucien lifted his cup first, tilting it back without hesitation. The hall gasped softly as he swallowed, his throat moving once, twice. He lowered the goblet, empty now, and met Liora’s gaze.

Her pulse thundered. Poison or spring. Death or life.

And yet, in that instant, she understood: it wasn’t the liquid that mattered. It was the choice. If she faltered, if she doubted him, Lilian would have won.

Her hand steadied. With a single breath, she raised the goblet to her lips.

The liquid was cool, almost sweet. Not the acrid burn of poison. She drank it all.

A beat of silence followed,long enough that her heart seemed to stop.

Then Lucien’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of defiance in his expression. He was alive. She was alive.

The court erupted in a storm of whispers. Relief, shock, disbelief, swirling into a storm that no fan nor sleeve could hide.

Lilian alone did not stir. She regarded them both with a gaze as sharp as ice. Slowly, she leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping once, twice on the carved armrest.

"Well," she said softly, her voice carrying across the chamber. "Perhaps you are not as fractured as I believed."

But her smile held no warmth, only calculation.

Darius Vale’s bitter laugh rang out again. "A trick of fate, nothing more. Let us see how long your pretty loyalty lasts when blood, not water, is at stake."

Liora tightened her grip on the empty goblet, her knuckles pale. The game was not over. If anything, it had only just begun.

The morning after the confrontation with Rowan, Liora awoke restless. Sleep had been shallow, haunted by fragments of whispers and broken images she couldn’t place, her aunt’s voice, the glint of blood, Lucien’s unreadable expression, and Rowan’s parting words echoing like a curse:

"Do not mistake mercy for loyalty."

When she stepped into the garden that lay behind the Blackthorne estate, the air was crisp, almost cleansing. The roses were just beginning to bloom, yet their scent was sharp, pricking her senses.

Lucien was already there. He stood in the shadow of the old stone fountain, a letter in one hand, the seal cracked open. His posture was deceptively calm, but his eyes flicked over the parchment with a storm brewing behind them.

Liora paused. She had learned enough to recognize the weight of such letters, it was likely from the palace.

"Bad news?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.