CHAPTER 218: MASSCARE OF IRONVALE

The corridors of the palace were already lined with courtiers when Lucien and Liora emerged, their joined hands drawing more whispers than any decree could have. The nobles parted like silk curtains, but their eyes clung to the pair, sharp as knives.

Liora kept her chin lifted, even as her stomach knotted. Every glance carried judgment, every murmur sounded like a curse. She knew that one wrong step here would become another stone hurled at Lucien’s back—and now hers as well.

Rowan walked a pace ahead, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "They’re hungry," he muttered, low enough that only Lucien and Liora could hear. "Do not give them a drop of blood."

Lucien gave a sharp nod, his gaze forward, unflinching. "Then we make them choke on silence instead."

When the great doors to the audience chamber swung open, a wave of sound struck them—whispers, gasps, even the rustle of silk as courtiers leaned closer to see. At the far end, beneath the towering canopy of crimson velvet, sat Queen Dowager Lilian. Her face was carved of composure, every jewel in her crown catching the light like a blade’s edge.

Around her, the High Council and lords of the realm filled their seats, their gazes fastened on Lucien and Liora as though weighing prey.

The herald’s voice rang clear:

"Lucien Blackthorne, second son of the late king. Liora Miral, ward of House Miral and consort."

The words fell heavy. Consort. It was meant to belittle her, Liora knew. A reminder that she was not a wife, not a queen—merely the concubine tied to a disgraced prince.

Yet when Lucien led her forward, his grip firm on hers, the murmurs faltered. He did not release her, did not cast her aside as was expected. He brought her to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, as though daring the court to object.

Lilian’s gaze narrowed, though her lips curved in a smile. "How touching. You bring your shadow to stand in the light with you."

Lucien bowed, measured, his voice carrying through the chamber. "I bring the one who has walked through every storm at my side. If that offends, then let offense be the court’s burden, not mine."

A ripple of shock moved through the chamber.

Liora’s pulse thundered. In that single act simple, yet defiant he had tied her fate to his before all of them. No dismissal. No denial.

The Queen Dowager’s smile did not waver. Instead, she lifted a jeweled hand, and servants wheeled forward a heavy, iron-bound chest. Its lock glinted with the crest of the Blackthorne line.

"The Trials of Oath," she said, her voice silk over steel. "You know what is demanded. Within this chest lies the measure of your loyalty to each other and to the Crown. Choose wrongly, and the court will witness the cost. Choose wisely, and perhaps..." Her gaze lingered, sharp, amused. "...perhaps you will prove you deserve the breath you cling to."

The chest thudded as it struck the floor before them.

Lucien and Liora stood in its shadow, the weight of the court’s eyes upon them, the kingdom’s judgment poised to fall

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as the iron-bound chest sat between Lucien and Liora like a predator waiting to be fed. Every noble in the chamber leaned forward, fans lowering, breaths caught in anticipation.

Liora’s heart hammered in her chest. She could feel the heat of Lucien’s hand still clasping hers, steady, grounding, but beneath it, the taut coil of tension in his muscles betrayed what he would never show the court.

Lilian broke the silence with a single word.

"Open it."

The command slid through the hall like a blade across glass.

Lucien released Liora’s hand only long enough to kneel before the chest. The ancient lock bore the sigil of his bloodline, a serpent coiled around a crown. His palm hovered over it, and for a heartbeat, hesitation flickered in his eyes. Then he pressed down.

The sigil burned faintly, the iron groaning as the lock snapped open.

A hush fell.

Lucien pushed the lid back.

Inside, upon a bed of black velvet, lay two daggers. Both identical in shape, slender, deadly, forged of steel so polished they caught the candlelight like shards of ice. But the hilts were different. One was bound in gold thread, the other in plain black leather.

The chamber stirred with unease.

Lilian’s smile widened. "The Oath Daggers. One to strike truth. One to bear silence. Together, they determine whether your bond is forged in loyalty or fractured by deceit."

Liora’s throat tightened. She could feel the weight of a hundred stares pressing into her, waiting for her to falter. Her gaze flicked to Lucien, whose expression was carved of stone. Only his eyes betrayed him, icy, unreadable, fixed on the blades as though he saw something no one else could.

Lilian leaned back, her voice carrying.

"One of you must take the dagger of truth, and speak the secret you most fear to reveal. The other must take the dagger of silence, and bear it without question, without protest. If either breaks, if either hesitates, the oath fails. And so do you."

The nobles murmured again, the sound rising like a tide.

Liora’s breath hitched. Her most feared truth? Already, a storm churned inside her chest, her parents, the mystery of their deaths, the shadows that had followed her all her life. But to speak it here, in front of them all, was to bare her heart to vultures.

She turned to Lucien, searching his face. He looked at her then really looked and for the briefest moment, she saw the man beneath the armor. A flash of pain. A question. A plea.

Her hand hovered over the chest.

Lucien’s voice was low, meant for her alone. "If you take truth, I will take silence."

The words struck her like a blow. He was shielding her, even now. Taking the greater burden for himself.

But Liora, trembling though she was, found her fingers moving not to the dagger of gold thread, but to the plain black hilt.

The dagger of silence.

Gasps rippled through the court.

Lucien froze, his jaw tightening. He reached slowly for the dagger of truth, his hand steady though the chamber seemed to hold its breath.

When their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them. A choice. A vow. A warning.

And then Lucien spoke, his voice cutting through the chamber like thunder.

"My truth is this..."

"My truth is this," Lucien said, each syllable deliberate, his gaze fixed on the Queen Dowager.

The chamber stilled.

"I was not disgraced for rebellion," he continued, his voice carrying like steel across stone. "Nor was it only for the death of my wife. The crime for which I was cast out, was treason woven by others, laid upon my shoulders. And I bore it in silence, because to speak then would have condemned more than myself. It would have condemned this kingdom."

Gasps broke through the gathered nobles. Fans snapped shut. One councilman half-rose from his seat before quickly lowering himself again.

Lilian’s expression didn’t flicker, though her jeweled hand tapped once against the armrest of her throne. "Go on," she said softly.

Lucien’s grip on the dagger of truth tightened, the edge glinting under the light. His jaw worked before he forced the words out.

"The night of the massacre at Ironvale... I was not its orchestrator. But I knew who was. And I kept silent, because to name him was to bring war into the heart of the palace itself."

Liora’s breath caught. Ironvale. She had heard the name whispered in fragments, the night her life had unraveled, but never dared piece it together.

"Name him!" one of the nobles barked, unable to restrain himself.

The chamber erupted in murmurs, all eyes darting between Lucien and the Queen Dowager.

But Lucien’s eyes never left Lilian. He didn’t name the guilty,not yet. Instead, his voice lowered, the weight of it falling like a hammer.

"My truth is that my disgrace was not justice, it was survival. Not for me, but for the fragile peace your court clung to."

Liora felt the dagger of silence burn cold in her palm, a reminder of her vow not to speak. Her whole being screamed to demand answers, to demand names, but the blade weighed her tongue down like iron. Her silence was her part of the oath.

Lilian’s smile was sharp, approving, land dangerous. "So. The discarded prince bares his teeth at last. A convenient tale. But truth, Prince Lucien, is measured not in words... but in consequence."

She rose, her presence commanding, her shadow stretching long across the chamber.

"Then let consequence judge you. Both of you. For if this court believes your union is forged only in lies and hesitation, the kingdom has no place for your survival."

Her words fell like a decree, though she had yet to name the punishment. The nobles leaned forward, hungry, the air so tense it quivered.

Lucien’s gaze flicked to Liora, a silent exchange sparking between them. He had laid bare part of the truth, but the danger had only deepened.

And Liora, her pulse racing, realized this was no test of trust alone, this was Lilian’s stage, and they were her unwilling actors.