Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 111: She saved my life once

Chapter 111: She saved my life once

Beatrice’s fingers traced one of the red lines drawn over the map, her tone brisk. "There’s an informant. Codenamed ’Wren.’ We believe he’s stationed near the western mills, old grain storage. He’s skittish. Won’t talk unless he sees you, Lucien."

Liora glanced at him. "Why only you?"

Lucien’s eyes didn’t leave the map. "Because he used to be one of mine. From my network before everything fell apart."

The quiet that followed was heavy with implication. Beatrice moved to a locked chest and pulled out a rolled parchment, handing it to Lucien. "This has the cipher we believe Wren is using. He won’t speak directly. You’ll need to draw him out."

Liora leaned in, studying the patterns inked onto the page dots and slashes and foreign marks that looked like nonsense, but she knew well enough now that every nonsense had a key. Her mind, sharp and disciplined from years of listening behind doors and reading lips, was already turning.

Beatrice watched her. "She learns quickly."

"She does," Lucien said without hesitation.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Liora looked away first, not in embarrassment but in quiet acknowledgment. She wasn’t blind to his subtle shift around her. He was still stern, still careful, but there was less distance now. Like something silent had taken root in the space between them. Not affection—at least, not yet. But something that listened.

Beatrice cleared her throat. "You have till dawn. After that, Wren will disappear. He changes location every day. If he thinks he’s being watched..."

"We’ll find him tonight," Lucien said. "Thank you, Beatrice."

Beatrice gave a curt nod, then turned to Liora. "Don’t die, girl."

Liora raised an eyebrow. "Not planning on it."

They stepped back out into the night. Petra was quieter now, shadows longer, whispers tucked into alleyways.

Lucien handed her a dark cloak. "Keep your hair hidden. The mills are near the edge of the village, with fewer patrols but more eyes watching".

As she wrapped the cloak around herself, he adjusted the edge near her neck, fingers brushing lightly. She stiffened, just slightly, and Lucien drew his hand back.

"Cold?" he asked, more neutral than concerned.

"No," she replied.

They began walking again. Liora didn’t miss the way his hand hovered near his belt, near the dagger. He was alert, always, and yet, beside him, she didn’t feel like she had to guard every breath.

"You trust Beatrice," she said after a while.

"She saved my life once. Long ago."

"And now?"

"She might be the only one left who still believes I’m not a traitor."

The way he said it, like a man who no longer fought for validation but moved forward in spite of it, told her everything.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of earth and firewood. The outline of the old mills rose ahead, tall and quiet like ghosts. Liora tightened her grip on the hidden dagger beneath her cloak.

Lucien glanced at her. "Stay close. Wren may run, but others might not."

She nodded.

And together, under the watchful eye of the moon, they stepped into danger not as prince and concubine, but as two people with a shared silence, walking the edge of a story that was only beginning to unfold

The ground near the mills was soft from the recent rains, their boots pressing into the damp earth without sound. The structures stood abandoned, weathered wood and broken shutters leaning into the wind like they carried old secrets. A lone lantern flickered near the base of the westernmost silo, the flame too low to be from any guard.

Lucien raised his hand, motioning for her to wait. He stepped forward, his movement soundless, purposeful. Liora’s eyes scanned the surrounding shadows. Every rustle of wind through grain, every creak of old wood was a warning.

From behind a collapsed grain cart, a figure shifted, slight, hunched, wrapped in rags and nerves.

Lucien spoke first, low and even. "Wren."

The figure froze.

"I’m not here to arrest you," Lucien continued. "You remember what we built. You remember what we lost."

A long pause.

Then: "You should be dead."

The voice was dry, cautious. Young, but broken at the edges.

Lucien stepped closer. "So should you."

Wren stood. He looked no older than twenty, his face smeared with ash, one eye swollen, the other darting between them. His hand clutched a thin dagger, trembling.

Liora stayed where she was, letting the silence stretch. She could see Wren calculating, weighing his chances. But there was a flicker of something else in his gaze when he looked at Lucien, something between fear and loyalty.

"I didn’t betray you," Wren said hoarsely. "They came for us. Said you were the traitor. We scattered. I had nowhere else..."

"I know," Lucien said quietly. "I’m not here for apologies. I’m here for the truth. Tell me what you’ve seen."

Wren glanced toward the silo, then around them, as if expecting ghosts to step from the dark. "It’s worse than you think. They’re not just purging your old supporters; they’re reassigning prisoners. Moving them south. Disappearing them."

"South?" Liora spoke, stepping forward. "To where?"

Wren looked at her, startled. Then back at Lucien. "You brought her?"

"She’s not what you think."

"None of us are anymore," Liora added.

Wren hesitated, then drew out a folded piece of parchment from inside his sleeve. "I copied this from the manifest. It’s encrypted, but I kept the key."

Lucien took it, glancing over the inked marks. His jaw tightened. "This symbol... it’s from the old archives."

"They’re hiding something in the mines beyond Halem Pass," Wren said. "Something they don’t want the kingdom to know about. And they’re using your name to justify the slaughter."

Silence again. Heavy this time.

Liora stepped beside Lucien, close enough for her shoulder to brush his. "We’ll stop them."

Lucien didn’t respond immediately. Then he looked at Wren. "You need to vanish. Head east. Beatrice will know where to find you."

Wren nodded, relief and fear mingling. "You really came back."

Lucien met his gaze. "Not as a prince."

Wren gave a tight smile. "Maybe something better."

And then he was gone, vanishing into the reeds and ruin, leaving the night quieter.

Lucien turned the parchment over in his hands, then looked at Liora.

"We go to Halem Pass," he said.

"Together," she replied, without flinching.

For the first time, the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Brief. Barely there. But it stayed in the silence between them.

Something was changing. Slowly.

Not with words.

But with presence.

Lucien remained behind in Petra’s outpost longer than he had intended. The official inspections were thorough, and his men had discovered a string of strange inconsistencies: missing grain shipments that had been marked as delivered, border scouts rotated too quickly, and the treasury ledgers showing a sudden spike in payments made to a nobleman who had no official rank in Petra.

It all felt like the beginning of something deeper, something concealed.

On the third evening, as dusk painted the outpost walls in pale gold, Lucien stood on the northern watchtower, overlooking the hills. Rowan joined him, handing over a sealed letter.

"From Beatrice," he said. "A coded report. Took the rider two days."

Lucien broke the seal. His eyes scanned the paper, expression sharpening.

"She says there’s been movement near the royal docks. The Valcour family has been sponsoring ships under alternate names, naval vessels disguised as merchant fleets. And there’s rumor that the Duke of Vexley’s daughter is being courted by Alden’s close advisor."

"Another political alliance," Rowan muttered. "He’s stacking the court again."

Lucien folded the letter tightly. "And Liora?"

"She’s still at the estate. No disturbances reported. But Beatrice added... she’s been visiting the village healer twice this week."

Lucien looked away, hiding the flicker of concern in his eyes.

"She’s not ill," Rowan continued, tone thoughtful. "I believe she’s trying to learn healing. She asked Beatrice about medicinal herbs last month, remember?"

Lucien didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the horizon.

"She’s trying to be useful," he said at last. "In a place that discarded her like broken porcelain."

Then, quietly, he added, "I never asked her to."

"But you never stopped her either."

Silence lingered between them.

Rowan eventually broke it. "We should return soon. If Alden is maneuvering the court again, you’ll need to get ahead of him. And Liora, she won’t be safe if she keeps standing alone."

Lucien gave a slight nod. "We ride at first light."

The next morning, the sun barely crested over the hills when Lucien and his men began the journey back.

And far away, back at the quiet estate, Liora stood in the morning mist behind the manor, her hands stained with dried thyme and crushed clover. She watched the road often now but never expectantly, but never without hope either.

Inside the manor, Liora washed her hands slowly, the scent of herbs lingering on her fingers. She had spent the morning helping an old villager with a bruised rib and a stubborn fever. Beatrice had been skeptical at first, stern even, but never forbade her. Instead, the older woman began showing her how to boil roots the right way, how to gauge fever with a glance, and how to listen without letting emotion cloud judgment.

It grounded her. In a place where she was meant to wait quietly, her hands had found a purpose.

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