Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 122: The Eastern Script

Chapter 122: The Eastern Script

Lucien didn’t sleep that night.

The candle burned low, flickering shadows across the letter he had now read a dozen times. The Eastern script was delicately curved and coded, it wasn’t something common in the Western court. Few could write it. Even fewer could dare send such a message through his borders.

And it wasn’t only about Liora. Her name wasn’t mentioned. But the description mentioned "the girl with ash-brown eyes and the healer’s mark, sheltered beneath a fallen star," which was unmistakable.

"What do they want with her?" Lucien murmured, voice low, teeth clenched.

Rowan stood nearby, arms crossed. "If she is who they say she is... there’s more to her than even she knows."

Lucien rose, pacing slowly. "No. We’re not going to treat her like a prophecy or a pawn. She’s not some tool to be passed between courts."

Rowan didn’t argue. "So what will you do?"

Lucien looked up, expression hardened. "Keep this between us. And keep her close."

Meanwhile, Liora wandered the herb gardens in the early light, gathering yarrow and comfrey. Her mind was adrift. Every time Rian smiled, it felt hollow. Every time Lucien’s gaze lingered, it felt heavier than before. She couldn’t decipher him, nor herself.

Rian found her near the stone path. "You’re up early again."

"I always am," she replied without looking at him.

"I owe you much for your care," he said, stepping closer. "And yet, I know so little about you."

"That’s by design," she answered, offering a faint smile.

He chuckled. "At least let me thank you. A walk by the stream this evening?"

Before she could respond, a quiet voice interrupted.

"She’s occupied."

Lucien stood a few paces behind, eyes cool, expression unreadable.

Liora blinked. "I was just gathering..."

"With work to do," he finished for her. "Rian, I believe the stables are short on hands."

It was not a suggestion.

Rian hesitated, then offered a shallow bow. "Of course, Lord Blackthorne."

Once he was gone, Liora turned to Lucien. "That was unnecessary."

He didn’t respond at first, just studied her. "You should be more careful about whom you entertain."

"I wasn’t entertaining him."

"But he thinks you are."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "And if he does?"

Lucien’s eyes darkened, but his voice remained low. "Then he may overstep. And I will not tolerate that."

Liora’s heart beat faster, not with fear, but with something more tangled confusion, frustration, something unnamed.

"You don’t own me," she whispered.

"No," Lucien said. "But I protect what’s mine."

She turned away, unsure whether that declaration was comforting or dangerous.

And behind them both, from the shadows near the hedge wall, a cloaked figure slipped silently away carrying news eastward, across the border.

In the eastern borderlands, past the valleys cloaked in morning mist and beyond the narrow river of Iren, a courier knelt before a silk-draped dais.

"My lord," the man whispered, forehead touching stone. "The girl lives. She resides under the Blackthorne crest."

A soft rustle, the sound of robes shifting. The man seated on the dais leaned forward. His eyes, dark and gleaming, revealed neither joy nor surprise, only cold calculation.

"She walks under a cursed name," the man murmured, his voice like still water. "And yet still breathes."

"She is watched, but not guarded."

The lord turned to a second figure standing near the incense burner, a woman clad in sapphire, her face veiled.

"Activate the second envoy," he said.

The woman inclined her head. "Shall I use the seal?"

"Yes. Let the Western court see it. Let them remember the pact they broke."

As the firelight flickered, the shadow of an old banner unfurled behind him, two serpents entwined around a broken crown.

War, if it came, would not knock first.

Back in Lucien’s estate, the air had shifted.

Ever since the garden, Liora felt the weight of Lucien’s presence. He didn’t follow her, but she caught his gaze when he thought she wouldn’t notice. His words were fewer. His glances, far more loaded.

Rian kept his distance, sensing the chill that now hung around her.

Even Beatrice noticed. She caught Liora at the infirmary, folding bandages.

"You’ve stirred a fire, girl," Beatrice muttered, not unkindly. "And I’m not talking about the hearth."

Liora gave a tight smile. "He thinks I’m a vase to guard."

"No. He thinks you’re breakable," Beatrice said plainly. "And men fear what they cannot replace."

Before Liora could reply, the door to the infirmary opened.

A guard entered, eyes flicking between them. "My lady. Lord Lucien requests your presence. Immediately."

Beatrice narrowed her eyes, but Liora stood. "I’ll come."

The hall was quiet when she arrived. Lucien stood at the window, his arms crossed behind his back. On the table lay an open letter. The seal wasn’t from their kingdom.

He turned as she entered, eyes weary. "Do you know anyone from the east?"

She blinked. "No. Why?"

He handed her the letter.

She read the strange characters slowly haltingly, and unfamiliar. But at the end, three words were written in Western script:

"Daughter of Embers."

Liora looked up. "What is this?"

"That," Lucien said, voice low, "is the second message. They know you. They’re watching. And they believe you are someone you’re not."

"Or someone I used to be," she murmured, shaken.

Lucien stepped closer, his gaze unflinching. "Whatever your past is, it’s no longer just yours. They’re trying to pull you into something. And if they touch you..."

He stopped himself.

She raised her chin. "What? You’ll burn the world?"

He didn’t blink. "If I must."

Silence stretched between them, heavy, almost unbearable. Neither moved.

But in the quiet, something shifted. A beginning. A thread pulling tighter.

Neither of them spoke it aloud.

But both felt it.

Queen Dowager Lilian sat beneath the towering canopy of her private solar, her fingers slowly twisting a sapphire ring, a token once given to her by the former king. Her eyes skimmed the parchment before her. The seal had already been broken by her attendants, but it didn’t matter. She knew who it was from. And she knew what it meant.

A foreign sigil. An old name. "Daughter of Embers."

A name whispered in certain circles only by those who remembered the war that had nearly torn the western borders apart two decades ago.

"She’s alive," she murmured, almost to herself. "The girl survived."

Across from her, Lord Alric, High Minister of Intelligence, it didn’t bother to feign surprise. "It appears they waited long to send word."

"Or perhaps," Lilian said coolly, "they waited until she was useful."

He gave a small nod. "Lucien has her now."

"And she is the key," Lilian added. "To what? We’ll soon find out. But the East never makes moves without intent."

Alric paused, then added, "Shall I have our agents watch the Petra borders?"

"No," Lilian said, rising. "We will not chase ghosts. Let them come. If they dare touch our land, they will find what fire truly means."

She turned toward the window, her voice low.

"And the girl... she will soon have to choose. Blood or loyalty. Past or present."

Back at the estate, Lucien paced the corridor outside his war room. Rowan leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.

"She’s rattled," Rowan said bluntly.

"She should be," Lucien replied. "Someone’s sending her messages in the tongue of a nation that no longer exists. She’s not who we thought she was."

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "She’s still the girl you pulled out of a burning trap two months ago."

"She’s not just that anymore."

"No," Rowan admitted. "But maybe that’s not a bad thing."

Lucien stopped pacing. "You’re far too calm."

"I’m calm because I know you," Rowan said. "And you’re not angry. You’re afraid."

Lucien shot him a sharp glance, but Rowan pushed off the wall, unfazed.

"She’s becoming important. Not just in your court," he added, voice quieter, "but in your mind. That’s what terrifies you."

Lucien said nothing.

Instead, he turned, opening the door to the war room.

"Have Samuel gather everything we know on the Eastern tribes," he ordered. "And send word to Petra. I want guards increased. No one moves without me knowing."

"And the girl?"

Lucien didn’t hesitate. "She stays close."

Later that night, Liora sat near the fire, staring into the embers as though they might speak answers. The name on that letter didn’t belong to her, yet it did. Some part of her past that was buried, erased, or stolen, it was beginning to claw back into the light.

A knock broke the silence.

Lucien stepped in.

His eyes flicked to the fire. "You’ve been quiet all day."

Liora didn’t rise. "What would you have me say?"

He considered her, then walked closer, kneeling beside the fire with her.

"Whatever you wish."

She turned her head, eyes locked on his. "Would it matter?"

He didn’t blink. "Yes."

And for a moment, the flames between them flickered, not from wind, but from something unsaid. Something not yet real, but slowly forming.

A possibility.

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