Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 142: She’s not going

Chapter 142: She’s not going

Roysten chuckled, soft but sharp. "Surely the prince misunderstood. Those men were scouts sent to inspect the integrity of the southern watchtower...nothing more."

"And yet they carried Bruneil coin," Lucien responded, tossing a pouch forward. It landed with a dull clink.

The murmurs grew louder now.

Alden raised a hand. "What proof do you bring of this connection?"

Lucien stepped forward, retrieving the report Liora had handed him. "This report outlines a plague that swept through southern villages two seasons ago targeted and timed. It wasn’t an accident. It was a soft invasion."

Roysten stiffened but retained his smug smile. "Fever is not treason, my prince."

"No," Lucien said coldly, "but hiding it is."

Another figure entered just then, Samuel, his clothes dusty, his face lined from riding hard.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "We have detained two men on the outskirts of Petra carrying letters stamped with Bruneil’s seal. One mentions the need to ’clear Lucien’s influence at court.’"

A hush fell. Even Alden looked taken aback.

Roysten no longer smiled.

Lucien stepped forward. "There are more layers to this. But I suggest we begin by securing the Petra line properly. I offer my service."

Alden looked between the gathered nobles, then leaned toward one of his closest advisors.

After a pause, he spoke aloud. "Let it be known...the Petra line shall fall under Prince Lucien’s authority once more. And any interference will be deemed treason."

Roysten’s knuckles whitened on his cane.

Lucien bowed slightly, eyes cold and calculating. The court had tipped just slightly...in his favor. But the war was far from over.

And somewhere in the back corridors of the palace, news was already spreading. Liora would know soon. And others who were watching, Beatrice, Layla, maybe even the queen dowager, would realize Lucien wasn’t retreating anymore.

He was reclaiming what was his.

Liora stood near the window of her chamber, the late morning light painting soft golden strokes across the floor. She held the folded parchment in her hand, the royal seal now broken. Rowan had personally brought it just moments ago, his expression unreadable. Her heart thudded dully in her chest as she reread the short message.

"The Petra line is under my command now. Matters are shifting. Stay alert. —L"

She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning or a gesture of inclusion. Perhaps both. Either way, it meant Lucien had made his move. And that meant danger would soon follow.

Beatrice stepped into the room without knocking, her steps sharp and her eyes scanning Liora. "You’ve heard, I assume."

Liora nodded slowly, slipping the note into the folds of her sleeve. "I have."

"Then listen carefully." Beatrice’s tone held less condescension than usual. More urgency. "Prince Lucien has stirred a nest of snakes. They’ll strike. That court is crawling with men who’d see him fall and now that he’s been granted command again, they’ll come for him more viciously than ever."

"Why tell me?" Liora asked, keeping her voice calm. "You don’t even trust me."

Beatrice hesitated. "I trust someone who knows when to keep their head down and you’ve proven useful. You’re not a fool, even if you’re naive." She sighed, folding her arms. "Also... I owe him."

Liora tilted her head. "You mean Prince Lucien?"

Beatrice looked away, her jaw tight. "Just don’t act without thinking. And if he sends for you, go. Quickly."

Before Liora could ask more, Beatrice turned and left.

Meanwhile, back in the estate’s northern wing, Lucien was pacing his private study. Rowan stood silently by the table, watching his master’s mood shift like a brewing storm. The court had played out in Lucien’s favor, yes, but favor was a fragile thing.

"The envoy will report back to Bruneil soon," Lucien muttered. "We’ve cut Roysten’s legs but not severed the head."

Rowan nodded. "We may have bought time, but not peace."

A knock came on the door.

Samuel entered with a quick bow. "A rider arrived, my lord. From Veylan province. He seeks an audience. He says he’s a physician from the war front, requesting medical assistance.

ance for his people. Mentions Liora by name."

Lucien’s brow twitched. "Interesting."

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence?"

"Not in this house," Lucien replied. "Send him in... But not yet. I want to know who he is. Where he’s from. And why the hell does he know her?"

Samuel nodded and disappeared down the corridor.

Lucien turned to Rowan. "This will get messy."

Rowan smirked faintly. "When has it ever been neat?"

Lucien walked to the window, staring out toward the courtyard.

The game was expanding.

And Liora... she was now a piece others were starting to reach for.

The following morning, the physician arrived.

He was younger than expected, perhaps no older than Lucien himself. Dark curls framed a thoughtful face, skin sun-touched from travel, and an unusual warmth clung to his demeanor even as the guards led him through the cold stone halls of Lucien’s estate. His name was Dr. Evander Routh, bearing a seal of Veylan’s war relief committee and a note penned with the crest of their border governor.

He waited in the drawing room, quietly sipping the tea offered to him. His eyes moved with curiosity, noting the faded tapestries and half-burnt candles and the stack of reports near the hearth, evidence of a man who lived in constant motion.

The door creaked, and Liora entered with slow, cautious steps.

Her hair was loosely tied, and the pale green dress made her look even softer than usual. Her eyes met Evander’s, puzzled and uncertain.

"You asked for me?" she asked, her voice wary.

Evander stood and offered a respectful bow. "Liora Miral," he said, his voice warm, his Veylan accent clear but elegant. "It’s an honor. I was told by the governor of Trevan Hold that you once treated a young girl with a rare blood fever. That girl was my sister."

Liora’s eyes widened. She searched her memory. "That... must have been years ago. I didn’t even know she lived."

"She did. Because of your remedy," Evander said gently. "I’ve come to ask for your help. Our northern camp is on the brink. Supplies are thin, and we’ve no healer trained for such cases."

"But I’m not..." she paused. "I’m not a royal physician. I’m not even trained in your standards."

"Then I must’ve been lied to," Evander replied with a calm smile. "Because every report I’ve read spoke of your steady hand, your instincts, and your healing with barely anything in hand."

Before Liora could respond, Lucien’s voice cut through the air.

"She isn’t going anywhere."

Both turned to see the prince stepping in, coat flaring behind him, eyes locked on Evander with unreadable calculation.

Evander bowed respectfully. "Prince Lucien."

Lucien did not bow in return. His gaze shifted to Liora. "Did you know he was coming?"

She shook her head. "No, I...this is all new to me."

Lucien nodded once, slowly. Then turned to Evander. "You’ll have your supplies. And I’ll send a physician from the capital."

"But she..."

"She belongs here," Lucien said coldly. "My estate is not a transit inn for desperate requests and nostalgic reunions."

Evander stood his ground. "With all due respect, sire, you’re refusing aid that could save lives."

Lucien’s eyes darkened. "With all due respect, you’re requesting someone who owes you nothing."

Silence hung heavy.

Evander looked to Liora again, searching her face. "Then I ask you... as someone who once gave life to a dying girl... will you help us?"

Liora looked between them.

Lucien. Evander.

Past. Present.

And a choice that might pull the threads of fate in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

Liora’s heart thudded inside her chest.

She hadn’t asked for this.

She had only just begun to find her footing here amid the cold halls, the watchful eyes, and Lucien’s stormy moods. And now someone from the past, a past she had buried beneath years of pain, had come to unearth it.

"I..." she began, but stopped when she saw Lucien’s gaze sharpen.

His eyes were unreadable, but his posture screamed command. He hadn’t moved, yet the air around him pressed down like a storm ready to break. "Liora, step out," he said quietly.

"But..." Evander began.

"She will not be part of your cause." Lucien’s voice dropped further, darker. "Not without knowing what that cause costs."

Liora looked at Lucien. "Just... give me a moment," she said, almost pleading.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. Liora turned and walked out into the corridor, her footsteps echoing softly behind her. She needed air. Clarity.

Lucien turned his full attention to Evander.

"You come here with your kind words and your seals, but you should know, she is not some flower you can pluck and place where you please. She has survived enough."

Evander’s calm didn’t waver. "And yet she still blooms. Doesn’t that tell you she’s meant for more than just this cage you’ve built around her?"

Lucien’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "You speak like you know her."

"I know what it’s like to ask for help," Evander said, "and I know what it means to be refused because of power, not merit."

There was a long silence between them.

Then Lucien walked closer. "She’s not going," he said, voice low. "But not because I’m afraid of her leaving. It’s because I still don’t trust where the roots of her story begin. Not yet."

Evander studied the prince. "Then don’t trust me. Trust her."

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