Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 70: Malloran

Chapter 70: Malloran

The court hall in the capital was quieter than usual.

King Alden sat atop the dark-stone dais, light blue eyes unreadable as his ministers filed in one by one, heads bowed in reverence or fear. The carved wolves at his back cast long shadows in the amber light of the high windows, flickering like old ghosts.

"Let the court session begin," the herald announced.

Duke Malloran, Minister of External Affairs, stepped forward first. His deep green robes brushed the polished floor as he bowed. "Your Majesty. Reports from the eastern border suggest increased movement near Velmora. Small incursions. Tested weaknesses."

"And your recommendation?" Alden’s voice was clipped.

Malloran hesitated only a breath. "Send a message. Not one of peace, but strength. Reinforce the border. Perhaps even summon the southern lords. They have more to lose than us."

Whispers rustled behind him—some approving, others uncertain.

From the left, Lord Darion Vell, Minister of War, cleared his throat. "With all respect, Your Majesty, we cannot stretch thin our capital guard. Not when the nobility is already restless. Some still sing the name Lucien Blackthorne louder than they should."

The name rang in the court like a dropped goblet.

Alden’s jaw tightened, but he did not flinch. "Lucien has been cast aside. The council has agreed on this."

"Still..." Darion continued cautiously. "The common folk speak of him with hope. If Velmora were to approach him—"

A golden cane tapped the floor, echoing sharply. Queen Dowager Lilian rose from her high-backed chair at the side, her gaze calm but cutting.

"Lucien is watched," she said smoothly. "He is in no position to aid any foreign power. But perhaps you’re right, Lord Darion. Perhaps we should revisit where our loyalty truly lies... and whether old blood still stirs in shadows."

The words weren’t just for Darion. They were for all.

Back at Lucien’s estate, far from the polished menace of court, Beatrice watched Rowan return from a nearby village—mud on his boots, a scroll in his hands, face unusually grim.

"You’re late," she greeted.

"I had to wait for the contact to pass through the checkpoint," Rowan replied, eyes scanning the courtyard. "And you won’t like what’s in this."

He unrolled the message. It bore a strange sigil—a Velmoran crest with a snake coiled around a flame.

Beatrice froze. "That’s... not supposed to be on our soil."

"It is now," Rowan muttered. "And it came through a merchant flagged as loyal to the Queen Dowager. That means someone high up is letting it in."

Beatrice cursed under her breath, then glanced back toward the house.

Toward Liora, who had taken to walking in the inner gardens lately. Quiet. Always observing. Always thinking.

And toward Lucien, who had been in his study far too long these days, with maps, correspondences, and ink-stained fingers.

It was no longer just exile.

It was strategy.

War wasn’t knocking yet. But the door had been left ajar.

Lucien’s estate felt colder than usual that morning, though the sky had turned golden with spring.

The fireplace in his study crackled low as he stared at the map Rowan had brought. The crest of Velmora burned faintly into the parchment like a stain refusing to fade.

Rowan stood by the window, arms crossed. "That sigil—it wasn’t just carelessly hidden. It was meant to be seen. Meant to provoke."

Lucien’s jaw clenched as he rolled the parchment tighter. "Or meant to lure."

A knock echoed on the heavy door. Samuel entered quietly, face grim. "The patrol returned. They found strange tracks near the stream past the east fence. Too light for soldiers. Likely scouts."

Lucien set the scroll aside, eyes darkening. "Velmora is testing the edges. Looking for fractures."

Samuel nodded. "And they’ll find plenty—if they know where to look."

Silence stretched between the three men before Rowan finally asked, "Should we send a raven to Alden?"

Lucien gave a humorless smile. "Do you think he’d listen to me? The disgraced brother? The ghost of court?"

"But you’re the only one who knows how Velmora thinks," Rowan muttered.

"I’m also the one who once negotiated with them. Which makes me look like a liability." Lucien rubbed his temple, then stood. "Let the king do what he must. We’ll handle this our way."

Down the hall, Beatrice stood near the servants’ corridor, watching Liora quietly take notes from an old herbal book. Her sleeves were rolled, hair slightly unkempt, skin still healing beneath cotton salve. She moved gently, with surprising grace.

A girl who should have crumbled by now.

Beatrice’s lips tightened.

"You’re wasting time, girl," she said, walking in without invitation.

Liora didn’t look up. "And yet here you are. Watching me."

Beatrice ignored the barb. "You think just because Lucien hasn’t thrown you out, you’re worth something?"

"I don’t think that," Liora replied softly. "But I will be."

Something in Beatrice stilled.

That look in the girl’s eyes—quiet, but not naïve. Determined. And it unsettled her more than she liked.

Back in the study, Samuel leaned in. "We might have a way to sniff out who in the court is letting these Velmoran agents slip through."

Lucien raised a brow. "Speak."

"There’s an upper councilor with a cousin on the trade routes. Goes by the name Minister Calder. He’s discreet. But he’s been moving cargo without inspection. Word is... some of it was bound for Valemire."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

"Get me everything on Calder," he said. "His allies. His routes. His weaknesses."

Rowan hesitated. "And if you find something?"

Lucien’s expression was sharp as steel. "Then Alden won’t be the only one running a court."

Courtiers whispered like restless birds as King Alden entered, robes crisp, expression unreadable.

Behind him, the Queen Consort, Ellora Valcour, walked two steps behind, her posture perfect, her smile politely frozen.

"Summon the court speaker," Alden commanded.

The guards banged the floor with their halberds. A man in dark green robes stepped forward from the side aisle, a thick scroll in hand.

"His Majesty calls this council to order. First matter border concerns. Patrol reports from the east."

A few ministers shifted in their seats. Most looked bored.

Except one.

Minister Calder, seated two rows from the throne, blinked slowly. He cleared his throat and stood.

"Your Majesty, the eastern patrols are overreacting. Bandits, perhaps. Nothing more."

"And if it’s not bandits?" Alden’s voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Calder offered a gracious smile. "I would stake my life on it, sire."

"Would you?" Alden tilted his head. "Good. Then you won’t mind if I send another inspection. A silent one."

Calder stiffened but bowed. "Of course not, Your Majesty."

From her throne, Ellora watched the exchange with veiled interest. Her gaze flicked toward Lord Harrow, her cousin by marriage, who gave her a subtle nod.

She understood. Calder was nervous. That meant someone had tugged a string.

Far from the palace, Lucien leaned over a map spread across his desk, Samuel pinning its corners with two carved stones.

"Calder will start covering his tracks now," Samuel muttered.

Lucien nodded. "Exactly. That’s when we’ll strike. Spooked rats show you their holes."

Rowan strode in, his voice low. "One of our men near the trade outpost intercepted a letter this morning. Smuggled through wine casks."

Lucien held out his hand, and Rowan placed the note there.

The seal had been sliced open. The wax was foreign—black with a golden crescent. Velmoran.

Lucien read silently.

His jaw tensed.

"They’re pushing for more," he said at last. "And Calder’s giving them access through the river docks. The council doesn’t even regulate them it thinks them too insignificant."

Samuel exhaled. "And Alden still won’t act until someone bleeds."

Lucien folded the note. "Then we’ll make sure the blood isn’t ours."

Meanwhile, in the corridor outside the estate’s records room, Beatrice stood with her hands clasped, listening as Liora reported quietly to Rowan.

"She’s changed," Rowan said later when the girl left. "She’s paying attention to detail, learning names of guards, and tracking supply dates."

Beatrice looked out the window at Liora disappearing toward the garden.

"She’s more than I thought," she admitted grudgingly.

Rowan glanced sideways. "Have you told her that yet?"

Beatrice snorted. "No. And I won’t."

But somewhere inside, a part of her wondered...Maybe Lilian had underestimated this girl.And maybe so had she.

We need facts, not whispers," Alden said, his voice low but steel-threaded.

Lord Veln, one of the older ministers, coughed. "Sire, if I may, there’s word that Velmora has tripled its forces near their southern garrisons. If we don’t move—"

"They’ll smell fear," Alden cut in. "I will not provoke them before we know who within our walls might be feeding them."

His gaze landed unintentionally or not on Minister Calder.

Calder remained unflinching, though his fingers tapped lightly against his robes.

"Perhaps it’s time we audit the River Trade Council," Alden added, looking toward the steward scribes. "Discreetly."

Calder bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."

But his eyes were already calculating. Behind that composure, he knew: Lucien had moved first.