Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 79: When he’s buried?

Chapter 79: When he’s buried?

Rain misted over the ruins by the time Lucien and the others circled back to the clearing. The fire had been relit, yet none of them had touched it.

Rowan knelt beside it. "Still no footsteps... this isn’t natural."

Lucien’s jaw was set tight. "No tricks. Someone wants us to believe we’re being watched."

But it wasn’t just a feeling anymore.

Liora turned abruptly, her breath catching. For just a moment, in the cracked mirror of a fallen relic—she had seen herself. But it wasn’t her. The same hair. The same eyes. But darker. Older. Wearing a crooked smile she’d never made in her life.

She didn’t tell the others.

Instead, she asked, "Lucien... what if someone is trying to take my place?"

He looked at her with unguarded stillness. "Then we’ll find out who...and why."

In the Capital A Secret Chamber in the Eastern Wing

Beatrice stood alone, her gloved hands trembling ever so slightly as she lit a second candle on the table. Across from her, a folded letter lay open, penned in the Queen Dowager’s own script.

"Keep your ears to the ground, darling. If Liora Miral dares to climb above her station, I want her clipped before she learns how to fly. That girl is not what she seems."

Beatrice crumpled the edge of the letter, then stopped herself. She couldn’t afford to look shaken.

There were whispers in the estate. Servants spoke of Liora rising too swiftly in Lucien’s favor. That the prince..though shamed...had begun to act with authority again.

That wasn’t part of Lilian’s plan.

Still... Beatrice’s own doubts had grown. Lucien was more than the shell they’d warned her about. And Liora, wasted or not, was nothing like the vapid noble girls Beatrice had learned to bend.

She reached for the wax seal and pressed a message of her own.

If Liora was to be clipped, Beatrice would be the hand—but she needed to understand the blade first.

In Court where Lord Harren’s Game Begins

The court was full when Alden entered, not with people, but tension. Like strings drawn taut across bows, waiting to break.

Lord Harren stood among a quiet group of his southern allies, his fine green cloak glinting with silver embroidery. Too fine for the occasion.

"Your Majesty," Harren bowed deeply. "I’ve brought a concern from the borderlands."

"Speak, Lord Harren."

"Bandits," he began, "and unrest. A dozen villages claim they’ve been robbed by unknown forces. Unmarked men, carrying weapons not forged in Valedorn."

Alden narrowed his gaze. "And what would you propose?"

"A private force," Harren said smoothly. "Loyal men, trained and funded by my estate. They’ll move faster than the crown guard."

Veyra, beside the throne, stiffened.

Alden leaned back. "And should those men march into the capital?"

"They’d never," Harren replied with a thin smile. "Unless, of course, they were needed."

The king gave no expression. "Very well. But I expect full transparency. Your men will report to General Merin directly."

"And if they do not?"

"Then they’ll answer to me," Alden said, his voice low and unmistakably final.

Back at Iscath

As night fell, Samuel uncovered what looked like a sealed stone door beneath the moss. Faded runes stretched across it.

Liora ran her fingers over the inscription. "It’s not a grave. It’s a vault."

Lucien drew his blade. "Then let’s open it."

And from the forest, a pale figure watched them through the trees, waiting.

The stone door groaned as Samuel and Rowan pushed against it, the ancient hinges surrendering with a reluctant shriek.

A gust of stale air spilled into the forest clearing, thick with the scent of old dust, damp stone, and something else—something metallic, like dried blood.

Liora stepped forward first, torch in hand. The chamber beyond wasn’t large, but it was deliberate. A round room, carved with symbols none of them could read.

A raised stone altar stood at the center, and on it—wrapped in rotting silk—lay a bundle the size of a child.

Lucien’s hand went to his sword again, instinctively. "Stay behind me."

But Liora didn’t. She stepped to the altar and slowly peeled back the silk.

Inside were scrolls, neatly bound and sealed in wax bearing the crest of the Valedorn royal house. One had been broken already. Its parchment, though old, was still legible.

"To the rightful heir, should all else fall to ruin..."

Rowan looked over Liora’s shoulder. "This isn’t a tomb. This is a message."

Lucien’s brow furrowed. "Why bury it here?"

Samuel exhaled slowly. "Because it wasn’t meant to be found until now."

At Court , The Game Unfolds Further

Alden sat in silence after the court was dismissed, his fingers steepled as Veyra stood beside him, reading the list of newly appointed southern officers Lord Harren had recommended.

"You see what he’s doing, don’t you?" she said.

"Of course," Alden murmured. "He’s building his own army under the guise of protection."

"And you’re allowing it?"

"For now," Alden replied. "Let him dig the hole deeper."

Veyra arched a brow. "And when he’s buried?"

"I’ll make sure he’s not alone."

At that moment, a knock came at the private chamber door. A scribe entered quietly, placing a sealed document before the king.

"It arrived from the northern pass, Your Majesty."

Alden broke the seal, his eyes flicking over the report.

"...Two border towns have fallen silent. One burned. No survivors."

Veyra’s lips thinned. "That’s not bandits."

"No," Alden said. "That’s a warning."

Elsewhere , Beatrice Moves

In her estate chamber, Beatrice received her own letter, this one not from the Queen Dowager.

It was unsigned. Sealed with crimson wax and no insignia.

Inside, one line:

"Your loyalty is noticed. So is your hesitation."

Beatrice stared at it for a long time. Then, with steady hands, she turned it to the fire and watched it burn.

At Iscath , the Secrets Begin to Stir

Rowan finished reading the second scroll aloud.

It spoke of a secret heir. A line split from the main family, hidden during the old rebellion generations ago. And a tapestry that once served as a key.

Lucien’s voice was tight. "My family buried more than one secret."

"And someone," Liora whispered, "is digging them up now."

Outside the vault, the pale figure moved closer, no longer watching.

Waiting.

The council chamber was dim when Alden returned late that evening. Only Veyra remained, standing by the window with her arms crossed and the map of the northern borders unfurled across the long oak table.

"They’ve gone quiet on purpose," she said without turning.

Alden approached, his gaze scanning the flickering candlelight on the map. "I know. It’s not the silence that worries me."

Veyra nodded. "It’s the timing."

Exactly when Lucien had started to stir from disgrace. Exactly when nobles began shifting allegiance without fully declaring it. And exactly when murmurs of an old bloodline had resurfaced—one that could challenge the existing claim.

"They want instability," Alden murmured.

"They’re creating it," Veyra corrected. "From the north... but someone from within is feeding them our cracks."

She tapped a name on the map: Lord Cedric Vane, Minister of Coastal Trade.

"He’s been requesting permission to reopen sea channels near the abandoned watch fort. It would give smugglers and messengers a direct path to the north if he’s bought."

Alden’s fingers curled into a fist. "Then we bring him in. Quietly. Before he realizes we suspect him."

The trio camped outside the vault for the night, torches flickering low, wind howling faintly from the gorge below.

Liora sat apart, the scrolls cradled in her lap. She hadn’t spoken since the revelation of the hidden bloodline—one tied to Valedorn, one that could unravel everything.

Rowan crouched nearby, poking at the fire. "You’ve read the rest?"

She nodded. "There’s a third heir. One they didn’t name. It says the key to the bloodline isn’t in a name... but in a scar."

Lucien turned his head from the shadows. "What kind of scar?"

"It’s vague. Symbolic, maybe. Or literal. I don’t know. But it says the mark would appear when the tapestry is returned to its ’true root.’"

Samuel narrowed his eyes. "Then whoever wants to rule without resistance... needs to find that heir before anyone else does."

Lucien’s jaw tensed. "Then we make sure we find them first."

But none of them noticed the figure watching from the ridge above—the same shadow that had followed them from the tavern near Westmarch.

This time, the figure whispered softly into a device wrapped in black iron:

"They’ve found the scrolls. We move at dawn."

The next morning, Alden’s private audience was interrupted by the arrival of a cloaked envoy. His papers bore the seal of the southern province of Deranth, far from the capital’s games.

"My lord has received word of northern riders passing through our hills," the envoy said. "Not merchants. Trained men, armed and fast."

Alden leaned forward. "How many?"

"A dozen. But they don’t move like a scouting party. They move like wolves—spreading, circling. Preparing."

Veyra looked to Alden. "Someone’s testing our reach. Probing for weakness."

"And they’ll find it," Alden muttered, "if we don’t tighten the reins."

He turned to the envoy. "Tell your lord to ready the Deranth riders. Quietly. No banners."

"And the people, Your Majesty?"

Alden looked toward the throne.

"Tell them nothing."