Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 84: A spy’s testimony

Chapter 84: A spy’s testimony

Marin moved like a shadow through the manor halls of Lord Verden, her hands expertly gripping a tray of cooled tea to pass as a lowborn kitchen girl. The outer rooms were quiet, too quiet. No stewards barking orders. No noble voices echoing through the wooden corridors.

She turned the corner.

Ahead, two guards leaned against a doorway, laughing over dice. Marin bent her head, brushing by with the ease of someone often ignored. Servants were invisible, after all.

In her apron pocket, the stolen copy of Verden’s trade dealings burned like a hot coal. She had only a short window before his seal was rotated. Rowan had taught her well, "The seal is everything. Words mean little without the mark."

The door to the lord’s personal study was ajar. She slipped in.

It was a room of arrogance. Velvet drapes. Oil portraits. A globe crusted in gold pins marking ports and battlefields. And at the center, his desk. Heavy oak. Locked.

Marin knelt, pulled out her small blade, and popped the false bottom drawer.

Inside: scrolls, wax, a signet ring.

She worked quickly, copying the shape onto dampened wax, rolling it tight, and sliding it into her bodice. The moment she rose to her feet, a sound stopped her cold.

Footsteps. Close.

Marin looked around and saw the tall bookshelf to her left and the narrow crawlspace behind the drapery.

She had seconds. She chose the curtains. The door creaked open. Lord Verden entered. She didn’t dare breathe.

"Fetch me the scrolls from the trade ledger," Verden barked at someone outside. "If Lucien thinks he can throw old parchment at the king, he’ll learn how deep my roots grow."

Marin’s eyes narrowed. So it was true. Verden had ties to the foreign merchants. And Lucien’s accusation hadn’t even scratched the surface.

"I want a message sent to Minister Salven tonight. Tell him to keep Alden distracted with Blackthorne’s case. I’ll handle the girl."

The girl? Marin thought. Liora?

She pressed further into the wall, heart pounding.

Verden’s voice grew fainter. He walked away. Soon, the study was empty again.

Marin didn’t wait. She slipped out and made for the servant’s exit.

Meanwhile, in the king’s private chambers, Alden stood at the window, the scroll still clutched in his hand.

Queen Dowager Lilian arrived quietly behind him.

"You believe Lucien?" she asked.

"I believe Verden has been growing too bold," Alden replied.

Lilian watched him. "Then now is the time to choose, Alden. Either you continue to toy with wolves at your table, or you clean house."

Alden turned slowly. "And risk civil unrest?"

Lilian smiled thinly. "Sometimes, my dear king, unrest is the only way to birth something new."

At the estate, Liora stirred in her chambers, unaware of the fire gathering beneath the throne or the name whispered in Verden’s plots.

Her name.

The moonlight spilled cold and sharp across the courtyard of Lucien’s estate. Within the shadows of the rear wing, Rowan Vale stood beside the well, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Marin arrived, breathless and muddied, the hem of her servant’s skirt torn from her escape through the city alleys.

"You got it?" Rowan asked.

She nodded and handed him the tightly rolled wax impression.

Rowan turned it in his hand, the seal unmistakable, Lord Verden’s sigil, complete with merchant trade markers and encoded references.

"This," he murmured, "is enough to crush three ministers."

"But not him?" Marin asked quietly.

Rowan didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the estate. Toward the rooms where Liora now slept and where Lucien had spent the past hour in silence pacing, planning, and brooding.

"No," Rowan finally said. "Verden is too careful. This will get us a warrant, maybe a public inquest. But to drag him to the pyre? We need a witness. Someone inside his circle."

Marin’s eyes narrowed. "You’re thinking of Salven, aren’t you?"

Rowan gave a dry chuckle. "I’m thinking Salven has many debts, and Lucien is about to start collecting."

The next morning, the court convened again, though not in the grand chamber.

This session was private. Quiet. Limited to a few key lords and ministers. Alden had called it without fanfare. Lilian had advised it behind closed doors.

Lucien arrived late.

He was not announced.

Instead, he stepped into the council circle in silence, dressed in black, his ringless hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

Salven, seated to Alden’s right, flinched.

"You summoned me," Lucien said simply.

Alden gestured for him to speak.

Lucien pulled out the copy of Verden’s trade contracts, unfolded it slowly, and placed it before the king.

"Merchant routes from the northern ports. Smuggling paths through the valley. And if you look closely," he said, tapping a red mark near the bottom, "you’ll find proof of correspondence between Verden’s house and the foreign traders currently amassing near our southern border."

Whispers rippled through the room.

One of the older lords, Marwen, frowned. "You’re claiming he’s aiding the..."

"I’m saying," Lucien cut in, "he’s planning something. Whether it’s war or treason, I don’t care. But it involves money, secrecy, and a seat far too close to your throne."

Alden leaned forward. "Do you have proof of correspondence?"

Rowan stepped forward from the shadows near the column.

"We have the seal," he said. "And a spy’s testimony, if you’re willing to hear it under closed terms."

Salven paled.

Lucien met his eyes.

"I suggest you choose where your loyalty lies, Minister. Because if Verden is brought down, he won’t go alone."

Back in the estate, Beatrice watched Liora from the window, her lips pressed thin.

She still thought the girl was useless. A pretty distraction, unwanted by her family, dumped at Lucien’s side.

But even Beatrice couldn’t deny that somehow, the tides were shifting. Servants whispered more of the lady’s name. Rowan passed her guarded looks. And Lucien, well, Lucien’s anger had grown quiet.

Too quiet.

Beatrice turned away, troubled.

"Sooner or later," she muttered, "someone’s going to bleed for that girl."

Liora sat before her writing desk, the morning sunlight creeping across the parchment she had yet to touch.

She could still feel the weight of last night’s silence. Lucien hadn’t returned until the early hours, Rowan trailing him like a shadow. He hadn’t spoken a word to her.

But it wasn’t distance. No it was something else.

Something had changed.

The door creaked open. Beatrice entered without asking, her expression unreadable, though Liora didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked to the ink, the untouched paper.

"A message from the palace," Beatrice said, holding out a sealed envelope.

Liora took it and broke the wax. Her brow furrowed as she read.

"You are summoned to attend the Court Ladies’ Mid-Season Council tomorrow. Bring none but yourself. Lady Maelis, for Queen Ellora."

It was unexpected.

It was a trap.

And it was perfect.

Later that evening, Lucien stood in his private chamber with Rowan and Samuel, both bearing the same look of restrained urgency.

"We got word from Marin," Samuel said. "One of Verden’s men is headed north. Not discreet. Armed escort. Heavy coin."

"Buying silence?" Lucien asked.

"Or war," Rowan added.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "Have her followed. But not too close."

Rowan hesitated, then added, "There’s something else. Liora received a summons. Palace court. From Queen Ellora’s circle."

Lucien looked up sharply.

"She’s not going."

"She intends to."

He exhaled. "Of course she does."

That night, Liora prepared in silence, but her reflection in the mirror was anything but demure. She wore a deep wine-colored gown, the fabric simple but bold — a message in itself.

"You do realize this is dangerous?" Beatrice asked from behind, her voice flatter than usual.

"I do."

"And you still wish to attend?"

"I’m not here to be tucked away," Liora said. "If someone’s setting snares, it’s time I stopped stepping around them."

Beatrice almost smiled.

Almost.

The following day, the palace gardens were unusually quiet.

Liora was escorted not to the main reception hall but to a side pavilion near the rose court. Ten women were already present, dressed in silk and veiled judgment. Lady Maelis, sister to Queen Ellora, sat in the center.

"Lady Miral," Maelis greeted coolly. "You grace us."

Liora bowed.

"Please," Maelis gestured to an open seat, surrounded by noblewomen who barely veiled their disdain. "We were just discussing the increased northern tariffs. I’m sure your...recent residence has given you a unique perspective on border economics."

Liora met her eyes evenly.

"If by ’residence,’ you mean Lucien’s estate, then yes. I’ve learned a lot. Mostly about which ministers trade information for coin."

Silence followed.

Sharp, bristling silence.

Then a slow, lilting voice from the side: Lady Elline, a known ally of Minister Verden, spoke, "It seems our newest addition is quick to bite. Does your husband approve of this attitude, Lady Liora?"

Liora’s smile was ice.

"Lucien taught me that vipers bite harder when cornered."

A few heads turned. A few smirked.

But Maelis was watching closely.

And beneath the table, one of the veiled ladies slipped a folded paper into Liora’s hand.

When Liora opened it later, in the privacy of her returning carriage, her breath caught.

"Meet me at dusk. East wall. Come alone."

No name.

Just a symbol: the mark of the Northern Rebellion.

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