Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma -
Chapter 86: My loyalty
Chapter 86: My loyalty
Lucien waited until the corridor emptied before securing the chamber door. Only Liora remained inside with him, her fingers tense as she placed the scroll on the table between them. It bore no title, no markings beyond Lilian’s crimson wax seal—partially cracked, likely from Beatrice’s trembling hands.
"Do you trust her?" Lucien asked quietly.
"No," Liora answered. "But I believe her fear was real."
He nodded once, then broke the seal cleanly.
The parchment inside was worn; the ink was faded but legible. Liora leaned close as Lucien unrolled the scroll further. What they read made the candlelight flicker as if reacting to the truth.
To Beatrice, from House Valcour’s hidden hand,
You are instructed to isolate the girl. Feed her only what makes her dependent. Her mind must dull before her womb is opened for the prince’s gain. If the prince resists, break the girl’s will.
In the South, unrest grows. Let Lucien believe it is court politics. But if he uncovers the letters sent through Chancellor Oran, eliminate the girl.
No more delays. Queen Dowager’s patience thins.
Liora stared, lips parting in silent disbelief. "They want to use me as... insurance. To control Lucien."
Lucien’s jaw clenched. "No. They underestimate you. As they always do the quiet ones."
The name....Chancellor Oran...rang heavy in his thoughts. One of Alden’s most trusted men. How deep did this rot go?
Liora touched the edge of the scroll. "We use this."
He looked at her.
"We use it as bait," she said. "Let them think we don’t know. Then drag them down one by one."
Meanwhile, far from the estate, in a manor bordering the marshes of Rivelle province, a nobleman knelt before a cloaked figure.
"The Queen Dowager grows reckless," he whispered. "She underestimates the prince."
The figure removed her hood. A woman with bronze skin and cruel, calculating eyes. "That’s precisely when mistakes are made. Send word to the Eastern Watch. Tell them to prepare."
"To march?" The nobleman asked, stunned.
"No," she smiled. "To arrive at the capital bearing gifts. Let us remind them that alliances are not always born within the court."
Back in the palace, Alden stood before the window of his study, watching storm clouds bleed across the sky. Chancellor Oran stood at his side, hands clasped behind him.
"There are rumors, Chancellor," Alden said. "That you corresponded with Valcour lands...unauthorized."
Oran didn’t flinch. "And there are rumors Your Majesty keeps a brother in his favor who should be buried instead."
Silence laced with threat.
"I will find the truth," Alden said finally.
Oran bowed slightly. "Then I pray you search in the right direction."
Outside, thunder cracked. Inside, war brewed in whispers.
It arrived by raven, black-feathered, blood-eyed, with a sealed scroll tied in silver ribbon.
Lucien held the letter cautiously. It bore no crest, no name, only a wax seal pressed with an emblem he hadn’t seen in years: the twin daggers of the House of Syrell, a noble line thought extinct after the Rebellion of Iron Vale two decades ago.
Liora watched from her seat across the room. "You recognize it."
"I do." Lucien’s voice was clipped, eyes scanning the folds of the seal. "This family was loyal to my mother. But they vanished after the purge. Burned alive or so we were told."
He broke the seal.
To the forgotten prince and his silent bride,
There are truths that neither court nor king dare acknowledge. If you wish to uncover the rot beneath the crown, come to the Masquerade of Crows, held beneath the ruined chapel of Alenvare on the eve of the moon’s turn.
No guards. No titles. Only masks.
Wear the red crow’s feather. You’ll be seen.
Lucien folded the letter. "It’s a trap."
Liora didn’t blink. "Then let’s step into it with our eyes open."
He gave her a brief glance, something unreadable flickering there. Not pride. Not affection. Something colder. Sharper. Respect is forged in survival.
Elsewhere, in the capital, Chancellor Oran held an entirely different scroll.
The spy he’d planted at the Blackthorne estate had reported unusual messengers arriving at dawn, and worse, Lucien had sent one back with a black crest. The same crest last worn by the rebels.
"You see now," Oran said to Beatrice, who sat quietly in his chambers, fingers wrapped around a cup of untouched wine. "Your prince does not serve the crown. He serves himself. That girl he hides will unmake everything if we don’t act now."
Beatrice blinked. Once.
"My loyalty," she said softly, "was never to Lucien. But I will not see the house crumble because of half-baked plots."
He laughed. "Then help us sever the girl’s influence. Quietly. We do not need Lucien’s death. Just his silence."
Beatrice stared into her cup, her mind whirring.
She didn’t believe in Liora, not truly. But she no longer believed in Lilian, either.
At the same hour, far beyond the city walls, a foreign envoy stepped through the muddy borders of the kingdom, led by a thin man wrapped in robes of dusky gold.
Behind him came ten riders dressed as merchants but with the bearing of soldiers.
"The king is weak," the man said as they reached the outpost. "His brother divided. The court is feuding".
His second-in-command snorted. "So we simply walk in?"
"No," the envoy replied, eyes sharp. "We knock on the right doors. One of them is already opening."
He held up a signet ring that was worn, iron, and distinctly Valcour.
The ruined chapel of Alenvare was nothing more than a crumbling husk, nestled in the forested edges of the southern border. Once a sanctuary for forbidden rites, it had burned in the purge of the old regime. Now, its broken stones and ivy-veiled altar whispered forgotten oaths under the moonlight.
Liora adjusted her mask black velvet shaped like a bird’s beak, the red crow feather fastened above her temple. Lucien stood beside her in silence, similarly masked. No one spoke as they stepped through the archway into the gloom.
Candles flickered in iron sconces. The air stank of damp stone and secrets. There were others—half a dozen figures in cloaks and veils, none bearing names. Only masks.
A man stepped forward from the shadows. Silver hair. Burned cheek. The same emblem as the letter hung from a chain at his neck.
"You came," he said. "Prince Lucien. And the girl no one dares name."
Liora straightened, her voice calm. "You summoned us."
"Not for treason," the man replied, tone measured. "But to offer truth. Do you think Alden holds the court? He doesn’t. The queen dowager and Chancellor Oran tug at each end of the leash."
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. "This is no revelation."
"Then let us speak of what is." The man’s hand curled into a fist. "The border villages are disappearing. Entire towns gone. And no word reaches court because Oran intercepts the missives."
Liora blinked. "Why?"
"Because someone is selling passage through the southern cliffs to an old enemy—the House of Virellan. Mercenaries. Slavers. And when they cross in full force, it won’t be to settle. It will be to conquer."
Lucien’s voice was low. "You have proof?"
The man smiled grimly. "Only the words of the dead. But I know where their bones lie."
Back in the capital, Queen Dowager Lilian stared at the smuggled report from one of her last loyal informants. Her grip tightened as she read the words: Lucien has made contact with the remnants of Syrell.
She rose slowly, motioning for her steward. "Send word to the High Inquisitor. It’s time the court hears a new accusation... one that places Lucien’s loyalty in question."
The steward hesitated. "But, Your Grace, that could turn the nobles against you as well."
Lilian smiled cold, regal. "Then we remind them who raised the king. Who ensured stability after the rebellion. And if Lucien dares raise his head too high... we cut it off."
And far from her gaze, Beatrice sat alone by candlelight, the stolen pages from the court’s archives laid bare before her.
Among them, a curious line scratched in haste, half-faded by time: Miral. Syrell. Blackthorne. Three threads pulled from the same needle.
Her breath caught.
"What game are you playing, Liora?" she whispered.
Queen Dowager Lilian, poised to his left, rose with a graceful rustle of skirts.
"We are gathered," she began, "not for war nor tribute, but for the safety of our kingdom." She raised a scroll, her voice sharp and cold. "A report intercepted at the southern border names Prince Lucien Blackthorne in contact with surviving agents of Syrell."
The court stirred.
Lucien stood at the far end, uninvited yet defiant. "The queen dowager assumes too much from whispers. Was this report signed? Or merely scrawled in the blood of your paranoia?"
Gasps. Whispers. One baron dropped his goblet.
Lilian didn’t flinch. "Are you denying you crossed into Alenvare lands last fortnight?"
Lucien smiled faintly. "I don’t deny going to bury the forgotten dead. That’s more than can be said for those who built palaces on their ashes."
It was a calculated strike.
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