Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 89: Beneath their silk

Chapter 89: Beneath their silk

"I swear on what little I have left."

Lucien turned away, the words already forming in his mind. "Then we start gathering. Rowan, call the hidden allies. Every noble family who’s been slighted. Every bannerman who lost a son during the court purges. I want a list."

Rowan nodded and was gone.

Lucien turned to Liora. "And you?"

She straightened. "I’ll speak to the Valcour envoy. Layla trusts me more than anyone in that palace. If Cirisia’s gold is moving through the borderlands, someone in the Valcour House will know where."

Lucien gave a single nod. "Good."

But as he watched her walk away, his hand tightened around the scroll Alaric had brought.

In the quiet that followed, Alaric said, "She’s more dangerous than you realize."

"I know," Lucien said. "That’s why I’m keeping her close."

Rain hadn’t reached the capital that morning, but the clouds lingered, casting the palace gardens in a pale, silver gloom. Lady Layla Valcour sat alone in the reading pavilion, a teacup untouched before her and a letter clutched tightly in her gloved hands.

She had read the same paragraph three times.

"The winds in the west change too swiftly to be trusted. Those who wear crimson robes in the sun may wear armor in the night. Watch the border. And do not trust the hawk who flies too low."

It was a warning. Coded, of course, sent by her cousin through a route she hadn’t seen used in years. The wax seal bore the old sigil of House Blackthorne scratched through with a single line.

Lucien was stirring. And worse, he had Liora.

Layla rose and tucked the letter into the folds of her sleeve just as a servant arrived too softly, too politely.

"My lady, Minister Thorne requests your presence in the Inner Hall."

Layla masked her suspicion with a smile. "Of course. Tell him I shall arrive shortly."

The servant bowed and left, but she did not miss the glint of recognition in his eye. He knew she knew something. And he wasn’t one of hers.

As soon as she was alone, she whispered beneath her breath, "Call the hawk."

A moment later, a shadow slipped from behind the lattice screen a boy no older than twelve with ink-stained hands. Her messenger.

"Fly."

He nodded and vanished, running between garden hedges like smoke.

The Inner Hall was warmer than expected. Minister Thorne stood beside a map of the kingdom laid out on the table. Several officials surrounded him, each bearing the gleam of self-interest masked by concern.

"My lady Valcour," he said with false charm. "We were just discussing trade flow from the northern provinces. Strange reports. Smuggling and Disappearances. And now, odd troop movements."

Layla offered a shallow bow. "I see. And you thought I might know something of this?"

"You were raised near the northern estates. Your family has reach."

"And yet we are not informed of troop movements," she said lightly. "Has the council turned to gossip now, minister?"

One of the others chuckled, but Thorne’s gaze sharpened.

"We hear rumors that Prince Lucien’s exile is becoming... inconvenient. That support gathers around him again."

She tilted her head, letting her golden hair fall just so. "The court exiled him, did it not? What threat could an abandoned prince possibly pose?"

Thorne smiled. "That is precisely what we intend to find out."

Later that night, in her private quarters, Layla opened the compartment beneath her mirror. Inside lay a pendant Liora had once left behind during a childhood visit. Back when they still believed in fairy tales.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then said quietly, "If you’re truly playing this game, cousin... I hope you’ve learned to wield a knife."

The borderlands of Cirisia had long been known for their unpredictable winds and thorn-choked ridges, where war had once written its history in blood. For over a decade, it had remained quiet no real battles, only minor skirmishes between border patrols and smugglers. But now, something new stirred.

A messenger arrived in the capital at dawn, mud-caked and trembling, escorted by two bruised guards who’d lost three of their own on the way. He demanded an immediate audience not with the king but with Prince Lucien Blackthorne.

But Lucien never received the message. It was intercepted by a cloaked man who worked under the name Sable a former royal guard turned invisible among shadows. His true allegiance? Uncertain. His purpose? To maintain equilibrium until someone tipped the scale.

Sable handed the letter, unopened, to Minister Rowan Vale.

Rowan unsealed it carefully and read:

"Enemy soldiers bearing Cirisian marks seen moving under Valcour colors. Not bandits. Trained. Seeking old tunnel routes into the capital. A captain among them named Tarsen claimed to be under direct orders from the Court of Elders. If true, the north is compromised. Reinforcements needed."

He read it twice.

Then slowly handed it to Samuel, who stood beside him.

Samuel frowned. "This didn’t go to Lucien?"

"Would’ve, if not for Beatrice’s eyes in the corridors," Rowan said. "She’s loyal to him. But Lilian’s reach..."

Samuel grunted. "Then we’re losing time. Alden needs to hear this."

"No," Rowan said, eyes narrowing. "If the king hears that Valcour banners are tied to Cirisia, it’ll ignite a fire we may not control. The last thing we need is civil war on top of invasion."

"Then?"

"We move the board. Quietly."

In the royal court, Alden sat through yet another petition, a nobleman from the southern provinces whining about tariffs. The king’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Reports of unrest in the outer estates, more letters from northern lords complaining of "invisible taxes," and an unusual number of silent garrisons.

He felt the itch of betrayal but didn’t know where it would strike.

When the court adjourned, he turned to his most trusted clerk. "Bring me the reports from Eastwick and Emberfall. And summon the head of the Outer Watch. I want every tunnel and pass near the Cirisian Range reviewed."

He paused.

"And find Beatrice. She’s been too quiet."

Elsewhere, a figure cloaked in ash-gray entered a dimly lit room. On the table sat a map of the western border. The man removed his hood, revealing a familiar face: General Marcius, once thought exiled, now revealed as Cirisia’s planted wolf.

A woman leaned beside him, veiled in black silk.

"You said the Valcour girl would stir the hive," she murmured.

"She has," he said, smiling coldly. "And now the bees are turning on each other."

In the golden-lit corridors of the eastern tower, Liora had grown used to the silence, how it cloaked secrets like a second skin. Her days had fallen into rhythm: morning lessons with the steward’s scribe, evening strolls in the courtyards where the guards pretended not to watch, and nights spent scouring through old ledgers left behind by the previous mistress of the estate.

But tonight, something broke that rhythm.

She found it not in the scribe’s scrolls or the guarded letters from Lucien’s study, but in a misfiled record in the estate’s abandoned observatory. It was an old route map, one that should have been burned with the rest during the purge of the outer border plans. But this had survived, tucked into the folds of a tapestry catalog.

Liora unfolded the worn parchment and frowned. A path traced from the outer ridges, marked only by a crescent moon symbol, ending not far from the royal capital.

She traced the ink with her finger.

A smuggler’s path? Or something worse?

Before she could think further, footsteps echoed beyond the door. Not the guards. Not Lucien. Someone lighter. Careful.

She blew out the lantern and melted into the shadows.

The door creaked open, barely an inch. A cloaked figure peeked in, paused, then withdrew.

When the door clicked shut again, Liora let out the breath she’d been holding.

She slipped the map beneath her robe.

Whoever it was hadn’t come for conversation.

Meanwhile, at the inner palace, Beatrice stood in the chamber reserved for royal advisors, alone except for Minister Rowan.

"You’re hiding things from the king," she said coolly.

Rowan didn’t flinch. "And you’re playing for both sides."

"Am I?" she asked, tilting her head. "You think Lilian owns me? I serve the throne."

"You serve the crown when it suits you," Rowan said. "We both do."

Beatrice stepped closer, her voice quiet. "Alden is vulnerable. The Council of Elders is too divided. The Valcour family stretches too far, too proud to see their own rot. If Cirisia makes its move now... the kingdom won’t fall to an army. It will collapse from within."

Rowan’s jaw tightened.

Beatrice continued, "Liora... she may be our only leverage against both Lucien and Valcour. The girl’s more perceptive than she lets on."

"She’s already found something, hasn’t she?" Rowan asked.

Beatrice’s eyes glinted. "She’s sniffing near the tunnels. We let her follow the trail. If she uncovers the Cirisian hand, she becomes a pawn of use."

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