Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 91: The Gold-Eyed Man.

Chapter 91: The Gold-Eyed Man.

Liora touched Samuel’s arm. "Keep watch. I’ll follow."

"You shouldn’t go alone....."

"I won’t be," she said, slipping the blade Lucien had given her into her boot. "Besides, I need to know what they’re hiding."

She moved like a shadow, hugging the edges of stone and hay. The door was half-ajar, as though inviting her in. Inside, the scent of old dust and iron filled her nose. She descended the short steps to find rows of crates stacked high, most labeled as tools or grain. But in the corner, one crate was already open.

Inside lay rolls of parchment. She pulled one out carefully.

Not grain.

Orders. Movements. Maps. Messages sent from Minister Halric’s office... to outposts that no longer existed.

And at the bottom, sealed with wax in the shape of a crescent moon, was a document dated a full month before Lucien’s exile. Her heart hammered. The conspiracy hadn’t started after Lucien’s disgrace; it had begun before it.

The sound of footsteps snapped her back. She hid behind a tall barrel, crouching low.

The rider entered. He removed his gloves and tossed them on the table, unaware of her presence. He pulled off the overcoat, revealing a uniform not of Valeria but of another land, Craveth, a bordering nation once allied through marriage.

Liora’s lips parted in horror.

Spies. Infiltrators. From a country whose last royal heir had vanished... right around the time Lucien’s first wife was murdered.

Samuel’s voice echoed from the stairwell. "Liora! Now!"

She grabbed the parchment and ran, just as the man turned. A dagger whistled past her ear and thunked into the wall, but she was already up the stairs, clutching the evidence.

Outside, Samuel helped her onto a horse.

"Where to?" he demanded, swinging up behind her.

"To Lucien," she said breathlessly. "And then... to the king."

At the same time,

Alden stared at the council chamber door. Halric had not emerged. Lilian was uncharacteristically silent.

He turned to his steward. "Summon the guard captain. And fetch the royal seal."

The steward hesitated. "Your Majesty?"

Alden’s expression hardened. "We are no longer in the shadow of peace. It’s time the court remembered who wears the crown."

The council chamber doors opened with a low groan, revealing King Alden flanked by two armed guards. Every seated noble in the room rose in uneasy deference. Minister Halric, calm as ever, folded his hands over his crimson robes and offered a shallow bow.

"Your Majesty," he greeted, his voice smooth.

Alden didn’t return the gesture. "Where were you during this morning’s border update? Your absence was noted."

Halric’s smile didn’t falter. "My apologies. I was attending to grain tariffs and urgent matters concerning the southern ports."

"Ports?" Alden’s voice sliced the air. "Then you’ve forgotten the Craveth border lies north, not south."

A murmur swept through the room. Halric’s jaw tightened, just barely.

Before he could respond, the side doors burst open. Lucien strode in, cloak billowing, and behind him Liora, holding a rolled parchment.

"Your Majesty," Lucien said, bowing briefly, "we bring grave news."

Alden’s eyes narrowed. "Speak."

Liora stepped forward, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "We intercepted one of Halric’s men in the southern wing of the estate. He carried this."

She unfurled the parchment on the marble table before them. The noble lords leaned forward. It wasn’t just a map; it was a network. Secret meeting points. Messages in cipher. Waxed insignias that didn’t match the kingdom’s houses.

"This seal," she pointed to the crescent moon, "matches the one worn by masked riders seen during the chaos in the capital and before Prince Lucien’s exile."

Halric’s face paled.

Lucien didn’t wait. "You claimed the attacks on the city were the work of dissenters. Yet this document links you to communications with Craveth, a nation with no diplomatic standing."

"This is preposterous!" Halric snapped. "Anyone could have forged these. A desperate attempt by an estranged prince to reclaim his standing...."

"Enough." Alden’s voice thundered. "Guards."

The soldiers flanking the wall stepped forward.

"Search the minister’s quarters. Every ledger. Every seal. Leave nothing untouched."

As Halric was taken by the arm, he snarled, "You’ll regret this, Alden. The court is already fracturing. You think rooting out one man will save your crumbling walls?"

Lilian, seated in the far corner, spoke for the first time.

"We don’t intend to save the walls, Halric," she said coldly. "We intend to rebuild them without rats inside."

The room was silent as Halric was dragged away.

Liora stepped back beside Lucien. For a moment, her gaze met Alden’s and for the first time, there was no suspicion there. Only calculation.

"Tell me everything," Alden said quietly. "From the beginning."

Meanwhile,

Far across the borderlands, a letter was sealed in a black envelope and handed to a rider cloaked in grey. The sender’s crest bore no name, only a broken crown.

The message was brief.

"The mouse has found the trap. Proceed to phase two."

The court chambers were quieter now, with Minister Halric under arrest and the air charged with suspicion. But neither Alden nor Lucien allowed themselves to relax. Treachery had a way of regrowing heads like a serpent. And Halric? He had too many allies to have acted alone.

That evening, Alden summoned a smaller war council in his private chambers, a circle of seven. Lucien, Liora, Rowan, the Queen Dowager Lilian, General Cael, and two ministers Alden still trusted: Lady Vernise of the eastern watch and Lord Thorne of the treasury.

"This is no longer isolated treason," Alden began. "We’re dealing with infiltration, foreign meddling, and rot deep within the council."

Lilian leaned forward, her voice brittle. "Halric was only one flame among many. If Craveth is involved, their interests run deeper. They wouldn’t dare provoke war unless they had insiders paving the way."

Lucien crossed his arms. "He used the southern ports as a cover, an old trade route we closed years ago. But someone reopened it, quietly, under false names. Rowan traced the shipping logs."

Rowan stepped forward, placing a thin book on the table. "The vessels registered from Veymar aren’t merchant ships. They’ve been making night landings on unguarded coasts. Not with cargo. With people."

"Spies," muttered Lady Vernise.

Liora’s fingers tightened around her skirt. "Or hired agents. The messages intercepted weren’t just orders; they were payments."

Alden turned to Lord Thorne. "What about our coffers?"

Thorne, a stooped man with ink-stained hands, looked up wearily. "There have been unusual disbursements over the last two fiscal quarters. Subtle, but deliberate. Someone has been funneling coin to external accounts under building permits. I suspect more ministers are involved."

Lucien frowned. "And we’ve just arrested the most public one. That means the others will burrow deeper."

"Or strike sooner," Cael added grimly.

Liora hesitated, then spoke. "If we’re to draw them out, we need to make them feel cornered."

"Agreed," said Lilian. "We give the appearance of reformation, tighter court controls, and unexpected inspections. Let them grow nervous. Desperate rats always run toward the cheese."

Rowan offered, "Let me disappear from the estate. I’ll trail the ships and the ports. If they believe I’ve been dismissed or imprisoned for missteps during Halric’s capture, they may take the bait."

Lucien nodded. "You’ll need to vanish convincingly. I’ll have Samuel stage a public dispute tomorrow."

Alden looked around the room. "From this moment on, trust no one outside this circle."

Liora met his gaze. "Not even the Queen?"

A long pause. Then Alden answered, "Especially not the Queen."

The words hung like lead. It was the first time he had acknowledged that Ellora may be more than a passive figure. And as Lilian’s eyes flicked toward the sealed windows, her face betrayed nothing but her silence did.

Outside, the wind howled past the tall spires of the palace. And in the darkness, far from court, a blade was being sharpened.

The moon hung low and sharp like a blade in the sky as Rowan slipped through the back alleys of Verdenport. Cloaked in a tattered wool coat, his noble posture was long discarded. He had become a ghost, whispering through the grime of the city, past drunk sailors, and under the watching eyes of paid thugs.

Halric’s arrest had sparked something. The underground channels long silent were humming again. Crates that bore no seal moved faster than the city guard could track, and boats anchored without record of arrival.

Rowan had been tracking a name: The Gold-Eyed Man. He wasn’t on any register, not in Verdenport, not even in Craveth’s known archives. But whispered across taverns and seedy brothels, the man’s name came with fear. Whoever he was, he had bought and sold half of Verdenport’s underworld and now he had eyes on the throne.

Tonight, Rowan stood watching the ship The Hollow Mercy unload under moonlight. Men didn’t shout here. They worked in silence, dragging wooden crates across the misty docks. One opened slightly. Rowan saw glinting steel and curved blade weapons. Not tools. Not trade.

This wasn’t smuggling. This was preparation.

He made his way closer, crouching behind a stack of fish barrels, holding his breath. From behind the shadows emerged a cloaked figure, tall and lean, with a voice as smooth as oil.

"You’re early," the figure said. "The court is not ready."

"They’ve already begun the purge," another replied, this one gruffer, with a thick northern accent. "Minister Halric fell."

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