Chapter 370: Letters and Late Meetings

Chapter 369: Letters and Late Meetings

Lucian sat in his chambers, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

He had not moved from his seat in some time. His gaze remained fixed upon the flames, though his thoughts were elsewhere entirely —Lyria.

A knock sounded at the door snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Enter."

Oliver stepped inside, a letter in hand. His brow was furrowed, his expression troubled.

Lucian glanced at him, then at the letter.

"What is it?"

Oliver crossed the room and held it out.

"It arrived moments ago, your grace. I thought you ought to see it without delay."

Lucian accepted the letter and looked at the seal. He recognised it at once. The royal stamp was unmistakable.

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

The message was brief. A single sentence, written in the Queen’s precise and unyielding hand.

Do not forget who you belong to.

Lucian’s lips twitched faintly. He read the words again, then set the letter aside as if it was of no importance.

He had not visited the Queen after the competition. He had not offered his thanks, nor performed the expected courtesies that a candidate in his position might reasonably have been expected to observe.

He had known she would be displeased.

The competition had been made deliberately difficult, and he was quite certain she had intended for certain outcomes that had not materialised as planned. He had refused to give her that satisfaction, and she had noticed.

But now the letter had arrived. A warning. A reminder, dressed in the language of quiet authority rather than open threat — which, in its own way, made it more interesting rather than less.

He wondered what specifically had prompted it.

It was not the friendship he had formed with the other candidates — she had no suspicion of its depth. She had no idea of the conversations that had taken place, the understanding that had been quietly reached, the alliances that were being built either.

But something had caught her attention.

He paused.

Could it be Lyria?

He turned the possibility over. He was reasonably confident that no one had become aware of the lessons he gave her at night. They had been careful. Discreet even. He had chosen his moments with deliberation and had ensured that the risk to her was minimal at every step.

And he had not been the only one to extend consideration toward her during the ball. He had danced with Lyria, yes. But when she had been dismissed — ostensibly unwell, though he suspected the dismissal had been rather more deliberate on the Queen’s part than any genuine concern for her health — he had simply declined to take another partner for the remainder of the evening.

Much as Duke Valenridge had done, both feigning illness.

But, was that sufficient to earn a letter like this one?

He was not certain. But he intended to find out, one way or another. There were very few questions he was content to leave unanswered, and this was not among them.

Lucian rose from his chair and moved to the window, looking out at the darkened grounds below. The palace at night was a different creature from the palace by day — quieter on the surface, considerably more active beneath it, full of movement that did not wish to be seen and conversations that did not wish to be heard.

---

After leaving Jacinta’s chambers, Corvin made his way through the palace corridors.

He kept to the shadows, his footsteps swift and silent. The indoor training grounds were his destination — far from the residential wings, far from the servants’ corridors, far from curious eyes and attentive ears.

When he arrived, he began to pace.

The room was dimly lit, the torches along the walls casting long, unsteady shadows across the stone floor.

He paced for several minutes, his thoughts running in the unsatisfying circles they had been running since he left Jacinta’s chambers.

He had known, from the beginning, that she would not receive him tonight. Not after what had occurred with Duke Valenridge — the public nature of it, the manner in which it had been delivered, the way it had landed before the assembled court and the candidates and whatever portion of the kingdom had been watching through the scrying veil. He had been prepared for Jacinta’s coldness. He had expected it and had made his peace with the expectation before he even entered her chamber.

But the task she had given him was another matter entirely.

He did not know whom she meant.

He did not know whom she suspected or what had prompted the suspicion. He did not know whether she was speaking of the suitors, or of Lyria, or of someone else altogether — someone operating at a level he had not yet identified.

And the person he was meant to meet tonight had not yet arrived.

He paused in his pacing.

His senses sharpened.

Something had shifted in the air of the room. A presence he had not registered a moment ago.

He smelled something.

It was not the scent of the person he had been expecting. In truth, he was not entirely certain what that man smelled like. And now that he thought of it, that in itself was strange.

Before he could pursue the thought further, a figure entered the training grounds.

He was young — a boy, perhaps, though the cloak he wore made it difficult to determine with any certainty. He was not alone. Another man walked behind him, similarly cloaked, similarly unhurried.

It was obvious they cared little that they had made Corvin wait.

Corvin straightened.

"What is this?" he demanded. "This was not the arrangement."

The boy spoke first.

"Our lord sent us in his stead," he said. "He was indisposed."

Corvin’s eyes narrowed at that.

"That was not the agreement."

The man behind the boy spoke then, his voice calm and entirely measured.

"Was there ever an agreement in the first place, my lord?"