Chapter 200

Chapter 200: Chapter 200

Julian

The carriage wheels rattled down the stony path, disappearing into the thick grey veil of rain.

I stood near the edge of the boundary ridge, my dark cloak dripping water onto the mud, my heart hammering against my ribs in a wild, dizzying rhythm. The cool rain pelted my face, washing away the sweat of panic that had broken out across my brow.

It was done. The boy was gone.

Gideon’s spell had held perfectly. Lysander had walked into that carriage like a wooden toy, leaving behind no spilled blood, no broken bones, and no physical evidence of a struggle. To anyone standing on the ridge through the blinding storm, it looked seamless. It looked like a quiet, pre-planned escape.

I let out a long, ragged breath, pulling my hood back over my damp silver hair, and turned back toward the mountain estate.

Now came the second half of the performance, the part that required every ounce of my skill, my history, and my intimate understanding of the High Sovereign’s mind.

I didn’t try to run. Running would imply guilt, and guilt was a death sentence. Instead, I took three hurried, uneven steps up the muddy slope toward the estate boundary line, making my gait look frantic, confused, and breathless.

Standing at the top of the ridge, completely still against the roaring storm, was Drake.

He looked like a statue carved from dark stone. His linen shirt was soaked through, plastered flat against his chest, his hair dripping water down his pale forehead. He wasn’t moving. He simply stood there, his crimson eyes fixed on the empty valley road where the carriage had vanished into the mist.

The silence around him was far worse than his roar. It was a cold, hollow void that seemed to swallow the very sound of the thunder crashing overhead.

I slowed my pace as I approached him, clutching my damp cloak tightly around my chest, letting my breathing come in sharp, ragged gasps.

"Drake!" I called out, my voice laced with a careful mixture of shock, terror, and desperate concern. "Drake, my Lord!"

He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t even blink. His eyes remained locked on the dark valley below, his broad shoulders squared against the wind.

I stopped five feet behind him, keeping my posture soft, trembling slightly as if the chill of the storm had gotten into my bones.

"What happened?" I gasped, taking a small, hesitant step closer. "I was in my quarters... I thought I heard a commotion near the west wing, but when I came out to check, the corridor guards were missing. I ran toward the side courtyard and..."

I let my voice trail off into a breathless, horror-struck whisper, staring down at the muddy path where Lysander’s bare footprints led straight to the carriage tracks.

"I saw him," I whispered, shaking my head in slow, bewildered disbelief. "I saw Lysander... walking down the slope alongside Gideon."

Drake finally moved.

He didn’t spin around in fury. He slowly turned his head, his crimson eyes locking onto my face with a flat, terrifying stillness that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The pureblood static around him was faint, but it carried a razor-sharp edge that felt like cold steel pressed against my throat.

"You were in your quarters," Drake said softly. His voice didn’t carry its usual booming resonance; it was a flat, level thread that cut straight through the howling wind. "You were under house arrest, Julian."

"I know!" I cried out, stepping forward with my hands held open in a posture of complete, vulnerable honesty. "I know I broke your order, Drake! Strike me down if you must, lock me in the deep cells, I don’t care! But when the outer ward alarms flickered in my room, I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing while your territory was breached!"

I took a shuddering breath, wiping the rain from my cheeks with the back of my hand, letting fresh tears mix with the water on my skin.

"I ran out to protect your domain," I continued, my voice breaking into a soft, emotional tremor. "I thought Darius’s men were attacking the walls. I ran down the slope calling his name, trying to reach him before they breached the boundary line... but when I got close enough to see..."

I paused, looking up into his cold marble face, my silver eyes wide with manufactured grief and pity.

"He wasn’t fighting them, Drake," I lied smoothly, every word crafted with sweet, poisonous precision. "Gideon didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t drag him. Lysander was walking right beside him, step for step, heading straight for that carriage."

A faint muscle ticked along Drake’s sharp jawline, but his expression remained a carved, unreadable mask.

"I called out to him," I pressed on, taking another step closer, letting my voice drop into a soft, intimate register. "I yelled at him to stop, to think of you, to think of the house. But he didn’t even look back. He climbed into that carriage willingly, Drake. He wanted to leave."

The lie hung in the cold, wet air between us, heavy and absolute.

I watched Drake’s face intently, searching for the crack in his armor. I knew how his pride worked. I knew that the thought of Lysander being taken against his will would spark an immediate, bloody war across the borderlands. But the thought of Lysander choosing to abandon him—choosing to run back to the border, back to Darius, after everything Drake had done to protect him—would strike straight at his most vulnerable wound.

It was the ultimate betrayal. A blow delivered not by a blade, but by the choice of a mate.

"He chose them," I murmured softly, letting a quiet, sorrowful pity color my words. "After you built him a sanctuary... after you protected him from the council and fed him from your own table... he waited for the first opportunity to run away."

Drake didn’t answer. He turned his head back toward the valley, staring into the dark, empty mist where the carriage had disappeared.

For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound on the ridge was the roaring wind and the rhythmic patter of rain against the muddy earth. The warmth that had briefly flickered in his aura during his days with Lysander was gone, completely extinguished, replaced by a cold, impenetrable wall of ice.

"Call the Captain," Drake commanded flatly, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

I blinked, taking a small step back. "My Lord?"

"Tell him to recall the boundary patrols," Drake said, his tone dropping into a level register that left zero room for question. "Re-arm the west wing security wards. Reset the master frequencies."

A slow, triumphant warmth spread through my chest, though I kept my face carefully schooled in solemn sympathy. He wasn’t ordering a search party. He wasn’t mobilizing the vanguard. His pride had taken the bait, closing his heart and locking the gates just as I had planned.

"And you, Julian," Drake added, his crimson eyes shifting back to meet mine with a cold, distant stare.

"Yes, Drake?" I asked softly.

"Return to your quarters," he said, his voice flat and unyielding. "We will speak of your disobedience in the morning."

He turned on his heel, his soaked linen shirt heavy against his shoulders, and walked back toward the palace with slow, measured strides, leaving me standing alone on the muddy ridge.

I watched his retreating shadow vanish into the dark courtyard. A subtle, satisfied smile curled the corners of my lips beneath my hood.

The whore was gone, Drake’s heart was sealed, and the golden cage was empty at last.