Chapter 153: His Suspicious Behavior
Lorraine composed herself immediately. She carried her father’s signet ring. That alone was power in her hands.
She didn’t falter. Not even for a breath. Her smile was composed, her tone light, as if she were speaking of nothing more consequential than the weather.
"Oh, he’s recuperating," she said smoothly. "He worked too hard, and now I’ve forced him to rest." Then, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she leaned just close enough for the apothecary to feel chosen, singled out. "Father trusts you so much, but you see what happened, don’t you?" Her eyes flicked toward the mountain of corpses sprawled in the dirt. "She’s an important person to the empire. He wants her kept safe, brought to his side. Couldn’t trust anyone else, so he asked me to act." Her smile curved faint and deliberate. "Your loyalty will be remembered."
The apothecary straightened his spine, adjusting his robe, pride spilling through the cracks of his composure. He looked like a man who had just been knighted. Yet when his gaze shifted to Leroy, it sharpened with suspicion.
"He’s waiting for us," Leroy cut in seamlessly, his voice heavy with authority, gilded by the mask that hid his face. He might as well have been a shadow pulled straight from Hadrian’s side.
The old man blinked, relief flooding him as he bowed low, almost stumbling over his own feet. "Good, then. Good indeed, Lady Elyse."
For an instant Lorraine’s pulse hammered so hard she feared it might crack through her ribs. Elyse. Of course. Her elder sister, the one Hadrian favored, the name the city knew. The ring had sealed the lie.
Her smile did not waver. She inclined her head, steady as marble, turning with Aralyn clinging to her arm.
"Those men..." the apothecary asked nervously, voice trembling.
"Dispose of them," Leroy said flatly, his masked gaze cutting like steel. "It will serve all purposes to keep it quiet. Speak with your servants. Their silence will be paid for." His words fell like coins and threats alike.
The apothecary bowed again, murmuring blessings under his breath, never daring another question. The trap had been stepped over. The crisis had passed.
Outside, the morning light struck them like a blade, scattering across Leroy’s golden mask, across Lorraine’s shadowed hood, across Aralyn’s pale, trembling face. Leroy shifted more of the woman’s weight into his hold, silent, protective, his presence a wall. Lorraine walked beside him, every step composed, though her heart still drummed with the aftershock of what had nearly broken.
They moved toward the waiting carriage, gravel crunching beneath their feet, leaving the leper house and its rotting shadows behind.
Damian leaned lazily against the oak, a shaft of morning light catching in his dark hair. He pushed himself forward as they approached, his smile easy, careless as always.
"So, you’re holding Hadrian?" he asked, voice lilting, teasing.
Leroy’s eyes flicked to Lorraine. No one knew where Hadrian truly was; that secret had been kept tightly coiled. For the briefest instant, he wondered if one of those masked men in black could have been Damian. Perhaps not.
Lorraine steadied Aralyn into the carriage, her hand gentle against the frail woman’s arm. Then she turned. Her hood cast shadow over her face, but her eyes burned sharp, her expression stripped of softness.
The playfulness in Damian’s gaze faltered.
"I just started a war with House Dravenholt," she said, her voice even, deliberate. "Make your decision wisely."
It was a choice. As frivolous as he pretended to be, Damian was still the crown prince of Lystheria; hostage, but prince nonetheless. Standing beside her could drag him into ruin. Unless... he chose to fight with her. Unless Lystheria chose to stand beside Kaltharion, against Vaeloria.
The thought hung there like a blade between them.
For the first time, Damian’s mask slipped. He stood still, silent, the weight of her words striking home. His eyes sharpened, calculating, seeing the implications she had laid bare.
Lorraine’s gaze shifted to the carriage window, where Aralyn’s pale face peered out, her trembling hand pressed against the glass.
Damian’s lips curved, faint, almost reverent. "Here I thought I had to recruit you... but you’re the one I’m supposed to..." His voice trailed away, seeing that Lorraine was not listening.
Lorraine frowned. "What?"
Leroy had heard. His hand pressed gently but firmly to the small of her back. "Let’s go." His tone left no room for delay.
Lorraine nodded, allowing him to guide her into the carriage.
Leroy paused at the door, meeting Damian’s eyes over the distance. For once, there was no flamboyance in the crown prince’s expression. No grin, no mockery. Only something grave. Something like recognition. Reverence.
Damian inclined his head.
Leroy returned the gesture, sharp and deliberate, before ducking into the carriage. The wheels creaked, gravel crunching as they pulled away.
And though Damian stood motionless under the oak, Leroy knew that Damian was aware of something.
-----
Sylvia lingered by the stairwell, half-hidden in the quiet corner no one favored. The corner where shadows gathered, where she had tucked away secrets, had hoped to dream, and stolen moments that made her pulse quicken. Now, standing there, her chest felt hollow.
Her gaze snagged on the familiar paneled wall, and her throat tightened. How many times had she paused here, daring to hope? Now her heart ached bitterly at the memory. She hadn’t realized a tear had slipped free until her hand brushed it away.
She couldn’t believe it—not him. He had told her to trust him, and she had. Almost. She dreamed of a perfect world with him, against her past. trauma. Every word had felt like a tether she clung to.
But he had brought it all down. What if it had all been a pretense? What was his true intent toward her? Toward the princess? Was he the reason the princess disappeared? The questions gnawed at her.
She had resolved to speak with the prince. With the princess missing and tension straining the mansion halls, it had been impossible to find the right moment. But she knew she couldn’t wait forever.
"Thinking about me? Or..."
The voice slid through her thoughts like a blade through silk.
"...plotting your escape again?"
Sylvia flinched, her breath catching. She spun, and there he was, as if conjured by her very doubts. Aldric.
The morning light spilled against his face, catching the glint in his blue eyes. A glimmer that always unsettled her: too sharp, too knowing. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stride past him.
But his words stopped her cold.
"Corvalith, was it?" he said lightly, almost idly, though the weight beneath the syllables was crushing. "How is the plotting going?"
Her steps faltered. Her blood ran cold.
He knows about our plans to escape!
She had doubts when he mentioned Corvalith to her the other day.
But how?
Who is he?