CHAPTER 244: CEDRIC’S REVENGE

"Send men to capture the Crown Princess of Kaltharion!" the Emperor thundered, his voice slicing through the quiet of the garden.

Lord Morrathen, ever the cautious fox, tilted his head and stroked his neatly trimmed beard. His narrow eyes glinted beneath the torchlight. "Your Majesty," he said softly, "should you not consult the Dowager before making any... irreversible decisions?"

The Emperor stiffened.

He had trusted his mother once, trusted her with everything, but not anymore. Not after tonight.

"Mother need not know," he said coldly.

Lord Morrathen bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked upward, studying the Emperor’s expression. Rash decisions were dangerous. And this one... this reeked of desperation.

The Emperor turned from him, pacing before the swaying tree. If Leroy’s wife truly is Lazira, he thought, then Mother already knew. She must have known; she, who always had eyes everywhere, who never missed a whisper. And yet... she had done nothing.

It all made sense now. Every time he sought to strike at Leroy, his mother intervened, urging patience, mercy, and restraint. She had claimed it was "for the stability of the empire." Lies. All lies.

She was protecting him.

Protecting Leroy, the favorite son of her late husband. The bastard she could never have, but would always cherish as the reflection of the man she’d loved.

Bitterness clawed at his throat. How could a woman love a dead man more than her living son? Yet his mother had always been the exception. Her loyalty to her husband’s memory ran deeper than blood. And now she expected him, her own flesh and blood, to give up his throne for that ghost’s son.

"Your Majesty..." Lord Morrathen’s voice slithered back into the air, oily and measured. He clasped his hands, bowing slightly. "Lazira is no ordinary woman. If her identity has been discovered, it is because she allowed it.

Do you truly think she would not have predicted such a move?"

Cedric stiffened. "Are you implying I made a deal with her?" he snapped, his voice sharp with wounded pride.

Lord Morrathen turned his gaze toward the kneeling knight, feigning innocence. "No, Lord Thaloryn," he said silkily, "but to drag her out under the cover of night, surrounded only by her own spies and shadows... would that not be folly? Did she offer that same courtesy to my nephew, Lord Cassian Duskewood?"

His tone darkened, his fingers rubbing together as though twisting an invisible knife. "No. She had him executed in the open square, before the eyes of every noble in Vaeloria. Let her taste that same humiliation. Let her walk the streets, bound, a spectacle for the city she ruled from the shadows. Let her walk the walk of shame... After all, wouldn’t the crowd want to see what is beneath the garments of the madame of the red-light district? Let her pay her penance."

The Emperor’s lips twitched upward. He liked the image.

Why merely capture her when he could parade her? Let her name, Lazira, drip from every tongue in the capital. Let them all watch as the infamous queen of the underworld was dragged through the streets in shame. Let Leroy see his wife fall from grace, powerless to stop it.

Cedric bowed his head, his jaw tightening. He did not like this plan; Morrathen’s kind of cruelty always came with a curse.

House Morrathen... the House of the Drowned Oath. A family whispered to be cursed by the gods themselves, their alliances rotting every power they touched. Every House that had trusted them eventually fell. The Emperor should have known that. Should have remembered that.

But he didn’t care. Or perhaps he was too blinded by his own jealousy to see the danger in it.

Cedric’s anger simmered beneath the surface, but he stayed kneeling, his eyes lowered, his fists clenched against the floor.

"Prepare yourself, Knight Thaloryn," the Emperor said, his tone soft now, almost pleased. "Your presence is commanded tomorrow at court. You will bear witness when the Crown Princess of Kaltharion is unmasked before all."

Cedric bowed his head deeply, the words echoing in his mind—Knight Cedric Thaloryn. It sounded noble, honorable. He could almost feel Zara’s hand in his, the light in her eyes before it all went dark.

He swallowed the ache.

Lorraine.

That name still tasted like poison on his tongue.

The woman who destroyed Zara’s life. The woman who had poisoned her, stripped her of her will, left her hollow and broken. Zara, once so radiant, so alive, now only stared blankly at the walls, her fingers trembling as they traced the stumps where her fingertips used to be. She barely ate. Barely slept. She was fading.

And all because of that woman.

Cedric clenched his jaw. His blue eyes darkened with vengeance.

Lorraine will pay.

He vowed it in silence, bowing lower until his forehead brushed the stone pavement.

He would bring her down. He would see her bloodied and broken before the Emperor’s court. For Zara. For every tear she shed. For every night she trembled in silence, haunted by the ghost of that betrayal.

This was his chance. His redemption. His revenge.

And tomorrow... he would deliver Lorraine to her ruin.

Leroy... he should watch helplessly as his wife gets dragged naked in the streets, knowing he couldn’t do anything.

That was his punishment for hurting Zara.

-----

The night surrendered to dawn, and the first fingers of sunlight slipped through the sheer curtains, brushing gold across the marble floor. The faint scent of dew and steel lingered on Leroy as he returned from the training grounds. His body ached, his palms raw from the morning drills, but that pain was a comfort. It reminded him that he was still fighting. That he must keep fighting. For her. For them.

As much as he longed to spend those quiet, early hours with his little wife curled against his chest, he had forced himself to rise before the first bell. Discipline was his only armor now; sentiment was a luxury he could not afford. His life, and hers, hung by threads thinner than a blade’s edge.

When he entered his chambers, silence greeted him. The bed was neatly made, the sheets cool to the touch. No trace of her warmth lingered there. A faint crease on the pillow was the only sign she had slept at all.

He frowned lightly, then crossed the hall to her room. The door creaked open with its usual softness. The air there carried a different scent—sweet and faintly poisonous. Vyrnshade blossoms. Her favorite.

The vase she’d arranged the night before stood by the window, full and freshly trimmed. Blood-red petals glowed faintly in the morning light, their fragrance delicate but laced with something cold, something unplaceable.

He approached the vase and plucked one bloom between his fingers. It was lighter than it looked. He twirled the stem absently, bringing it close to his face. The faint, sweet perfume clung to his skin, sharp and unsettling.

"Still here," he murmured, half to himself. "So where are you, little mouseling?"

The nickname fell softly from his lips, and for a moment, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.