CHAPTER 190: THAT YOU WERE... A GIFT

"The eastern wing. His private study."

Her brow furrowed. She hadn’t expected that. The study was not a place where casual summons were made; it was Lucien’s guarded space, a room that outsiders rarely saw.

Edgar stepped aside to let her pass, and she followed him through the dimly lit corridors. The air here felt different quieter, heavier. Shadows stretched along the high walls, broken only by the steady glow of wall sconces.

When they reached the study, Edgar opened the door but did not step in. Lucien stood at the far end of the room, a map spread across his desk, candles flickering at his side. He didn’t look up immediately.

"You sent for me," Liora said, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest.

At last, he raised his gaze. His expression was unreadable, though something in his eyes sharp and assessing made her feel as though he’d already guessed what had happened earlier.

"Yes," he said, his tone even. "We need to talk about the Miral family."

The words landed between them like a blade, and Liora realized this was not going to be a simple conversation.

The churning inside her was too much to contain. Every step she took felt heavier than the last, as though the ground itself were conspiring to hold her back. Liora’s fingers curled into her palms, nails pressing crescents into her skin, but she didn’t loosen her grip. Pain was better than numbness it kept her anchored, reminded her she was still here, still breathing, no matter how much it hurt.

Lucien’s voice drifted back to her, steady and unreadable, but the words themselves cut deeper than any blade. "Do not mistake this for compassion." She told herself not to care, that she hadn’t asked for kindness from him, yet the echo of his cold tone clung to her, rattling against the fragile parts of her heart.

They were nearly to the gates when the crowd stirred again. Murmurs rose, followed by the soft swish of silk as someone of importance approached. The guards immediately straightened, hands to their chests in salute. Liora kept her head lowered, but her gaze darted upward through her lashes.

A woman stepped into view tall, graceful, draped in pale lavender that shimmered in the light. Her hair was pinned high, the dark strands threaded with silver ornaments that chimed faintly when she moved. There was no mistaking her bearing or the sharp, assessing eyes that lingered a heartbeat too long on Liora.

"Lucien," the woman greeted, her voice smooth as still water. "I see you’ve brought home... a new companion."

Liora stiffened, uncertain whether the words were meant as insult or mere observation.

Lucien’s reply was calm, almost disinterested. "Merely following orders."

The woman’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. She turned her gaze fully on Liora now, and in that silent inspection, Liora felt laid bare. Every thread of her gown, every mark of travel on her skin, every flicker of uncertainty in her expression...it was all seen, catalogued, and judged.

"Then we shall see," the woman murmured, before gliding past them toward the courtyard.

Liora exhaled slowly, only then realizing she had been holding her breath. Whatever battle she had just survived in that single exchange, she knew it was only the beginning. There would be more eyes like hers in the palace...eyes that measured worth and waited for weakness.

She straightened her spine despite the tremor in her limbs. Let them look. Let them whisper. She had survived worse than stares and veiled words.

But still... she could not shake the unsettling thought that the woman’s smile had been the first warning of something far more dangerous waiting inside.

The moment the heavy oak doors closed behind them, sealing out the distant murmur of the court, Liora’s knees felt weak. The corridors here were narrower, the light dimmer, the air touched by a faint dampness as if this part of the palace had been forgotten by time. A lone sconce cast its wavering glow against the stone wall, making shadows stretch unnaturally long. She followed the steward in silence, the soft echo of their steps filling the hollow space.

"This wing," Edgar Allne said over his shoulder, "was given to His Highness after... the decree."The pause in his voice was deliberate, as though the mere act of saying more would carry some unspoken danger. Liora caught the faintest note of pity or perhaps warning in his tone.

After the decree.The words rolled over her mind like a stone in water, rippling outward. She knew what they referred to. Everyone did. The scandal. The disgrace. The whispers that turned into venom. The murder no one dared speak of too loudly.

The hallway curved, and with it, a change in the air. Warmer now, faintly scented with smoke from a fire burning somewhere deeper inside. When Edgar finally stopped, it was before a tall, iron-bound door, its frame marked with a subtle but deliberate pattern. Not grand, not royal yet there was an understated authority in the way it stood.

He rapped twice.The sound echoed. No response. He opened it anyway.

Inside, the room was sparsely lit by a single candelabrum on a wide desk. Papers lay scattered there maps, sealed letters, pieces of parchment inked with lines that looked like coded writing. The air held the scent of ink and steel.

And then, in the chair by the desk, he was there.Lucien Blackthorne.

His posture was deceptively relaxed one arm draped over the armrest, fingers curling lazily around the edge, his other hand turning a silver ring around his finger. The firelight caught in the pale strands of his hair, sharpening the angle of his jaw. His eyes lifted slowly from the paper in his hand to her, and for a fraction of a second, their light-gray depths locked onto her with such focus that the breath caught in her throat.

The rumors had not done him justice.Nor had they told the truth.

"You’ve brought her," Lucien said finally, his voice smooth, controlled, almost soft yet carrying the weight of something that could cut without effort.

"Yes, Your Highness," Edgar replied, bowing low.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over Liora, not in the way of a man admiring beauty, but as one measuring worth assessing, calculating. It was the look of a man who trusted nothing and no one, least of all a stranger brought into his domain.

"You may leave us," he told Edgar.

The steward hesitated, glanced briefly at Liora as if silently reminding her to tread carefully, then withdrew.

Silence filled the space between them.It wasn’t the kind that lingered idly; it was the kind that pressed down, deliberate and purposeful, as if he were giving her the chance to speak first and to see what she would reveal.

Liora’s fingers curled around the folds of her skirt. "Your Highness," she began, dipping her head in a respectful bow.

His reply was a faint hum, not quite approval, not quite dismissal. He leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting in mild interest. "They told me," he said, "that you were... a gift."

The word carried a dangerous edge, as though he found the notion vaguely insulting.

She kept her voice steady. "If that is what they wish to call it."

At that, something shifted in his expression, a flicker, almost imperceptible. "And what would you call it?"

Her eyes met his, unflinching despite the weight of his scrutiny. "A trade."