CHAPTER 194: CLOAKS BILLOWED LIKE BLACK WINGS.

The clash spilled into chaos. Shadows darted across the pavilion floor, blades flashing under the lantern light as Rowan’s men met the assassins head-on. The ring of steel was sharp, echoing against the marble pillars; cries of effort and of pain punctured the humid night air.

Lucien’s sword arced, catching one assassin’s dagger mid-thrust. He pivoted, his free hand seizing the man’s wrist and twisting until bone cracked. The dagger clattered to the floor, but another shadow lunged for him from behind. Before Lucien could turn, an arrow cut the air. It buried itself in the attacker’s chest, fired cleanly from Rowan’s bow.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the chaos: Lucien, dark and unreadable; Rowan, grim and steady. Enemies by birthright, allies by necessity.

Liora’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her dagger felt too light, too small, but her body moved before doubt could root her feet. She ducked as a blade whistled above her head, then drove her weapon upward into soft flesh. Warmth splashed across her hand, copper-scented, and she almost gagged, but she didn’t stop.

"Stay behind me!" Lucien’s voice snapped through the storm.

But she wasn’t listening. She was watching. One assassin, faster, heavier...was cutting through Rowan’s guard. Rowan stumbled, his bow knocked aside, steel pressed dangerously close to his throat.

Without thinking, Liora moved. Her dagger left her hand, flying straight and true. It struck the attacker’s shoulder, just deep enough to jar his strike off course. Rowan twisted away, driving his knee into the man’s ribs before finishing him with a short blade drawn from his boot.

Breathing hard, Rowan spared her the briefest glance. "Not bad, little dove."

Lucien’s head whipped toward them, his expression flickering through something unreadable. Was it anger, pride, and jealousy? or all muddled in one but he had no time to dwell. Three more closed in on him, and he welcomed them with cold precision.

The fight dragged into minutes that felt like hours. The pavilion floor grew slick with blood. Bodies littered the once-serene courtyard. Finally, the last assassin fell with Rowan’s blade through his back.

Silence crashed down. Only the rustle of night insects and the ragged breaths of the living remained.

Liora’s hand trembled as she lowered herself against a pillar, trying to steady her breath. Her gown was spattered, her hair loose, but her eyes burned with something Lucien had never seen before: resolve.

Rowan kicked the last corpse aside and turned toward them. His face was pale, shadowed with something heavier than fatigue.

"They weren’t common blades," he said, pulling a token from one of the dead men’s tunics and tossing it at Lucien’s feet.

Lucien crouched, lifting it with a gloved hand. His jaw tightened. A simple, stylized, unmistakable crest.

"The King’s Hand," Lucien said flatly.

The words fell like a blade.

Liora felt the chill creep into her blood. She looked between them. Rowan’s grim stare and Lucien’s hardened calm made me realize this wasn’t just an attempt on lives.

It was war, bleeding its way into the very heart of the palace.

Steel met steel, the clash ringing sharp against the Pavilion’s carved beams. Shadows lunged, their blades glinting in the pale light, striking with ruthless precision.

Lucien’s sword whirled in deadly arcs, his movements economical yet merciless. He caught a strike aimed at Liora’s throat and twisted, sending the assailant crashing into the lacquered table.

"Stay behind me," he ordered without turning.

But Liora’s hands were already lifting, the hidden dagger Rowan had pressed into her palm earlier flashing. She slashed at the shadow that darted too close, the blade biting flesh. The man howled, staggering back.

"Behind you!" Rowan barked. He leapt from the far side of the pavilion, his staff cracking against an attacker’s skull. For all his easy smiles, he moved like water through a storm every motion practiced and unhesitating.

For a heartbeat, the three of them formed a shifting circle, backs angled just enough to cover one another. It wasn’t trust, not yet, but necessity bound them tighter than any vow.

"You brought them here," Lucien snarled at Rowan between parries, his blade catching sparks.

Rowan ducked, driving his staff into a ribcage. "Correction, they followed me. And unless you want them gutting us all, I suggest less talk, more cut."

Another figure lunged, twin daggers flashing for Liora. Lucien pivoted, but Rowan was faster, his staff hooking the attacker’s ankle, sending him sprawling.

The air filled with the metallic tang of blood and the dull thunder of combat. Liora’s breath came sharp, her heart pounding, but she refused to falter. She had survived Evelyne’s cruelty, Lucien’s cold disdain, and the suffocating weight of the Mirals’ betrayal. She would survive this, too.

One shadow slipped through, blade raised high for Lucien’s unguarded side. Liora saw it before he did. Instinct took her. She lunged, burying the dagger into the man’s wrist. His sword clattered uselessly.

Lucien’s eyes cut to her surprise, flashing through the ice. "Fool..."

"You’re welcome," she shot back, voice shaking but fierce.

For an instant, absurdly, perilously, Rowan barked a laugh even as he smashed another attacker into the Pavilion’s pillars.

Then the tide shifted. More shadows spilled through the broken doors, a dozen at least. Too many. The pavilion groaned with their weight, paper screens tearing, the moonlight itself swallowed by the chaos.

"Fall back!" Rowan shouted. "They want one of us alive...and it isn’t me."

Lucien’s jaw clenched. He knew. Whoever had sent them hadn’t come for Rowan nor even himself. Their blades angled toward Liora like hounds on scent.

The pavilion shook as another strike splintered wood. Rowan shoved Liora toward the far corridor. "Go!"

Lucien’s blade carved a path open, his voice raw with command:

"Stay close to me, Liora. Don’t you dare let go."

She had no time to argue. The three of them burst into the night hunted, bound, and bleeding as the Pavilion collapsed behind them in a storm of fire and shadow.

The courtyard had turned into a storm of steel and shadows. The clash of swords rang like thunder, each strike lighting sparks that sprayed across the flagstones. The assassins moved with frightening coordination, silent and merciless, their faces hidden behind dark cloths.

Liora pressed her back against the cold stone pillar, heart hammering so hard she thought the enemy might hear it. Her hands clenched the dagger Rowan had thrust into them, its weight both comfort and terror. She had never been in the midst of a true battlefield never this close to death.

Rowan ducked beneath an assassin’s swing, his blade slashing upward in a blur. "Stay low!" he barked, his voice tight with urgency. Sweat streaked his temple, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning every movement around them.

Lucien fought like a storm unleashed. His sword was an extension of his will, precise, brutal, unrelenting. He cut through two attackers as though they were shadows scattering before the flame, his cloak whipping with each turn. But even as he struck, his gaze flickered to Liora, never letting her vanish from his awareness.

A whistle split the air. Rowan’s head snapped up. "Above!"

Too late. An assassin leapt from the roof’s edge, blade angled straight for Liora. Her breath froze, legs refusing to move.

Lucien blurred forward, shoving her back so hard she stumbled to the ground. His sword caught the descending strike with a scream of steel. The impact jarred him, driving him to one knee, but he held firm, forcing the attacker back with a violent surge.

"You’re too exposed!" Lucien snarled at her, anger flashing as much from fear as from fury.

"I..." Her voice cracked, useless.

Rowan was already beside her, hauling her to her feet. "Stay behind me," he said, softer but no less sharp. His arm shielded her as another assassin charged.

The fight spiraled into chaos. Steel rang against steel. Cloaks billowed like black wings. The scent of iron and sweat thickened the night air.

Then came the shift. One assassin whistled sharply, and the others began to drive them inward, closing the circle tighter with each strike. They weren’t fighting to kill quickly. They were herding...forcing Lucien, Rowan, and Liora together into a trap.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. He pivoted, striking one down with a brutal slash, then pressed his back against Rowan’s. For a heartbeat, the two men stood as one, an unspoken understanding binding them in necessity.

"Keep her alive," Lucien ground out.

Rowan gave a sharp nod. "You keep yourself alive."

Another wave came. Three assassins lunged at once. Liora clutched her dagger, trembling, but when one’s blade skimmed too close, instinct flared. She slashed upward, wild and desperate. The knife caught flesh. The assassin hissed, stumbling back.

Her breath rushed out in a shock. She had struck him, truly struck him.

Lucien’s head snapped toward her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes fear, pride, and fury all tangled as one.

But there was no time to unravel it. The night thickened with enemies, the air heavy with the promise of blood.

And still, from the shadows, more figures emerged.

The real storm was only beginning.