CHAPTER 195: WHO SENT YOU?

The clash rang through the Moon Pavilion like thunder breaking the stillness. Steel flashed, arrows whistled, and shadows bled from every corner.

Liora barely had time to duck as a blade sliced the air where her neck had been. Rowan’s hand snapped forward, catching the attacker’s wrist, twisting until bone cracked. The man screamed, cut short when Rowan’s dagger drove under his ribs.

Lucien’s sword gleamed in the firelight, every stroke measured and merciless. His presence was a wall; every enemy that dared to step close fell back, wounded or dead. Yet his movements carried no waste, no fury, only precision.

Liora clutched the dagger Rowan had given her, heart hammering, every breath raw in her lungs. She wasn’t meant for battle, but she refused to cower.

Another assailant lunged at her. She slashed wildly, catching his arm. He snarled, grabbing her wrist, forcing the blade toward her throat, until Lucien’s sword split through the man’s back, dropping him at her feet.

Their eyes met hers wide with fear, his burning with something darker, sharper. For a fleeting second, Liora felt protected, untouchable under that gaze.

"Stay close," Lucien commanded, voice low, dangerous.

Rowan’s laugh was bitter as he shoved another enemy aside. "You don’t get to order her around."

"Now is not the time for your pride," Lucien snapped, cutting down another soldier. "If she dies, everything dies with her."

Liora’s breath caught. She didn’t understand what that meant, everything dies with her but there was no chance to ask.

From the far end of the pavilion, a figure stepped forward. Unlike the others, this one didn’t wear a mask. His face was lean, with a scar across his cheek and eyes as cold as moonlight.

"Prince Blackthorne," the man called, his voice carrying over the chaos. "You should have stayed buried. The Council doesn’t forgive traitors."

Lucien stilled. Even the air seemed to stop moving around him.

Rowan’s grip on his dagger tightened. "You knew this would happen, didn’t you?" he hissed at Lucien.

"I suspected," Lucien answered, never taking his eyes off the scarred man. "But I didn’t know they’d be bold enough to strike here."

The scarred man drew his blade, the curved steel catching the lamplight. "The girl comes with us. Kill the rest."

Liora’s blood ran cold. The girl. They weren’t just here for Lucien. They were here for her.

The Pavilion floor had become a storm of steel and shadows.

Lucien’s blade caught the moonlight with every swing, precise and merciless. Rowan was a whirlwind, knives flashing from his sleeves, striking with almost unnatural speed. And Liora, though no warrior, moved with sharp instinct, grabbing fallen blades, blocking where she could, her breath ragged but her resolve unshaken.

The assassins were relentless. For every one that fell, another slipped from the darkness, their black masks gleaming with moisture from the night air. It was no mere ambush it was an extermination.

"They’re cutting off our retreat," Rowan shouted, his back slamming against Lucien’s as the circle tightened.

"I noticed," Lucien growled, shoving his sword through an enemy’s chest with ruthless precision. "This was meant to be our grave."

Another masked figure lunged at Liora. She raised her blade too slowly. Pain seared her arm as steel nicked her skin. The assassin’s follow-up slash never landed. Rowan was there, his knife sinking into the man’s neck before dragging her back against the Pavilion wall.

"You’ll get yourself killed," Rowan snapped, fury cutting through his voice.

"And you’ll get me smothered," Liora retorted, wrenching free. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the fire boiling in her chest.

Lucien spared them a glance, his jaw tightening. Even now, with blood and death around them, their defiance sparked, and somehow, it fed the flame in him that refused to yield.

The assassins pressed closer. Their leader stepped forward at last, his mask etched with silver lines like veins of frost. His stance was calm, too calm, and when he raised his hand, the fighting around them ceased.

Rowan froze. His knives lowered, though not by choice; something in the air shifted, pressing heavy on their lungs.

Liora’s heart hammered. This man wasn’t like the others.

Lucien leveled his sword, eyes like steel. "So. The dog finally shows his master’s teeth."

The masked man’s voice was low and measured. "No, Blackthorne. Not teeth. A blade meant to carve out the last of your defiance."

Then, faster than any of them could react, he struck.

Lucien barely caught the blow. The impact sent a shudder up his arm, steel screaming against steel. Sparks rained between them.

Rowan lunged to flank, but another assassin intercepted, dragging him into a vicious duel.

Liora, pressed against the wall, gripped her sword tighter. Her body screamed to flee, but her heart refused. She could not would not watch either man fall.

The Pavilion trembled under the force of the battle.

And somewhere beyond the walls, another shadow stirred, one that did not wear a mask but whose presence would change the balance of the fight entirely.

The air reeked of iron and smoke. The clash of steel against steel thundered through the pavilion, shattering the serenity of the moonlit gardens.

Rowan parried another strike, his breath harsh, his usually calculating movements now raw and desperate. His blade gleamed with each arc, carving down an assassin who lunged too close. Blood spattered across the polished tiles, mixing with shards of shattered lanterns.

Lucien fought with terrifying precision, his black cloak whipping behind him. His blade did not waste a single movement; every swing was meant to kill. But for every foe he cut down, another seemed to emerge from the shadows.

And Liora , gods, she fought like she was born for it. Her borrowed dagger flashed in the light, each strike guided not by training but by sheer determination. She had already torn through two attackers, her gown ripped at the hem, her hands slick with blood.

"You weren’t supposed to be here," Lucien barked, his blade severing a spear in half before running its wielder through.

Liora ignored him, twisting free from an assassin’s grip and plunging her dagger into the man’s throat. Her chest heaved, but her eyes burned with fire. "And leave you both to die? Never."

A harsh laugh cracked through the chaos. The assassins parted as a figure stepped forward taller than the rest, cloaked in crimson. His mask glinted under the moonlight, its carved grin mocking.

"Prince Blackthorne," the masked man drawled, his voice oily, venomous. "Still alive. What a pity." His gaze flicked to Rowan, then to Liora. "And the traitor...and the girl. All in one place. Fortune smiles tonight."

Lucien’s grip tightened on his sword. "Who sent you?"

The man chuckled. "A loyal hound never betrays his master. But know this your game ends tonight."

With a snap of his fingers, the remaining assassins surged like a tide, their blades aimed at the trio.

"Stay behind me," Lucien growled, stepping forward.

"No," Rowan snapped, shoulder brushing his as he lifted his own blade. "We fight together."

Liora raised her dagger, her knuckles white. "Then let’s end this."

The crimson-cloaked man lunged first, his sword striking Lucien’s with bone-shaking force. Sparks rained as the two locked blades, power against power, fury against fury.

Rowan leapt into the fray beside him, cutting down an attacker who tried to slip past Lucien’s guard. And Liora, her heart pounding and lungs burning, found herself back-to-back with Rowan, fending off a knife aimed for his ribs.

The Moon Pavilion, once serene and silvery under the night sky, had become a battlefield. And in its heart, three souls fought not only for survival but for each other.

Liora’s legs trembled beneath her, the uneven cobblestones slick with ash and blood. She swung the dagger with all her might, feeling the reverberation up her arm as it sliced across the masked man’s shoulder. He snarled, staggering back, and for a fleeting second she thought victory had come.

But then another shadow loomed taller, faster. A blade arced toward her throat.

Lucien was there before she could even scream. His sword met the strike with a thunderous ring, sparks spitting into the air. He shoved her back against the wall, his eyes glacial and burning at once.

"Stay alive," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Don’t you dare die here."

Before she could reply, Rowan’s voice cut through the chaos.

"Behind you!"

Lucien spun just as a spear lunged for his ribs. He blocked, the impact rattling his arm, but the force drove him a step back. Liora, still pressed to the wall, saw Rowan slash cleanly through the attacker’s arm, crimson spraying across the stone.

The air was thick with smoke and iron. The three of them moved in an unsteady rhythm, not practiced but desperate, Lucien’s blade drawing the enemy’s focus, Rowan carving through gaps, and Liora darting in with her dagger whenever an opening flashed.

But the assassins weren’t ordinary cutthroats. Their movements were too sharp, too disciplined.

And then came the one who led them.

From the far end of the square, a figure emerged, cloaked in black, his mask etched with silver lines. Unlike the others, he carried no blade, only a curved staff. With a subtle flick, it cracked the stone underfoot, the sound like a whip through the night.

The lesser assassins immediately fell back, circling their leader like wolves yielding to the alpha.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He raised his sword, keeping Liora shielded behind his arm. Rowan stepped closer, eyes narrowed, lips pulled in a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"So," the silver-masked man said, his voice smooth, almost mocking. "The fallen prince, the loyal hound, and the inconvenient girl. Fate does love irony."

The words slithered over Liora’s skin. She gripped her dagger tighter, though her hand trembled.

Lucien’s voice was cold steel. "Tell your master he should’ve sent an army, not scraps."

The man chuckled, lowering his staff slightly. "Oh, Lucien Blackthorne. You still think this is about you?" His head tilted, silver mask gleaming in the firelight. "It never was."

Before Lucien could demand more, the staff lashed forward, striking the ground with such force the stones split apart. A shockwave burst through the square, hurling all three of them off their feet.

Liora hit the ground hard, the air crushed from her lungs. As her vision blurred, she saw Lucien lunge back to his feet, sword raised, his eyes locked on the silver mask.

And in that suspended instant, before the clash resumed, she realized something chilling

The man’s gaze wasn’t fixed on Lucien.

It was fixed on her.