CHAPTER 207: BLACKTHORNE

The next morning broke with the first streaks of pale gold seeping through the heavy curtains of Blackthorne Manor. The silence in Lucien’s chamber was almost too thick, the kind that carried secrets like a second skin. Liora stirred, the memory of the previous night still lingering, Darius’s shadowed presence, Rowan’s grave warning, and the way Lucien had stood rooted in the garden as if shackled to a ghost.

She rose quietly, wrapping a shawl over her shoulders. But Lucien was already awake. He stood by the window, dressed, his back rigid, the faint light tracing the sharp lines of his jaw.

"You didn’t sleep," Liora whispered, stepping closer.

Lucien’s eyes remained fixed outside, on the frost-kissed garden. "Sleep is a luxury I lost long before you came here."

She hesitated, then asked, "Is it because of him? Because of Darius Vale?"

Finally, he turned. His gaze was unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of buried years. "You want the truth, don’t you? You’ve been walking blindly into a house of broken oaths and blood debts. You deserve to know."

Liora’s pulse quickened, but she held his stare. "Tell me, Lucien. What did he mean last night? Why does he call himself your brother?"

Lucien exhaled sharply, as if tearing open an old wound. "Because once...he was."

The words hung between them, sharp and cold.

"When I was a boy, Rowan’s father served my house. A loyal commander, bound to my father by oath and honor. His son, Darius, was brought to court with him. We grew together...ate at the same table, trained under the same masters. To the world, he was a servant’s son. To me, he was blood. My father knew of it, and he allowed it... until the truth came out."

"What truth?" Liora pressed, heart racing.

Lucien’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the windowsill. "That Darius was not only a soldier’s son, but my father’s bastard."

The silence shattered in her chest. Liora’s lips parted, her breath shallow.

"That makes him..."

"My half-brother," Lucien finished bitterly. "The one my father cast aside to preserve his precious throne. A stain on the Blackthorne name. He was given nothing, no title, no land, no recognition. Only a sword and a promise that he would serve. And he has hated me for it ever since."

Liora stepped back, the weight of the revelation pressing into her bones.

"And your first wife?" she whispered. "Was he..."

Lucien’s head snapped toward her, eyes flashing. "Don’t finish that." His voice was low, dangerous, but trembling at the edges. "Yes, he coveted her. Yes, he stood at her grave when I was accused of her death. And yes, I believe he had a hand in the scheme that ruined me."

Liora’s hands trembled, but she steadied herself. "So this isn’t just revenge. It’s family. It’s blood."

Lucien let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. "Family? No. He gave up that right when he chose the blade over brotherhood. He wants my ruin because it validates his claim to the shadows. He wants me broken so he can stand where I was denied."

Liora felt her chest ache. For a moment, she saw not the cold prince nor the disgraced man,but a boy who once trusted a brother, only to be betrayed.

She stepped closer, her voice soft. "And now he’s back. Which means he won’t stop until he’s taken everything from you."

Lucien’s gaze met hers, sharp as steel. "Which is why I need you, Liora. Not as my shield. Not as the pawn they sent you here to be. But as the only person left who hasn’t turned their blade against me."

The confession cut through her like fire, leaving her breathless.

Before she could answer, a knock shattered the moment. Rowan’s voice came through the heavy door it was grave, urgent.

"My lord. A messenger from the palace. The king demands your presence at once."

Lucien’s face hardened, his expression snapping back into the mask of the Blackthorne.

But Liora felt it, the tremor beneath the iron.

The council chamber fell into a tense silence, the echo of King Alden’s decree still hanging in the air. Lucien stood rigid, his jaw tight, while Liora felt her pulse racing. The weight of what had just been revealed, that Lucien’s disgrace was not only orchestrated, but that her family name had somehow been tied to the conspiracy pressed down on her chest like a boulder.

Alden’s eyes swept over the chamber, sharp and unforgiving.

"Lucien Blackthorne, you have lived under the shadow of treachery for too long. But now, truth begins to bleed through the lies. You will answer to me, and so will those who conspired against you."

Lucien’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Truth, brother? Or another convenient arrangement to save your throne?"

The court gasped at his audacity. Alden did not flinch.

"You mistake my patience for weakness. Do not forget, you stand in my hall only because I allowed it."

The clash of wills between the two brothers filled the room with invisible fire.

But then, Darius Vale stepped forward. His presence was quiet, yet commanding, and all eyes turned toward him.

"Perhaps it is time," he said slowly, his voice carrying like a calm storm, "to uncover what has been buried in shadow for too long. The truth will not only absolve the innocent, but condemn the guilty. And I suspect the guilty sit closer than any of us would like."

A murmur rippled through the council. Several nobles shifted uneasily, as though his words had pierced through their silk robes and struck their hidden bones.

Liora couldn’t take her eyes off Darius. There was something unnervingly measured about him, as if every word he spoke was both a revelation and a warning.

Queen Ellora leaned forward, her jeweled fingers clasped tightly on the armrest of her chair. "And what truth would that be, Lord Vale? Do not play at riddles."

Darius inclined his head.

"Very well. The death of Lady Seraphine, the late Princess, Lucien’s wife, was no mere tragedy of jealousy and rage. It was designed. It was placed carefully into his hands, so the kingdom would see him as a murderer and an outcast."

The chamber exploded in whispers. Lucien’s fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw working furiously.

"And who," he said through gritted teeth, "placed that dagger in my hand, Lord Vale?"

Darius’s gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward Queen Dowager Lilian.

The chamber froze.

Liora’s breath caught, and she glanced instinctively at the queen dowager. Lilian’s face did not waver, but her eyes, sharp as a falcon’s, narrowed at Darius.

"You dare," she hissed, her voice deceptively calm, "to speak my name in this court as though I were some common schemer?"

"I dare to speak the truth," Darius replied, his voice steady. "Because the truth does not bow, not even to crowns."

Alden’s expression hardened, torn between disbelief and the faint flicker of suspicion. He turned to Lilian, his tone laced with warning.

"Is this true, Aunt?"

The dowager queen rose gracefully, her silken gown whispering against the marble floor.

"My king," she said, her voice a velvet blade, "I raised you when your mother was gone. I shielded you when vipers circled this throne. And now, because of this man’s insinuations, you question me?"

Her eyes swept over the chamber like a storm cloud.

"Do not forget, without me, neither you nor your throne would have survived the chaos of succession."

Lucien’s voice cut through her speech like a knife.

"And yet you destroyed me."

The tension was unbearable. The nobles held their breath, knowing that what came next could change the kingdom forever.

And in the middle of it all, Liora realized something, this wasn’t just Lucien’s fight anymore. Her family’s betrayal, her parents’ deaths, even her own forced marriage into disgrace, it all tied back to the same dark web that was now unraveling before her eyes.

She took a small step forward, her voice trembling but clear.

"If the dowager queen truly had no hand in this," she said, "then let her prove it. Let her face inquiry, as Lucien has been forced to do for years. Why should she stand above suspicion when the rest of us are crushed beneath it?"

The chamber erupted once more, half in shock, half in approval.

Lilian’s gaze snapped to Liora, sharp and venomous.

"You insolent girl..." she whispered.

But Liora didn’t falter. For the first time, she felt the weight of her voice, not as someone discarded, not as a concubine, but as someone who had the power to shatter the silence.

And in that moment, Lucien looked at her, not with anger, nor suspicion, but with something closer to pride.

The silence in the carriage stretched thin as Lucien’s hand finally withdrew from the curtain. His jaw was set, but his eyes had gone distant, as if the streets of Valebridge had dragged him back into a past he had buried too deep.

Liora, who had watched the shadow of pain flicker across his features, touched his arm lightly.

"Lucien," she murmured, careful not to startle him, "you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

His lips curved into a bitter half-smile. "Not a ghost, Liora. A reminder."

The wheels jolted as the carriage turned into a quieter road lined with tall houses. Lucien did not speak again until they stopped before an inn that seemed far too modest for a man of his name. He gestured for her to follow, and together they entered through a discreet side door.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of herbs and old wood. A cloaked man rose from a corner table, his presence commanding though his movements were quiet. His face bore the stern edges of one who had seen too many battles, and his eyes, cold grey, narrowed the moment they fell on Lucien.

"Blackthorne," the man said, voice low but edged.