CHAPTER 156: WHEN SECRETS BURN

[Lavinia’s Pov]

Osric’s question still hung in the air like the ghost of a dagger not thrown.

"Why do you need information about Elaenia, Lavi?"

I didn’t answer at first.

I couldn’t.

Because how was I supposed to explain it? That something about her—her background, her very presence—itched beneath my skin like an invisible thread pulling at the seams of the Empire. That a girl meant to be adopted by the Marquess Everett ended up in Count Talvan’s manor under a new name with a rewritten past?

That wasn’t fate.

That was manipulation.

But I said none of this.

Osric’s gaze stayed on me—steady, unreadable, waiting.

"Do you..." he began again, slower this time, "do you find something unusual in her?"

Still, I didn’t speak.

Marshi flicked his tail, sensing the tension like an aristocrat detecting scandal. Solena fluffed her wings once and tilted her sharp golden head toward me, quiet and watchful like a divine witness to truth not yet spoken.

Then Osric stepped forward, his voice dipping lower—gentle, careful, cutting through the quiet.

"Lavinia... If she’s threatening you... if you’re in danger—"

"She’s not threatening me," I snapped—too fast, too sharp.

He flinched. And I exhaled, trying to smooth the edges of my voice. "I’m sorry. I just..." I trailed off, fingers tightening around the edges of my cloak. "The information we’ve received so far—it’s too clean. Too perfect. It reads like a bedtime story made for adults. It’s too right. And that’s what’s wrong."

He frowned. "But why? Why would someone fabricate a past for her? She’s never acted suspicious, Lavi. You didn’t even meet her properly, and she seems... harmless. Kind."

The way he said it.

Soft. Gentle. Almost protective.

It hit something I didn’t know was sore.

I looked at him.

Hard.

"You’re defending her when you didn’t even meet or talk to her?" I asked.

His brows drew together. "I’m not—"

"But it seems like it, Osric."

"I’m just saying maybe she’s not the monster you think she is."

I stared at him longer, my thoughts spiraling quietly.

Is that how it starts?

A look. A whisper. An invisible thread pulling people toward each other like characters fulfilling some unwritten fate? Are the gods nudging them into each other’s arms while I stand here, trying to burn the script?

Is that how it starts? A glance. A kindness. A fate neither of them chose but somehow feel?

I didn’t know.

But I knew how I felt right now.

Tense.

Hollow.

And just a little cold.

"Osric," I said softly, voice barely above a breath. "Do you trust me?"

He froze.

And then—without hesitation—he reached forward and clasped my hand, warm and steady and grounding.

"I trust you more than anyone in this world, Lavi," he said. "Always."

And that warmth—it spread. From his palm into my skin, into my chest, into the hollow ache I didn’t want to name.

I smiled faintly. Just for a second.

"Then trust this," I said. "Something about her isn’t right. Her sudden adoption by Count Talvan, the way her past has been scrubbed clean... It’s not normal, Osric. It’s not safe. And if someone’s hiding her real history, it means they have something to protect. Or something to use."

He looked down at our joined hands. Then back up.

"You think this could threaten the Empire?"

I nodded. "Or us. Or both."

He let out a long, tired breath. "You’re terrifying when you get serious."

"Thank you. I practice."

He chuckled. Just once. Then he gave a slight nod. "Alright. I won’t ask again."

I squeezed his hand gently. "Good."

Then I whispered, more to myself than to him—"Because I need to know who she really is... before it’s too late."

The girl was supposed to live quietly in a distant village. Forgotten. Unimportant. So how did she end up here?

In the capital.

Under Count Talvan’s roof.

With an entirely new name and status. Even in the original story, the Marquess Everett only adopted her after Osric and she were officially engaged, and that too happened when I got disowned by Papa.

So what changed in her life?

What shifted the timeline?

Before I could spiral further into that unsettling web of questions, a voice drawled, far too pleased with itself.

"You two argue like a married couple."

We both flinched.

And turned.

Rye Morven stood exactly where we’d left him—sprawled across his velvet settee like a smug, scandal-loving housecat. His ocean-blue eyes sparkled with wicked delight.

"So tell me," he continued, cocking his head like a gossip columnist with too much power, "is the Lord Osric and our dearest Crown Princess... involved?"

I blinked.Osric choked on air.

"No." I said flatly, cutting him off before he could push that dangerous, tantalizing string further. "Do the job you were paid for, Rye. Stick to secrets. Not soap opera commentary."

Rye raised both hands in mock surrender, the picture of a man being absolutely not sincere.

"Yes, yes, Your Highness," he said, grinning, "this humble servant apologizes. I’ll keep my nose in the business you assigned me. But..."

He stood. Slow. Dramatic. Clearly auditioning for a role in an opera he wrote himself.

And then—

He stepped forward.

Too close.

His voice dropped into velvet and mischief as he looked at me—eyes glinting like someone about to say something both scandalous and deeply unnecessary.

"...I must say, Princess. It will be a tragic day indeed when the world learns that your heart has already been stolen. So many suitors, so many hopeful hearts... and all of them left thirsty for a single drop of your affection."

I stared at him.

Blankly.

Absolutely stunned into silence for a full three seconds.

Then—

"...So cringe," I muttered, turning on my heel. "I need an exorcism. Preferably now."

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

I didn’t look back, just waved a hand dismissively over my shoulder. "I expect results within the week, Morven. I don’t like waiting. And I definitely don’t like flirts with delusions of grandeur."

Osric followed, his boots stomping behind mine with the grace of a thundercloud.

And just as we reached the stairs, I heard the low growl from beside me:

"I. HATE. HIM."

I blinked innocently. "Who?"

Osric’s jaw tightened. "That peacock in silk."

Solena, the majestic golden warbird perched on his shoulder, fluffed her feathers in solemn agreement—as if she too had declared Rye Morven an official enemy of the crown.

I glanced sideways.

Osric wasn’t saying anything else, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me—like his thoughts were knocking on the edge of his tongue, demanding to be asked.But he said nothing.

Good.

Because I wasn’t ready to explain the uneasy swirl in my chest when it came to Elaenia Talvan.

"So..." he finally said, shifting uncomfortably as we exited the underground lair of velvet betrayal. "Are we going back now?"

I blinked up at him.

And gave him my most innocent, suspicious smile.

"Oh... but I wanted to enjoy a little first."

His brows furrowed in immediate suspicion.

"Enjoy?"That one word was loaded like a crossbow bolt.

I nodded—too quickly. Too brightly.

And then dramatically spun on my heel, flinging my arms wide like I was presenting a kingdom on sale.

"Look!" I said, pointing down the cobblestone street where fireworks sparkled, music echoed, and people danced like taxes weren’t real. "My people are celebrating my first crawl. And I want to see how they party."

Osric looked like I’d just declared we should invade a kingdom using glitter and feelings.

"Lavinia... there are hundreds of people. Noise. Potential threats. No official guards. His Majesty will—"

I cut him off with the grace of a seasoned escape artist.

"Oh, relax. Papa’s probably still trapped in that soul-crushing diplomatic meeting about border taxes and bread regulations."

I turned to him with pleading eyes that had, over the years, won me pastries, ponies, and temporary pardons.

"Just two hours. Two. I swear on Marshi’s fluffy butt."

Marshi, who had just poked his head out of my satchel, blinked slowly like he regretted every life choice that led him here.

Osric gave a long-suffering sigh—the kind that sounded like it had personally carried me through every bad idea since childhood.

"Your definition of ’two hours’ is... historically inaccurate."

"That’s not true!" I gasped.

He looked at me like that only proved his point.

Solena, apparently thrilled by the noise of the festival, flapped her golden wings with a dramatic flourish. A cluster of children squealed with delight, pointing at her like she was the Empire’s newest, shiniest parade float.

Osric dragged a hand down his face like he’d aged ten years in two minutes.

"Fine," he muttered. "But we’re returning to the palace as soon as possible. Before His Majesty finds out—"

"No promises!" I chirped, already skipping toward the celebration like a menace in boots.

Osric groaned.

But he followed.

Of course he did.

Because no matter how much he grumbled, complained, or glared—He was always right there beside me.

Even when I was dancing headfirst into chaos.