As the night deepened, the palace lights went out one by one, though a faint candle glow still seeped from the west corridor of the main tower. Aveline stood before the carved lattice window, her gaze the garden to rest on the long-abandoned old turret. Moonlight spilled over her bare shoulders, its silvery rays outlining her soft contours. After last night's chaos, she couldn't forget the mysterious figure in the black cloak—his silhouette, his stride, even the sharpness of his eyes when he turned, none of it belonged to an ordinary thief.
"He knew I was watching," she murmured, as if speaking only to herself.
Lucian was still asleep, his steady breaths drifting from the far side of the bed. The intimacy of last night lingered in the air: the creases by the bedside, the discarded tunic, and the faint sandalwood scent all set her heart aflutter. Gazing at his sleeping form, her eyes softened for a moment, only to be overshadowed by the unease in her thoughts.
She quietly draped a cloak over her shoulders and crossed the empty corridor toward the turret. She knew the guards' shift changes and which routes best avoided detection. Moving smoothly through the garden, she finally stood before the iron gate tangled in vines. The latch was rusted, yet unlocked.
The turret's interior was empty and cold, the stone floor echoing her steps. Dust-covered stairs wound upward, suggesting long abandonment. On the third-floor landing, Aveline noticed a slightly cleaner tile with recent wiping marks. Crouching to inspect it, she found a faint shoe print.
"Someone's been here—and more than once," she whispered, her gaze falling on a narrow door at the end of the left passage. Muffled echoes came from behind it. She held her breath, inching closer to listen, but heard only wind and the occasional creak of shifting beams.
As she stood to leave, a soft clatter sounded from behind the door—like metal scraping stone. She whirled, her heart pounding. Footsteps approached with a rhythmic pace. She ducked behind a stone pillar, slowing her breathing.
A tall man in a black cloak entered, his face hidden by the hood. He carried a small black case, moving with swift precision as if familiar with every turn. Aveline watched silently, waiting until he left before emerging from behind the pillar and rushing to the door.
It wasn't locked. She pushed in to find a hidden chamber with ancient crests embedded in the walls. On a tattered wooden table lay scrolls and unsealed wax letters. She picked up one inscribed with familiar Latin: "Ad venenum. Ad sanguinem. Ad coronam."
—For poison. For blood. For the crown.
Before she could read further, a low voice sounded behind her: "Places where one shouldn't be always hold things one shouldn't see."
She spun to find a shadow blocking the doorway.
Meanwhile, in the palace's main hall, Lucian opened his eyes and reached instinctively for the empty space beside him. Frowning, he felt that familiar unease creep up his spine. Throwing on a robe, he crossed to the window and scanned the garden toward the turret.
His eyes turned as cold as blades in the night wind. He knew Aveline wouldn't leave without reason, especially after last night. Yanking the palace bell, he ordered the guards: "To the turret—now."
In the turret's chamber, the cloaked figure advanced on Aveline. The air between them seemed to freeze. She stepped back instinctively, but he seized her wrist. Forcing calm, she demanded: "Who are you? Why break into the palace?"
Instead of answering, he leaned close to her ear: "Who do you think you are? Just another pawn on the board." His voice was low and strange, yet with a familiar lilt, like an unrecognized shadow from her memory.
Footsteps sounded outside—guards were approaching.
He released her, retreating into the darkness with one last words: "Ask your father. He knows the true meaning of the 'Mark of Fire'."
The door burst open, and Lucian charged in first. He saw Aveline standing disheveled in the chamber, still clutching the unread letter. When she looked up, her eyes held no panic—only an astonishing calm.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice firm, "about my father, the turret, and... this game that never ended."
Lucian said nothing. He approached, gently taking her hand and leading her from the chamber. He knew that from this moment on, they were plunged deeper into the vortex than ever imagined.