As the turret door closed behind them, blocking the night wind and shadows, Aveline's heart still raced. Clutching the letter, her fingertips trembled as if the words—For poison. For blood. For the crown—still burned on the page. She dared not speak, finding a fleeting anchor in Lucian's grasp as he led her away.
Lucian marched her back to the bedchamber in silence, never releasing her hand. His expression was icy, eyes stormy, as if ready to summon a regiment to seal the turret. His silence oppressed Aveline more than any rebuke could. Only when the chamber door shut, enclosing them in stillness, did he finally speak, voice hoarse with restraint: "Have you lost your mind?"
Aveline met his gaze, her eyes as calm as a mirror: "If I hadn't gone, would you have told me? About the Mark of Fire, the chessboard you speak of, about my father and his secrets?"
Instead of answering, Lucian approached slowly, each step a weighed decision—steady yet dangerous. He stopped before her, reaching to cup her cheek. His hands remained warm, but beneath them simmered wordless anger.
"Your father is not who you think he is," he said, voice unnaturally low. "He was once part of the royal conspiracy. That fire mark? He branded it onto traitors with his own hand."
Aveline froze, as if a blade of ice had pierced her chest. She couldn't fathom her gentle, loyalty-renowned father being linked to betrayal and branding.
Lucian continued: "I meant to wait until you were ready, but you're too clever, too persistent... They've noticed your investigation."
"Who?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Lucian studied her for a long moment before uttering a name: "The Regent, Ealdred."
The name struck Aveline like thunder. Ealdred—her father's former comrade, now the kingdom's power core. How could he be the mastermind? The more she doubted, the clearer it became that truth lay buried under layers of mist.
"I must know everything," she declared firmly, brooking no argument. "I refuse to be a pawn."
Lucian looked at her, his gaze darkening: "If you insist, I can't stop you. But from now on, I'll protect you myself."
He leaned down to kiss her forehead. The kiss was gentle yet heavy, like a vow etched in flesh. Aveline closed her eyes, feeling the warmth and restraint in his breath—this restraint stirred her more than any physical touch.
She placed the letter on the table, bracing her hands against its surface. "What if I'm part of it too?" she whispered. "What if my father wasn't innocent?"
Lucian fell silent. He knew that once doubt took root, peace would never return.
She turned to him, vulnerability flashing in her eyes: "Will you regret standing with me?"
He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her. "If fate insists on dividing us, I'll choose my side myself."
They stood so close their breaths mingled. Aveline's lips nearly brushed his jaw as she spoke, soft yet provocative: "And tonight? Will you protect me as a knight... or comfort me as a man?"
Lucian laughed lowly, as if finally releasing taut control. He lifted her, laying her gently on the bed. His kisses trailed down her collarbone, her shoulder—slow, deliberate. By flickering candlelight, his hands wandered beneath her skirts, each touch unravelling her defenses. Aveline matched his rhythm, nails digging into his shoulders, their ragged breaths weaving into the night's hottest whispers.
Later, they slept embraced, their breathing intertwining in the dark. The scroll still lay on the table, candlelight unextinguished, its shadows dancing like flames—ready to consume it at any moment.
Aveline knew that from this night on, she was no longer the noblewoman who lingered in palace gardens.
She was a player on the chessboard, ready to strike back.