(Nyx POV)
The scrape behind the wall panel came again—soft, but real. Then another sound, faint but deliberate. Breathing.
Dorian froze mid-step, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing gold. His Lycan stirred just beneath his skin. Danger. Move. Now.
He signaled—two fingers raised, palm down. Eyes on me. Stay quiet.
I moved without thinking, years of training taking over. My hand went to my blade; I lowered my stance. The air felt charged, alive, heavy with the tension that only comes before violence.
Across the table, the retired King caught the signal. He didn't ask questions—just moved.
"Your Majesty," he said to the Queen, voice calm, almost conversational. "Perhaps the light would be better in the far archives."
The Queen's fan stilled, eyes narrowing just enough to understand. "Of course."
Through the link, her command rippled to her attendants. To the far shelves. Move quietly.
The women stood, their movements elegant but deliberate. A servant stifled a gasp when a goblet tipped—Dorian's mother caught it mid-fall without a glance.
Only Dorian and I remained near the sound. The only way out was the door Liora had used—or the tunnels behind the panels where that faint breath waited.
Perfect trap, Kelly muttered darkly, while stretching leisurely in my mind. I hope whoever's behind it likes sharp surprises.
Dorian's hand brushed my arm, grounding, then moved again—quick, precisely. Flank left.
I nodded once and moved.
He reached under his jacket and drew a blade—matte black, military issue. I blinked. Where the hell did that come from?
He caught my look. Trade secret.
He didn't hesitate. One swift kick—wood splintered as the panel cracked inward.
The assassin exploded from the wall in a blur of motion, twin blades flashing silver. He moved fast—too fast.
The first impact rang through the library like thunder. Steel met steel. Sparks flew.
Then came the sounds that always followed hand-to-hand combat—grunts, short and breathless. The dull thud of flesh meeting marble. The clang of a blade glancing off the edge of a table.
I ducked low, catching his leg with my boot, and drove a fist into his ribs. He grunted but didn't falter. Dorian's blade sang past my ear and caught the assassin's shoulder—bone cracked.
The mate bond strengthened our coordination. I'd never fought this seamlessly with anybody.
The man spun, elbowed Dorian hard in the jaw, then pivoted, blade slicing the air where my throat had been a heartbeat before.
I rolled left. The table crashed beside me, sending plates and silverware skittering across the floor. The scent of coffee and blood hit the air at once.
He was trained—very well trained. One of the best I'd seen. Every motion calculated, not reckless.
Dorian snarled—a low, guttural sound that wasn't entirely human—and lunged. The Lycan inside him surfaced in his strength. His arm shot out, catching the man mid-swing, dragging him back by the collar.
They hit the floor hard. Crack. The impact echoed through the marble.
I caught the rhythm of their struggle—grunts, a muffled curse, the quick hiss of breath through teeth. Dorian's blade scraped against the man's armor; I dove in from the side, boot connecting with his wrist. One dagger clattered away.
"Who sent you?" Dorian demanded, voice edged like steel.
The assassin just laughed, the sound dark and wet. "You think I'd tell you, wolf king?"
I slammed my forearm across his throat, pressing down. "You'll talk."
He twisted, growling, managing to shove me off balance. My shoulder hit the table. Pain flared, bright and hot—but I came up swinging.
He caught my wrist midair. Dorian drove his knee into the man's side; a sharp crunch followed. The assassin choked out a strangled sound but still smiled through blood.
He jerked suddenly—his jaw clenching.
"Pill!" I shouted.
Dorian's hand shot up, grabbing the man's chin, forcing his mouth open. I jammed my thumb into the nerve under his jaw; the cyanide capsule dropped, clinking against the floor.
The man's laugh broke into a cough. "You can stop one of us, not all."
Dorian struck once—clean, precise—to disarm him. The assassin hit the ground hard, gasping.
Then silence.
Only our breathing filled the room—ragged, uneven. The faint drip of spilled wine, the soft hum of the ceiling fans.
Dorian rose slowly, eyes molten gold. "He's good," he muttered. "Too good to be alone."
I crouched beside the body. A mark inked into the man's wrist—a fang encircling a crown. The same sigil as before.
Before I could speak, Cassian's voice ripped through the link, panting.
We're closing in now. Ran into a few distractions on the estate grounds. No survivors, we tried, but they had…
Dorian's mental tone turned razor-sharp. Cyanide tablets. Double perimeter. No one leaves. No one enters.
He cut the link and turned to me.
My heart still pounded as I wiped blood off my knife. The air smelled like iron and adrenaline.
I swallowed hard. "Before this happened… Liora looked at that wall. Right where he was hiding. She knew something."
He studied me, unreadable. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure she looked. I'm not saying she sent him, but…" I met his eyes. "She knew."
Dorian exhaled slowly, tension rippling under his skin. "Then she stays watched. Quietly."
He crouched again, examining the assassin's body. "Someone in this palace led him straight to us."
"Yeah," I said softly. "And they knew exactly where we'd be and what time."
His expression didn't change, but his tone cut like a blade.
"Coups happen every day in monarchies. It's not unexpected. What matters is how quickly we end this one."
His words sank into me like cold steel.
And I realized: the real war for this throne had just begun.