Chapter 11: Chapter Ten – Cracks in the Crown

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The Court of Veradell shimmered like a jewel dipped in poison.

Gold-gilt archways cast long shadows across polished marble; chandeliers swayed overhead with delicate menace. Nobles moved in silks and velvets, laughter ringing out like bells, but every word was weighed, every glance a blade half-drawn. This was not a court — it was a performance. And its star had begun to falter.

Prince Lucien Daevarion stood at the center of it all, surrounded yet somehow alone. His smile was sharp as ever, his coat trimmed in obsidian velvet — effortless, magnetic, and wrong.

Because no matter how he moved, how he laughed, how he commanded the attention of the chamber…

He felt it.

A tremor.

A crack.

Amara watched from a distance, dressed in a wine-red gown threaded with silver thorns. Her expression was unreadable, her posture perfect. But in her chest, something cold and quiet unfurled — not triumph, not yet. Anticipation.

She wasn’t the only one watching.

Kael stood by the far window, as shadows always did — near enough to act, far enough to disappear. His gaze, unreadable to most, lingered only once: when she passed. A subtle nod. No words. No need.

The rumor had started three days ago.

A merchant house in the western territories had filed a dispute over unpaid tariffs. Harmless on the surface — until the filings, traced back, led to a hollow company name.

And that name… was listed under a royal sigil.

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Now, whispers moved like wildfire.

“Have you heard about the audit?”

“Who pushed the clause forward? No one’s invoked it in a century—”

“Surely the Crown knew?”

“Or pretended not to.”

Lucien’s smile had held. At first. But now, the angles of his face seemed tighter. His gaze flicked too quickly, his fingers tapped just once too often against the hilt of his ceremonial sword.

He found her. Of course he did.

Their eyes locked across the marble floor — predator and prey, though neither seemed quite sure who was which anymore.

“Lady Lysenia,” Lucien said as he approached, voice honeyed with warning. “You look... ravishing tonight. Like a storm, caught mid-step.”

Amara tilted her head. “Your Highness.” Her voice was smooth, respectful — and absolutely void of fear. “Storms often arrive without invitation. But I assure you, they are always planned.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. There it was. That flicker of unease.

“I hear strange winds have been stirring in the courts,” he said, smile thin. “Ancient laws. Forgotten loopholes. Very curious.”

She met his gaze without blinking. “History remembers everything, Your Highness. Even the laws we bury.”

A silence stretched — not long, but long enough to draw eyes.

Lucien’s voice dropped, just above a whisper. “Do I know you?”

Amara’s heartbeat did not quicken. Her lips curled, slowly. “That depends,” she said. “Do ghosts keep you up at night?”

Lucien stepped back before he realized it. The space between them widened — not just physical, but political, symbolic. And the court saw it. Every observer. Every whisperer. Every hidden enemy.

The crack widened.

Later that night, in the quiet corridors behind the throne room, Kael found her standing beside a long-dead portrait.

“He’s unraveling,” he said.

“He’s starting to remember,” she replied, eyes fixed on the painting — a queen long gone, her face strikingly similar to Amara’s.

“He’ll come for you.”

She nodded once. “Let him. But not as a prince.” She turned to him. “As a man who doesn’t know how to win unless he’s already holding the knife.”

Kael studied her. “And what are you holding?”

She smiled faintly. “The sheath. And the law that says he’s not allowed to draw it anymore.”

They stood in silence, two shadows planning the fall of a sun.

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