That night, the Blackthorne manor was wrapped in uneasy silence. The flickering glow of lanterns painted long, restless shadows across the walls.
Liora sat at a low table in her chamber, fingers hovering over a parchment she had yet to mark. Her thoughts refused to settle,images of Darius's smirk, the weight of a hundred noble eyes, the queen dowager's decree. Tomorrow, the Trials would strip away masks, and she feared what would remain exposed.
The door creaked. She looked up.
Lucien entered without ceremony, his cloak damp from the mist outside. His expression was severe, though his eyes lingered on her longer than usual, as if gauging whether she had broken under the day's events.
"You should rest," he said.
Liora let out a humorless laugh. "Rest? While the court sharpens blades behind our backs?"
He didn't answer immediately, only moved closer, placing a sealed scroll on the table between them. The wax bore the Blackthorne crest.
"What is this?" she asked.
