Beneath the false face lie not just secrets, but desires.
The royal palace in the afternoon slumbered like a dormant beast—peaceful on the surface, yet undercurrents swirling. Sunlight gilded the vaulted ceilings, doves fluttered from the courtyard, while Aveline paced through the rose-lined gallery of the royal garden, each step measured to a calculated rhythm.
Her ankles hadn't fully recovered from the previous night's entanglement, each stride accompanied by a faint tug, but she forced herself to walk upright and steady. She must quickly adapt to this "Aveline" body and make everyone believe she was not a spoiled puppet princess, but a worthy adversary to fear.
Her goal was clear: uncover what had happened to the deceased "Aveline" and understand why she'd been thrust into this storm of political marriage.
The first step: start with the maids.
Returning to her chamber, she dismissed all attendants except the youngest maid, Mai—a new recruit untouched by the palace's complex intrigues.
"Mai," she sat by the window, gazing at the girl gently, "how long have you served Princess Aveline?"
The girl was visibly nervous, her voice a near-whisper: "Since Her Highness returned to the palace last month... I was assigned to attend her then."
"Was there a difference between her at that time and me now?"
Mai wrung her apron, hesitating before replying: "The princess used to... cry often. Especially at night, she hated being alone. I didn't dare ask, but I remember she'd burn letters and hide knives at night."
Aveline started.
Burning letters. Hiding knives.
These were not the acts of a meek princess.
"Did anyone visit her?" she pressed. "Secretly, at night or during the day."
Mai shook her head, then suddenly whispered: "Only once, a man in a black robe came through the window. He didn't enter, just spoke a few words outside—his voice was unclear. That night, the princess... she cried all night."
Aveline's heart clenched.
A midnight visitor in black, burned letters, a girl who wept and hid blades.
The real Aveline wasn't a defenseless princess; she'd likely sensed she'd become a sacrificial pawn and struggled desperately before fate's blade fell.
Her death had been too quiet—unnaturally so.
As night fell, the palace sank into a stillness)woven of gold and shadow. Aveline soaked in a hot spring dotted with floating petals, letting the fragrance mask her subtle tremors. She shouldn't fear, but she knew that if truth were an iron door, Lucian Vatar was the sharpest lock before it.
He wasn't just her "husband"—he was the war god who held military power and the kingdom's life-and-death authority. He trusted no one, felt no affection, yet seemed to show unexplained interest and tolerance toward her—the "impostor".
The water rippled as she heard footsteps halt outside the chamber.
Lucian stood in the doorway, his broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted form casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Unarmored, he wore a loose white shirt with undone collar buttons, baring the lines of his collarbone and pectoral muscles. His gaze remained unfathomable, but tonight it held an indefinable hesitation.
His eyes flashed coldly. He suddenly leaned down, one hand dipping into the water, fingertips brushing an old scar on her shoulder. The motion wasn't rough—almost tender in its slow, patient suggestiveness—yet all the more unsettling.
[Avel—] His hand stilled.
Beneath the candlelight, her pale form rippled in the water like a volcano, its calm surface hiding lava capable of destruction.
Lucian suddenly laughed. He stood, turning to leave, his tone laced with a newfound interest and wariness: "Very good. More... appealing than I expected."