After the whole day of being tailed on, Lucian finally returned to his chambers and shut the heavy door of his chamber with a quiet click. The muted sound seemed to settle into the silence of the room like a stone sinking beneath still water. He leaned against the polished wood for a moment, head tilted slightly back, eyes closed. His breath, though measured, carried the faint weight of someone replaying an encounter over and over not in regret, but in analysis.
The knight's shadow still lingered in his mind, the faint pressure of the man's watchfulness, the deliberate way he had kept too close. Lucian exhaled, pushing himself away from the door, and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. His boots made no more sound than the whisper of cloth.
The chamber was dim; the late afternoon light filtered through half-drawn curtains, painting the stone walls in a muted gold. He set his gloves on the table and rested his fingertips on the polished surface, tapping once, twice, before straightening and moving to the writing desk near the window.
If Alistair wanted to play the game of shadows and spies, then it was only fair to return the courtesy.
Lucian drew a sheet of fine parchment from the stack, the sound crisp in the quiet. He uncapped the ink bottle, dipped the quill, and began to write not a confession, not a plan, but something that would look like harmless correspondence to the untrained eye. Lines of polite inquiry about trade shipments and market prices, worded with the casual ease of a man who might have distant contacts in the merchant quarter. It was, on the surface, dull.
At the very bottom of the letter, however, he let the quill hover for a breath before he added, in smaller, tighter script, a single name: GOT YOU. No more, no less.
When he was done, Lucian sat back in his chair, studying the ink as it dried. His lips curved faintly not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
"Erin," he called, without raising his voice.
The servant appeared almost instantly, as if waiting just beyond the door. "My lord?"
Lucian folded the letter with precise care, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with red wax. "Take this to one of the pageboys in the lower hall. Tell him it is to be delivered to the nearest merchant in the city, a matter of personal discretion."
Erin bowed, took the letter, and left.
Lucian rose from his seat, moving toward the window. Through the narrow gap in the curtains, he could see the distant stone arch of the palace's inner gate. It would be an hour, perhaps less, before the letter crossed that threshold if it made it that far at all.
The palace corridors were quieter than usual, the kind of stillness that settled in just before sunset. Erin's steps echoed faintly as he descended the stairwell to the lower halls. A pageboy, slight and bright-eyed, stood near the archway where the servants passed.
"This is for the nearest merchant in the city," Eren told him, handing over the sealed letter. "No detours."
The boy nodded quickly, tucking the letter into the inner fold of his tunic, and set off down the stone corridor toward the gate.
He had not gone more than twenty paces before a figure emerged from a side passage; tall, broad-shouldered, and with a face that was both too calm and too watchful. Corren, the knight.
The pageboy slowed instinctively. "Sir"
"I'll take that," Corren interrupted, his voice even. One gloved hand extended, palm up.
The boy hesitated only a second before pulling the letter free and placing it into Corren's hand. The man's gaze flicked over the seal, and something perhaps curiosity, perhaps calculation crossed his eyes. Without another word, Corren turned away, his boots striking a steady rhythm as he ascended a different corridor.
The light grew cooler as he walked, the sunset slipping deeper into the horizon. The hall narrowed, walls hung with crimson banners, until Corren stopped before a dark-stained door and rapped twice.
"Enter," came the voice from within.
Alistair's chambers were warm with candlelight, shadows licking the edges of the walls. The prince stood near the desk, sleeves rolled back, a goblet of wine in his hand. He turned as Corren entered, closing the door behind him.
"Did u find anything fishy?" Alistair's gaze was sharp.
Corren crossed the room, placed the letter on the desk. "Intercepted before it reached the gates, my lord."
Alistair broke the seal without ceremony. His eyes skimmed the neat lines of polite merchant talk, a faint curl of disappointment touching his lips. "This is totally useless," he muttered. He was about to crumple the parchment when his gaze caught on the final line.
The phrase. Got you.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to narrow. Alistair's fingers tightened around the paper, his eyes cutting to the man before him.
"Did he know?" Alistair's voice was quieter now, heavier. "Did Lucian know you were watching him?"
Corren's expression did not shift. "I can't say."
Alistair leaned back against the desk, turning the letter between his fingers. His mind began to trace the possibilities if Lucian knew, then this was no random phrase. And if this was no random phrase… then perhaps Lucian's alliances were not as shallow as he had assumed.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Alaric.
If Lucian and his dear brother were aligned in some way, then the game had just shifted.
Alistair's mouth curved into something that was not a smile. "So," he said slowly, "they want to play."
He set the letter down, reached for his goblet again, and took a slow sip. The candlelight caught the glint in his eyes sharp, intent, and dangerous.
"Then I'll make sure the next move would be more deadly."
He looks at the knight standing in confusion and said to him"Make sure you tail on him very discreetly and also make an eye on my brother, report every move and action they take. You can bring in some men if you want to but be sure you get the job done."
Coreen bowed his head and replied with a smirk" You can count on that, my lord."
"Good." Alistair said. "You may now leave"
"Sure, your highness." Corren bowed and headed over the door.