The palace was never truly silent. Even in its deepest hours, the walls seemed to breathe a faint groan of ancient timber, a whisper of wind through distant corridors. Tonight, Lucian felt each sound as if it were meant for him alone.
He sat in the dim wash of candlelight in his study, fingers pressed together beneath his chin. The soft gold glow traced the delicate arches of his knuckles, but his mind was elsewhere replaying every encounter he'd had with the three men who could most easily decide his fate.
Alaric, the cold crown prince with eyes like tempered steel, who looked at him as though waiting for the moment Lucian's mask would slip. Alistair, all sharp teeth and restless hunger, circling him like a predator that couldn't decide whether to kill or kiss. Sebathine, the general whose silence was never empty, whose gaze could pin him to the spot without a single word.
Lucian's lips curved faintly, though there was no mirth in it. He did not suspect them not in the way one suspects a guilty hand. But the longer he stayed, the more he understood that their patience had limits. And limits, once reached, had a habit of ending in blood.
If they ever decided he was more trouble than he was worth, it would be quick. A body found in the river. A quiet explanation, politely mourned, swiftly forgotten.
That could not be allowed.
He leaned back, letting his eyes drift to the papers strewn across his desk — official accounts of the court party where Reniel had died. Attendance lists, departure times, witness statements. All neat columns of ink, perfectly arranged. And all utterly useless.
The report claimed Reniel had been alone when he fell. A tragic accident, nothing more. But Lucian remembered something else. A shape, a flicker of movement at Reniel's side just before the scream tore through the night.
He had not spoken of it to anyone.
His quill lay beside an unfinished note. The handwriting dragged slightly, the letters uneven where his thoughts had wandered. He had been attempting to align the records, match statements to the night's timeline. And there — in the neat pattern of names and hours — was a gap.
A guest had been seen near the balcony minutes before the commotion. Yet, in the official record, their name was absent. Conveniently so.
Lucian tapped the quill against his palm, a slow rhythm that matched the quickening beat of his pulse. Whoever that shadow had belonged to, they had not wanted to be seen. That was not the behaviour of a careless reveler. That was the behaviour of someone who understood the power of silence.
He exhaled, the sound soft but deliberate.
Patience would get him nowhere.
If he asked questions directly, suspicion would harden around him like a noose. He could not accuse — not without proof. But proof had a way of revealing itself when the right pressure was applied.
And there were three people in this palace whose reactions to such pressure would be… telling.
He didn't need to suspect them to use them.
He just has to bring them out from their hidden caves.
The candle's flame wavered as he stood. His study was warm, but beyond its door, the corridor breathed cold against his skin. The palace was different at night — less gilded, more honest. The painted ceilings and marble columns gave way to shadow and creak, to the skeletal quiet of a place at rest.
The library lay at the far end of the north wing. It welcomed him with its familiar scent of ink, leather, and dust. The tall windows were black mirrors, reflecting only the faint glow of wall-mounted sconces.
Lucian moved between the shelves, trailing his fingers along the polished wood as if in thought. In truth, he was counting the corners, the alcoves, the places where someone could stand unseen.
He sat at one of the central tables, pulled a sheet of parchment toward him, and dipped the quill in ink. This time, the script that formed was not his own. He shaped the letters with a different slant, a heavier hand, pausing now and then to smudge a stroke as though written in haste.
I know the truth about what happened on the balcony.
That was all. No name. No demand. Just enough to stir unease.
The trick was not in what it said, but in what it implied that someone had seen, someone had proof, and someone was willing to use it.
He folded the paper neatly, leaving it unsealed. In the morning, it would find its way into a place where all three might stumble upon it. Not directly. No, that would be too obvious. Better to let it drift into their periphery, to let them wonder whether it was meant for them at all.
The first to react would tell him everything he needed to know.
Then a floorboard creaked.
Lucian's head lifted, eyes scanning the darkened rows. The sound had come from the far left corner — the one swallowed deepest by shadow.
"Who's there?" His tone was mild, almost curious.
Silence.
He rose, each step slow, measured. The shadows shifted slightly with the sway of the sconces. No figure revealed itself.
And yet…
He stopped halfway across the room. For a heartbeat, it was there — a darker shape within the dark, poised just beyond the reach of the light. The same trick of the eye he had seen on the balcony that night.
By the time he blinked, it was gone.
Lucian's pulse did not quicken, though the candlelight behind him shivered. He turned away, sliding the folded letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
Perhaps it had been nothing more than a trick of the candlelight.
Perhaps not.
Lucian moved quickly, his steps silent against the cold stone as he turned down the corridor, eyes scanning the wavering dark ahead. The air felt tighter here, heavy with something unspoken.
A shape flickered at the far end—there, and then quiet...
The silence swallowed him whole.
The thought crept in, unbidden, as his breath slowed.
The shadow had been watching and might know something.
And if it had chosen him, it would not vanish. Not until it decided to strike.