Days passed, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
The sword offered by the king still rested in the heart of the great hall, placed upright in a silver stand—a symbol of fragile peace. But not everyone saw it as such.
In the council chambers, documents passed, proposals reviewed, and emissaries met beneath guarded glances. Yet beneath the surface, tension simmered like a fault line waiting to rupture.
Lucien could feel it everywhere—in the hushed voices, in the sudden silences, in the way the guards' eyes lingered on strangers.
Even in the way Eiran gripped his hand just a little tighter each time they walked together.
"There's someone working against us," Eiran whispered one night as they sat before the fireplace. "Someone who wants this alliance to fail."
Lucien nodded. "I've felt it too. Whispers in the halls. Letters that vanish. Meetings that change time without word."
Eiran turned to him. "You think it's someone from your court?"
Lucien hesitated. "I think it could be someone from either court."
---
The next morning, the fire in the west wing erupted without warning.
Flames devoured two storerooms and part of the infirmary. No lives lost, but it was no accident. The guards confirmed what Lucien feared most: arson.
Someone had breached the castle defenses.
"Sabotage," General Hale said grimly. "And timed too well. Someone knew the guard rotation."
Lucien stood silent, jaw tight.
Eiran moved beside him, whispering, "We need to find out who. Before this becomes the excuse someone needs to reignite the war."
Lucien nodded. "Then we start inside. We trust no one until we're sure."
But even as he spoke the words, doubt coiled in his chest.
Because in war, trust was the first casualty.
---
That evening, as rain returned, Lucien stood beneath the eastern tower, looking at the courtyard scarred by fire.
"You're thinking too loudly," Eiran said as he approached.
Lucien gave him a tired smile. "I didn't know that was possible."
"It is when you wear your worry on your sleeve."
They stood in silence for a moment, until Lucien murmured, "What if we fail?"
Eiran didn't hesitate. "Then we fail trying to build something that mattered. Not destroy something that didn't."
Lucien looked at him. Really looked.
And the fear inside him lessened. Not disappeared. But softened.
Because in a world of broken loyalties and fragile treaties, at least this one thing between them felt real.
And for now, that would be enough.
---
Midnight brought a knock at Lucien's door.
Not the loud, urgent kind—but a measured, calculated one. The sort that knew it would be answered.
Lucien opened it to find Captain Thorne, eyes grim. "We found something."
Lucien followed him to the war room, where a satchel had been laid out on the map table. Its contents were few: a forged letter bearing Lucien's seal, a vial of shadowroot poison, and a list of patrol schedules—recent, detailed, deadly.
Eiran joined them moments later. One glance at the items, and his face hardened.
"This was planted," Lucien said. "Made to implicate me."
"But it had to come from someone close," Eiran added. "Someone with access to your seal and council notes."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "There's a traitor inside Ravencroft."
---
That night, Lucien paced his chamber, mind racing.
He tried to write a letter to his spies in the north, but the words refused to settle. All he could think of was how fragile everything had become—how close to shattering.
Eiran sat by the window, watching the moonlight paint silver across the floor.
"You're not sleeping," he said.
Lucien gave a hollow laugh. "Can you blame me?"
Eiran stood and walked over. "We've faced worse. We've been worse."
Lucien looked at him, the mask of command faltering. "But now I finally have something worth protecting. And I don't know how to hold on to it without breaking it."
Eiran reached out, taking his hand. "Then let me help you hold it."
Their fingers locked—anchor in the storm.
---
In the days that followed, the investigation deepened.
Two guards vanished during questioning. A servant turned up dead in the west hall. And whispers spread through the court like wildfire.
Lucien called a private council.
Only five people. Only those he trusted.
He looked at each of them and said, "Someone in this room is not who they claim to be."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Then—movement.
A dagger flashed.
Lucien moved faster.
Steel clashed. Chairs overturned. Blood sprayed across the council map as the traitor lunged—not for Lucien, but for Eiran.
Lucien blocked the strike, turning it aside. The dagger sliced his shoulder, deep.
Guards burst in seconds later, dragging the attacker down.
It was Lord Carwin.
The oldest ally of the Ravencroft name.
As he was hauled away, he shouted, "You've betrayed your blood! You side with the enemy! You will burn for this, Ravencroft!"
Lucien stood over him, breathing hard.
"No," he said coldly. "I've chosen peace. You chose war."
---
Later, as the wound on his shoulder was stitched, Lucien winced.
"You shouldn't have taken that blow for me," Eiran said.
Lucien looked at him. "You're wrong."
"Why?"
"Because this isn't just my future we're trying to change anymore."
He reached for Eiran's hand again.
"It's ours."
---
To be continued...