Chapter 2: Smoke Beneath the Throne (Part 2)
1368 Words
Chapter 2: Smoke Beneath the Throne (Part 2)
****Lucien’s POV****
Lucien Avelar stood in the high chamber of the royal observatory, though he wasn’t looking at the stars.
He watched the smoke instead—curling far in the distance, rising from the lower tiers of Aurelion like the kingdom itself had begun to smolder from within. The city looked beautiful from here: stone towers lit by flame, a thousand windows like stars, domes glinting gold under the waning sun. But Lucien knew better.
Beauty was often a veil for rot.
He was dressed not as a king, but as a shadow—black doublet, no crown, no guards at his back. Cassian had joined him minutes earlier, silent as always, a leather-bound report in his hand.
Lucien didn’t turn when he spoke. “How many dead?”
Cassian flipped the report open. “Seven. Three of ours. Four civilians. Market square, level three district. Poison gas bomb hidden beneath a vendor cart.”
Lucien’s jaw tensed.
“And the culprit?”
Cassian hesitated. “No signature. But the compound was traced to one of Kael Dravien’s old forges.”
Lucien finally turned, face like carved obsidian.
“He’s bold,” Lucien murmured. “Sloppy, but bold.”
“Or,” Cassian added quietly, “he wants us to believe it was him.”
Lucien crossed the room and poured two fingers of dark whiskey into a crystal glass. “Dravien is a war dog,” he said. “Brute force is his answer to every wound. This…” He gestured toward the city. “This is too theatrical. Too layered.”
“You think Mireille?”
Lucien sipped. The fire down his throat was sharp—bracing.
“She prefers to bleed empires through a thousand paper cuts. But it’s possible. She’s been weaving her strings tighter each week. Spymasters. Ministers. Even my steward’s sister.”
“She sent you a letter,” Cassian said, producing a small, lavender-scented envelope. “Unsealed.”
Lucien raised a brow and took it. The wax bore her crest—thorns wrapped around a mirror. A fitting emblem for a woman who knew how to reflect power back at those who wielded it.
He broke the seal, scanning the elegant handwriting. It was vague, as always. A formal request for audience. A subtle barb at his “isolation” from court. A reminder of the old promises their houses once shared.
And at the bottom:
The throne is only as strong as the hands beneath it. Careful who you let near yours.
– M.
Lucien crumpled the letter without expression and tossed it into the fire.
“She plays her hand early,” Cassian muttered.
Lucien studied the flames. “No. This is just the foreplay.”
---
Later that evening, Lucien walked the halls of the palace in silence.
The Court of Thorns—the inner sanctum of his rule—lay deep in the heart of the Citadel. Here, no one spoke freely. Not even nobles. Whispers carried too well in stone.
As he passed the columns, his mind drifted—not to Kael or Mireille, but to the girl from the apothecary. Elara.
He had reviewed the reports a dozen times since Cassian brought them. Her records—or lack thereof. Her uncanny resemblance to Queen Seraphine of the fallen House Varyndor. The scar on her wrist—same as the mark left by the fire that killed the royal family.
She shouldn't exist.
And yet she did.
Cassian had already dispatched a quiet agent to Eldhollow to retrieve her locket. The crest inside it—it would confirm everything. Or nothing.
Lucien didn’t believe in coincidences.
But he also didn’t believe in fate.
So what was she?
---
He entered the War Room without announcing himself. A half-dozen advisors straightened, startled. At the far end, Lord Merren—a thin, balding noble with ink-stained fingers and a perpetual smirk—was already halfway through a report.
“My King,” Merren stammered, “we weren’t expecting—”
“Clearly,” Lucien cut in. “Continue.”
Merren swallowed. “The mines to the north are requesting increased guard presence. There’s talk of rebellion—miners citing unsafe working conditions, withheld wages—”
“Send them food,” Lucien said. “And water from the royal wells. Enough to last a week.”
Merren blinked. “You—You want to reward them?”
“No,” Lucien said coolly. “I want to lull them. Feed a starving dog, and he forgets he has teeth.”
Merren nodded hastily.
Lucien turned his gaze to the rest of the council. “Next.”
Another advisor—Lady Amira—cleared her throat. “There’s unrest in the port cities, Your Majesty. Rumors of smuggling, cartel formations outside our networks. They’re branding crates with an unknown sigil. A red falcon.”
Lucien’s knuckles tensed.
“Red falcon?” he repeated.
Amira nodded. “Yes. It doesn’t match any known family crest or guild.”
Lucien’s thoughts narrowed to a single image: a sigil he hadn’t seen since the early days of his rule. It had belonged to a crime family he thought he’d extinguished—thought.
“Double the surveillance,” he said. “And send a warning to the harbor masters. If they take silver from unknown hands, they forfeit their tongues.”
The table fell silent.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. The leather of his gloves creaked softly. “The kingdom is beginning to smoke. I want no sparks.”
---
Hours later, Lucien sat alone in the Shadow Vault—a secret chamber beneath the palace reserved only for him and Cassian. Here, maps of every trade route, city, stronghold, and smuggling ring were pinned across the stone walls. Threads of crimson connected allies. Threads of black marked enemies.
And one thread—silver, glinting in the lantern light—had just been added.
It trailed from the capital… to Eldhollow.
To her.
Cassian entered without knocking. “Word from the spy.”
Lucien looked up.
Cassian dropped a bundle onto the desk. Wrapped in black silk. Inside it: the locket.
Lucien opened it slowly, heart unusually still. Inside, the crest gleamed—aged but intact.
A crown. Two crossed blades. Ivy twining them like vines around a tomb.
He stared at it for a long time.
“The seal of House Varyndor,” he said at last.
Cassian exhaled.
“That girl,” Lucien said quietly, “is the daughter of the last queen.”
“Aurelion thinks she’s dead.”
“So did I.”
Lucien stood slowly, spine stiff as a blade. “If she lives, others may know. If others know—”
“She becomes a symbol,” Cassian finished. “To the rebels. To the nobles who hate you. To Mireille.”
Lucien’s eyes darkened. “And to Kael.”
He paced once, then stopped. “I need to see her again. With my own eyes.”
Cassian raised a brow. “You’ll go to Eldhollow?”
“No,” Lucien murmured. “She’ll come to me.”
Cassian tilted his head. “How?”
Lucien turned to the map, his eyes falling to the silver thread. “Send word to Eldhollow. A royal summons. Official. Undeniable. Tell them we need an apothecary to treat an ailment within the royal house. No name. No context.”
Cassian was silent for a beat. “You want to bring her into the palace.”
“I want to see what she remembers,” Lucien said. “If anything.”
“And if she’s a threat?”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Then she never leaves the palace again.”
---
But in the back of his mind, buried behind strategy and blood, a sliver of something else stirred.
When she’d touched his hand to pass him that tonic…
Her fingers had been warm.
Her eyes—familiar, somehow.
Not just royal.
But... known.
He didn’t believe in fate.
But perhaps fate believed in him.
And perhaps, just this once, it was about to set fire to his kingdom.
- Writer
