Chapter 122: The Step That Follows the Fall
Chapter 121: The Step That Follows the Fall
"What comes next?"
Lucian’s voice broke the brief lull that had settled after Evander’s words, his tone carrying both impatience and a quiet edge of challenge.
Evander did not answer immediately.
Instead, he rolled his eyes.
"Truly?" he said at last, his tone laced with dry disbelief. "You are meant to be one of the more perceptive men in this chamber, Lucian."
Lucian’s expression darkened slightly.
"And yet," Evander continued, lifting his glass once more, though he did not drink, "you ask a question with an answer so painfully obvious it borders on insulting."
A faint scoff escaped him.
"What comes next," he said, "is her debut."
The room stilled.
"Princess Lyria," he added deliberately, "as a Moon candidate."
The words settled heavily.
No one interrupted.
No one dismissed it.
Because there was nothing to dismiss.
It was the truth.
And truths, once spoken plainly, had a way of demanding acknowledgment.
Lucian exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "That would follow."
Evander inclined his head slightly, as though granting the point.
"But that," he continued, "is where the matter becomes... unpleasant."
Julian’s gaze sharpened behind his lenses.
"Unpleasant?" he repeated.
Evander gave a faint, humorless smile.
"You think the other candidates will welcome her?" he asked. "Though she has blood ties to the royal family, she is still unacknowledged by many others. I am certain the others will not like it, and they will also resent her."
"Some subtly," he said. "Others... less so."
His expression shifted then, a flicker of irritation passing through it.
"And there is one in particular...," he added, but he did not get to finish the sentence.
Julian spoke before he could.
"Marquess Hale."
Every man present reacted—if not outwardly, then inwardly.
And not one of them disagreed.
Earl Hawthorne let out a sharp breath.
"I would very much like to strike him," he said bluntly, "or better yet, challenge him to a duel outright."
There was no jest in it.
Only a very real and very poorly concealed irritation.
Alistair Thorncrest exhaled slowly.
"I am not a man easily provoked," he said, his tone measured.
Then he paused.
"But he manages it with alarming consistency."
That drew a faint sound from Lucian—something between agreement and quiet disdain.
"He is... insufferable," Lucian said.
Julian adjusted his spectacles again.
"Aptly put."
Evander watched them all for a moment, something akin to amusement flickering briefly in his gaze.
"Then we are in agreement," he said lightly.
He set his glass down.
"I doubt he will be the only issue," he continued, rising from his seat with unhurried ease, "but for now..."
He shrugged faintly.
"He is certainly the most irritating."
There was a pause as he straightened his coat.
"I believe," he added, "I have entertained this discussion long enough."
Lucian’s gaze followed him.
"You are leaving?" he asked.
Evander glanced toward the door.
"I am," he said. "The night has grown tiresome."
He took a step forward.
Then another.
His hand reached the door.
And stopped.
For a moment, he stood there in silence.
Then, as though recalling something of mild importance, he turned back.
"There is one detail," he said.
The others looked at him.
His gaze settled—deliberately—on Lucian.
"I neglected to mention it earlier."
Lucian’s brow furrowed faintly.
Evander’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
"The reason," he said, "Lucian is so comfortable addressing Princess Lyria without her title..."
He gave a deliberate pause before he continued.
"...is because," he finished, "he has known her far longer than the rest of us."
Every eye turned to Lucian immediately.
Julian’s hand stilled where it had been adjusting his glasses.
Then, slowly, he lowered it.
"I should have known," he murmured.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"The Queen is your aunt," he said. "It follows that you would be acquainted with the royal household."
Lucian said nothing.
He merely looked at Evander with something akin to disgust.
Evander only smiled.
That same easy, infuriating smile.
"Good night, gentlemen," he said lightly.
And with that, he turned and left the chamber.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
—
The corridor beyond was quiet.
Dimly lit.
Evander moved through it without haste, his footsteps measured against the polished stone.
But the moment he was alone—
The ease slipped.
Only slightly.
His expression tightened, the faintest crease forming at his brow.
His head ached.
A dull, persistent pressure that had been building throughout the evening now made itself fully known.
"...Tiresome indeed," he muttered under his breath.
He did not slow.
If anything, he quickened his pace just enough to reach his chambers sooner.
Rest.
That was all he required.
At least, that was what he told himself.
—
Elsewhere in the palace, far removed from the polished halls and noble chambers—
There was no warmth nor comfort.
Patricia sat in silence.
The dim light of a single lantern flickered against the walls, casting uneven shadows that shifted with every movement of the flame.
Her hands were steady as she unfolded the small piece of parchment a maid had sneaked in.
There were only two words.
It is done.
She stared at them for a while, then nodded.
The play had begun.
—
Beneath the palace, far below the reach of lantern-lit corridors and noble conversation, there was a place where light did not linger.
Where sound did not carry far.
Where mercy, if it had ever existed, had long since been abandoned.
The King stood in silence.
Before him, a man who had been bound knelt.
Blood marked the stone beneath him in dark, uneven patterns.
The interrogator stood to the side, his tools laid out with grim precision.
He did not look at the King.
He did not need to.
"Speak," the interrogator said, his voice flat. "Who do you serve?"
The man said nothing.
His head hung low, his breathing uneven.
A faint curve rested at the edge of his lips.
The interrogator’s grip tightened.
"Answer," he said.
But the man said nothing.
The King had left his chambers immediately after his conversation with the Queen. He had thought the interrogator would have gotten even a tiny piece of information from the man, but there was nothing.
His gaze darkened.
"Enough games," he said coldly. "You stood before my court and dared to speak treason."
The man’s shoulders shook.
For a moment, it seemed as though he might finally break.
Might finally yield.
But then he laughed.
The sound was weak and broken.
And yet, it echoed.
"Do you find this amusing?" the King asked.
The man lifted his head and met the King’s gaze.
"Amusing?" he repeated hoarsely.
His lips pulled into something that might have been a smile.
"No," he said.
His voice was quiet.
"Not amusing."
The interrogator stepped forward again.
But the man spoke before he could act.
"Your reign..." he said, his breath hitching.
"...will end."
The words hung in the air.
The King’s eyes narrowed.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
The man did not answer.
He only laughed again.
Softer this time.
The interrogator moved once more, but it was already too late.
The man’s body went still.
The last breath left him in a quiet, final exhale.
And silence followed.
The interrogator stepped back, glancing toward the King.
But there was nothing more to be done.
The King stared at the lifeless body before him, his expression twisted in disgust, because for all the effort he had put in, he got nothing.
