The silence in the royal archives wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that held its breath, waiting to be broken.
Clara stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by dust. The old wooden door creaked shut behind her. Elise had said the spy disappeared in this wing—and something about the air felt... wrong. Cold. Watched.
Her fingers brushed the edge of a forgotten shelf, papers curling at the corners, ink faded with time. But one scroll was new—too new.
She unrolled it slowly. Maps. Routes. Lists of names.
Some crossed out in red.
Clara's pulse spiked. These were surveillance records. Not just of nobles.
Of her.
"You shouldn't be here."
The voice came from behind.
Clara turned sharply, scroll still in hand. Cassian stepped out from the shadows, face unreadable.
"You're following me now?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive," he said. "This wing isn't just haunted by secrets. It holds weapons no one's supposed to find."
Her eyes narrowed. "You mean like this list?"
He glanced at the scroll—and froze. "Where did you get that?"
Clara didn't answer. Instead, she asked, "Why is my name on it? And Alaric's?"
Cassian hesitated.
"Because someone wants both of you removed from the line of power," he said at last. "And they're no longer being subtle."
Clara's fingers curled tighter around the scroll. "So we're targets."
"Not just targets. You're obstacles." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Lord Cedric returned for more than court games. He's building alliances—some of them dark."
Before she could respond, a faint clicking echoed through the corridor.
Cassian pulled her into a corner just as a shadow passed the archway outside.
Not a guard.
Not a servant.
Clara looked up at him. "They're already watching us."
Cassian nodded grimly. "And now they know you've seen the scroll."
Back in the throne room, Prince Alaric was facing storms of his own. Lord Renley and Chancellor Varrick stood before him, cloaked in courtesy but sharp in tone.
"You're allowing Lady Clara too much freedom," Varrick said. "It's causing unrest in the Council."
"She is my wife," Alaric said coldly. "She has every right to speak and move freely within her own palace."
"She was a suspect in treason," Renley pressed. "Some still believe she is."
Alaric's knuckles whitened on the edge of the throne. "Then let them believe it. But remember this—no one lays a hand on her without answering to me."
There was silence.
It was not agreement. It was a warning.
That night, Clara sat by the window in her chamber, staring out at the moonlight.
The scroll was hidden. The truth, less so.
Someone powerful wanted them silenced. Cassian knew more than he said. And Alaric… was willing to defy the court for her.
She didn't know what scared her more—being hunted, or being cared for.
When Alaric entered, he didn't speak right away. Just sat beside her.
"You're quiet," she said.
"So are you."
Their eyes met.
He reached for her hand, hesitating just slightly. "Whatever comes next… I'll stand in front of it with you."
Clara looked at their hands, then up at him.
"Then let's stop waiting," she whispered. "Let's start fighting back."
And for the first time, it didn't feel like a war between them.
It felt like a war they might win—together.
[ To be continued...]