Chapter 21 The Weight of Crowns
21\. The Weight of Crowns
There was something cruelly beautiful in Dravenmoor.
The sun never quite reached the castle’s heart—just a pale spill of light filtering through colored glass, like an apology for shining too brightly elsewhere. Servants moved in careful rhythm through the corridors, their whispers brushing against the stone walls like moth wings. And under all that quiet, you could feel it—the tension humming low, steady, like a beast waiting for command.
Today, the beast wore a crown.
Lucian was already in the throne room when I arrived, seated at the dais beneath the fractured window that split sunlight into ribbons across the marble floor. He didn’t look like the man who visited me in my chamber last night after a whole week of ignoring me again. His armor was polished, his hair tied back neatly—but there was something off. A stillness that didn’t belong to him.
“Were you planning to sleep through the end of the world?” he said without looking at me.
“I was planning to,” I said, moving closer, “but your dramatic announcement woke me.”
He almost smiled. Almost. But when he shifted, I noticed the faint tremor in his fingers as they gripped the armrest. It was so slight I might’ve imagined it—if I hadn’t seen the same tremor again when he reached for the goblet beside him.
The court was assembling. Advisors, generals, and nobles drifted into the room like predators pretending to be diplomats. Every movement was calculated. Every glance, sharpened. And in the middle of it all, Lucian sat motionless—too still for comfort.
He hadn’t eaten since dawn, that much I knew. I’d seen his untouched breakfast on the tray outside his chamber. His appetite had been fading these past days. His patience too. But now there was something new—an exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.
“You’re pale,” I said under my breath as I stood beside his throne. “Maybe try pretending you’re not dying?”
He gave me a sideways look that might’ve been fondness—or warning. “And maybe try pretending you’re not eavesdropping on state matters.”
“Oh, I’m excellent at pretending,” I whispered. “I’ve been pretending to like some of these nobles for weeks.”
His lips twitched, but the light in his eyes dimmed as the council’s murmuring swelled.
Galgador, one of the council, stepped forward first—his usual confidence wrapped in silken charm. He bowed low, all grace and poison. I’d never liked him. There was something in his smile that always felt rehearsed.
“Your Majesty,” Galgador began smoothly, “the envoys from Silvermoon request safe passage through the eastern borders. They claim peace offerings.”
Lucian’s hand tightened on the goblet. “And do you believe them?”
“Belief is irrelevant,” Galgador said. “Opportunity isn’t.”
There was a ripple of agreement from the other lords. I watched Lucian’s jaw tense, the faintest twitch at his temple. His patience is fraying. Or maybe something worse.
“They sent ravens bearing sigils of peace,” This time it was Darius, “and gifts for the crown.” He motioned toward the servants, who carried forward ornate boxes inlaid with silver. “Perhaps a gesture of goodwill.”
Lucian’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Or a Trojan gift meant to slit throats while we sleep.”
The hall fell silent.
I’d seen Lucian angry before, but this was different—his voice cracked mid-sentence, faintly hoarse, as though something scraped the back of his throat. When he coughed, it was small, restrained… but when his hand came away, I caught the faintest smear of red on his glove.
No one else saw it.
I did.
My stomach turned. I took a slow breath, pretending I hadn’t.
“Your Majesty,” Galgador said lightly, “peace is the wiser path. Even a tyrant grows tired of blood.”
Lucian’s gaze lifted, sharp as lightning. “Careful, Galgador. Some men die for too much words.”
Galgador bowed his head, though his smirk lingered. “Of course, my Lord.”
The court shifted uneasily. Somewhere near the back, Rowan’s empty seat seemed to mock the room’s silence. The war with Silvermoon was already brewing—and half these men, I realized, were more interested in which side would benefit them most when the kingdom fell.
Lucian stood abruptly. “Enough.”
The word rang out like thunder. The nobles froze.
“This council will adjourn until dusk,” he said, voice low, clipped. “I’ve heard enough honeyed treachery for one morning.”
He turned, descending the steps with a slow, deliberate gait. Too slow. His balance faltered once, almost imperceptibly, but I noticed. I always noticed.
I followed him into the corridor.
“Lucian,” I called softly. “You’re—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” I caught up with him. “You’re trembling. You’ve barely eaten, barely slept—”
He stopped so suddenly that I almost walked into him. When he turned, his eyes weren’t the usual burning silver—they were dimmer, unfocused.
“You think this crown runs on sleep?” he said quietly. “You think peace is built on full stomachs and clear consciences?”
His voice shook. Not from anger.
From weakness.
He started to walk again, but his hand brushed the wall for balance. The tremor in his fingers worsened. My throat tightened as a dark thought crossed my mind.
He must be sick.
No. It couldn’t be.
But his pallor, the cough, the fatigue—it all aligned too perfectly to ignore.
“Lucian,” I said carefully, lowering my voice. “When was the last time you—”
He stopped again, this time catching himself against the column. His breath hitched. For one terrifying second, his eyes rolled back—and then he steadied himself, straightening his shoulders like a man at war with his own body.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t pity me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he snapped, then softened. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m still your Alpha.”
My heart clenched. “Then maybe stop trying to die so dramatically, My Lord. Let's call a healer to check on—”
That earned me a small, strained laugh. He started walking again, slower this time. “If I fall,” he murmured, “you’ll just mock me for the posture.”
“Obviously,” I said. “No Alpha of mine collapses without at least a little grace.”
He glanced at me sideways. “Of yours, hm?”
“Figure of speech,” I muttered. But my face was hot.
We reached the council antechamber one way to the healers chambers, where Darius stood waiting—too quickly, too conveniently. I immediately looked for a goblet so it could ease the thirst for a while.
“My Lord,” he said, bowing again. “You dismissed the court before the Silvermoon proposal was finalized. If I may—”
“You may not,” Lucian said coldly.
But Darius didn’t move. “Surely, you’d reconsider. The envoys await your response. If you reject them too soon, it might be seen as—”
Lucian’s hand twitched toward his sword. I caught his wrist before he could unsheathe it.
“Maybe,” I said quickly, stepping between them, “we can discuss it over check up.”
Lucian glared down at me still not wanting to be checked, but he didn’t push past. His breathing had grown shallow. He looked… drained. Even Darius noticed now, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Your Majesty,” Darius said silkily. “Are you unwell?”
Lucian straightened, forcing composure. “I’m surrounded by politicians. Of course I’m unwell.”
I almost smiled—but then his knees buckled.
It happened in an instant. The goblet slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a sound that echoed through the hall. The red wine spilled like blood, crawling between the marble cracks.
Lucian caught himself on one knee, coughing violently, his hand pressed to his mouth.
Blood.
Real this time. Fresh and dark.
I dropped beside him, panic surging. “Lucian—!”
He waved me off weakly. “I said I’m fine.”
“You’re literally bleeding! That’s the opposite of fine!”
Darius knelt on the other side, voice all concern. “Allow me to call the healer—”
“No,” Lucian hissed, gripping my wrist instead. His hand was cold. Too cold. “No healers. Not yet.”
I stared at him, trembling. “Then what do you want me to do?”
His eyes locked on mine, sharp even through the pain. “Watch them.”
“What?”
“Every move,” he whispered. “Every smile. Someone in this court is feeding me death.”
Then his grip slackened. His body sagged forward, and I barely caught him before he hit the floor.
Darius called for guards. The hall erupted in noise. But all I could see was the blood on my hands, bright and warm and terrifyingly real.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I whispered the only truth I had left.
“Someone’s killing my tyrant.”
They carried him back to his chamber under orders to tell no one. The healer was summoned under cover of night, his tongue bound by oath. I stood by the bedside, heart pounding, watching Lucian’s chest rise and fall in a shallow rhythm.
The poison—whatever it was—hadn’t finished its work yet.
But neither had I.
When Darius returned with updates about the “official statement,” I met him at the door. “Tell the others he’s resting,” I said, my voice cold, steady. “And if I hear even one whisper of weakness from your tongue, I’ll make sure you never use it again.”
He smiled, slow and formal. “You sound almost like him.”
“Then you should be afraid.”
He inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, my lady.”
When he left, I finally exhaled. The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.
I looked back at Lucian—his face pale against the pillow, his breath uneven, the silver mark at his neck flickering faintly.
I reached for his hand. It was still cold.
And in that quiet, I made a promise.
“I’ll find whoever did this,” I whispered. “And when I do, they’ll wish they’d poisoned the moon itself instead.”
Outside, rain started pouring and thunder rolled across the horizon. War drums echoed faintly from the eastern plains.
The Silvermoon was coming.
But Dravenmoor’s fall, I realized, might begin not with armies—
—but with a single cup of wine.
And the hand that poured it.