Chapter 27 The Sleeping King
27: The Sleeping King
There are rules in Dravenmoor. And then there are the rules that everyone follows because breaking them means you disappear.
Sneaking into the King’s chamber at night falls under the second category.
“Elijah,” I hissed, crouched behind a marble pillar as two crimson-clad guards marched past the corridor. “You’re absolutely sure this plan doesn’t end with me beheaded?”
He gave me a patient look, the kind a butler reserves for someone who’s about to do something idiotic but heartfelt. “My lady, you underestimate your importance. Darius wouldn’t dare execute you.”
“That’s comforting,” I whispered. “He’ll just make me drink imported tea instead.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t lose their tension. “When I signal, move. They change patrols every fifteen minutes. You’ll have ten before the next rotation.”
“Ten minutes,” I repeated. “To infiltrate, perform medical espionage, and emotionally scar myself. Great.”
“Less sarcasm,” he murmured, “more stealth.”
I sighed, adjusting the hood of my robe. The air in the western wing was colder — unnaturally so. The stone itself seemed to remember fear. Torches burned low and blue, fed by warded flame. Every few steps, faint whispers drifted from the carved walls, like the palace was murmuring to itself.
Dravenmoor’s heart didn’t beat anymore; it hummed.
Elijah’s hand flicked sharply. The two sentries turned down the opposite hall, lured by his decoy noise — a dropped tray, the clatter of silver echoing perfectly like an accident.
Now or never.
I moved.
The door to the King’s chamber loomed ahead — ironwood carved with runes, each line pulsing faintly in rhythm to a spell I could feel through my fingertips. Lucian had once said the door was his mother’s curse.
It opened with a sound like a sigh when I whispered his name.
Inside, the air was still.
The first thing I noticed wasn’t Lucian. It was the smell. Not decay — not yet — but something sterile, metallic, like alchemy gone wrong.
The faint tang of Bloodroot clung to everything: the curtains, the sheets, even the light.
Lucian lay in the center of the bed, pale as frost. His hair, once as dark as fresh ink, now had streaks of dull ash near the temples. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, like he was breathing against a weight.
I had seen him fierce. I had seen him cruel. But this— This was a man unmade.
The “medicine” vial sat neatly on the bedside table, labeled with Darius’s elegant handwriting. The liquid inside shimmered faintly red, viscous as honey.
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought it beautiful.
I pulled the stopper and sniffed. Bloodroot and aconite. Subtle enough to sedate an Alpha’s regenerative power, just enough to keep him docile.
“Elijah,” I whispered under my breath, “you were right.”
Lucian stirred.
For one terrible second, I thought he was waking from a nightmare. Then his lips parted and a sound escaped — a low rasp, somewhere between a growl and a breath.
“Keira…”
My heart dropped clean out of my chest.
“It’s me,” I whispered, stepping closer.
His eyes fluttered open. The crimson irises had dulled to a muted garnet, but they still cut through the dimness with unnatural focus. For a heartbeat, he looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether I was real or something summoned by fever.
“You shouldn’t…” he managed, his voice hoarse, brittle. “Darius… will—”
“Kill me? Add me to the décor?” I smiled tightly. “He’ll have to get in line.”
He tried to lift his hand, but his fingers trembled halfway. I caught it gently before it fell back to the sheets. His skin was cold — not corpse cold, but close enough that panic scraped at my ribs.
“You’ve been drinking poison,” I said. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not romantic.”
He chuckled, a dry sound that cracked like glass. “Always so… insolent.”
“I like to call it charm.”
Lucian’s eyes flickered toward the table. “My medicine—”
“—is slowly liquefying your brain,” I interrupted. “Courtesy of your dear Beta.”
He stilled. The faint line between his brows deepened, confusion and disbelief wrestling behind his half-focused stare.
“Darius…” His throat worked. “No. He… swore…”
“Yeah, well,” I murmured, setting the poisoned vial aside, “men lie. Poison doesn’t.”
His gaze sharpened faintly, finding me again. “How… do you know?”
I hesitated. How was I supposed to explain? That I’d read his story before living it? That I knew the taste of Bloodroot before it ever touched his lips?
“I just know,” I said finally. “And I’m not letting you die from a plot twist.”
His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “Plot twist?”
“Never mind. Alternate dimension joke.”
From my sleeve, I drew the small pouch I’d hidden earlier. Inside, herbs crushed to fine dust — the beginnings of an antidote. My hands moved instinctively, like Aria’s body remembered even when I didn’t. Silverleaf to neutralize the toxin’s bite. Ember root to restart his magic flow. I mixed them with a few drops of water from the bedside glass, stirring until the color shifted from green to pale gold.
Alchemy wasn’t supposed to be real.
But neither was I.
I dipped a cloth in the mixture and pressed it gently to his lips. “This might taste like swamp and regret. Try not to bite me.”
He obeyed — weakly, but enough. When the mixture touched his tongue, his body flinched, muscles tensing as if recognizing the foreign command.
His breath hitched.
The air thickened, charged. The faint glow under his skin — his Alpha mark — flickered like a candle struggling to relight itself. His veins, once faintly dark from the poison, pulsed faint light.
“Lucian,” I whispered, leaning closer. “Hey. Stay with me.”
His eyes snapped open. For the briefest second, they burned scarlet again — bright, wild, painfully alive.
He looked straight at me, not through me.
Not at the Luna, not at the pawn. Just me.
His fingers curled weakly around my wrist.
“If I die,” he breathed, voice rough as stone, “burn the crown before it burns you.”
My throat tightened.
I wanted to laugh — to deflect, to make some half-hearted quip about royal jewelry theft — but nothing came out except a trembling, “Then you’ll just have to wake up before I do.”
Something softened in his expression, even through the haze of fever. A shadow of tenderness — fleeting, fragile, and absolutely ruinous. His thumb brushed the edge of my palm, like a promise.
For one impossible heartbeat, I forgot we were surrounded by enemies.
Forgot that he had once been the villain of the story.
Forgot everything except the warmth returning to his skin.
His breathing steadied — barely, but enough to make hope dangerous again.
I stayed like that, counting his heartbeats, until the first hints of dawn began to bleed through the drapes. The pale light made the room look less like a tomb.
“Elijah will come soon,” I murmured. “He’ll handle the rest. You—”
The sound of footsteps snapped the moment like glass.
I froze.
Not Elijah’s careful stride. Too heavy. Too precise. The kind of steps trained to announce authority without hurry.
Darius.
My pulse spiked.
I snatched up the poisoned vial, wiped the rim, and set it back exactly where it had been. Then I drew the blanket higher over Lucian’s chest, hiding the faint glow of renewed magic.
The door opened with a soft creak.
“Lady Aria,” Darius’s voice slid through the dimness — low, calm, far too polite. “You’re awake early.”
I turned, forcing a smile. “Insomnia. It’s fashionable this season.”
He stepped inside, all quiet menace wrapped in perfect tailoring. His eyes swept the room — methodical, assessing, landing finally on the King’s sleeping form.
“His Majesty had a restless night.”
“I noticed,” I said, evenly. “I thought he might like company.”
His gaze lingered on me for a fraction too long. “How considerate.”
I shrugged. “Well, someone should keep him entertained while you run the kingdom.”
Something flickered in his eyes — amusement or irritation, I couldn’t tell. “You always had a sharp tongue.”
“And yet, here I am, still attached to my head. Miracles do happen.”
He smiled faintly. “Indeed.”
He moved closer — to the bedside. My muscles tensed as he reached for the medicine vial. “His tonic needs adjusting,” he said smoothly, uncorking it. “It seems less effective lately.”
I forced myself not to react. “Perhaps he’s developing an immunity.”
“Perhaps.”
He poured a fresh measure into the cup beside the bed. “Shall we see?”
My mind raced. If he forced Lucian to drink it now, it would undo everything I’d done.
But then, mercifully, a knock interrupted the silence. One of the guards.
“My lord, the Council envoy has arrived.”
Darius sighed softly, setting the cup down untouched. “Duty calls.”
Before leaving, he looked at me once more. “Do take care of yourself, Lady Aria. The palace can be… dangerous for the sentimental.”
When the door closed, I finally let the air rush out of my lungs.
I turned back to Lucian. His breathing was steady again, the faintest color returning to his lips.
“Sentimental,” I muttered under my breath, adjusting the blanket. “If wanting you to live counts as that, then fine — guilty.”
From somewhere outside, the morning bells began to toll. Dravenmoor was waking. But I knew, with a shiver that wasn’t entirely fear, that Darius was already aware of everything.
Because as I turned to leave, I caught sight of a reflection in the mirror near the door. A shape. Small, quiet — a servant girl clutching a tray, her eyes wide, her mouth parted in silent horror. She’d seen everything.
Our gazes met for half a heartbeat before she bolted down the corridor.
And just like that, I knew:
Darius didn’t need to guess what I’d done. He already knew.