The Case of the Commandery Princess and the Prime Minister’s Narrow Escape
Chapter 23
The convoy stopped at a clean, timber-framed inn just outside the city walls. Raithion sat with Azula on the same side of a corner table for two, tucked away from the main rush of the bustling dining hall. Heavy oak beams overhead held the rich aromas of pan-roasted chicken, spiced gravy, and fresh tea, while the room hummed with the clatter of cutlery and boisterous conversation. Raithion’s legion officers and Azula’s guard mingled at adjacent tables, eating hearty meals and stepping out in shifts to refresh the horses, practically taking over the establishment.
Azula sliced a tender piece of chicken from his plate and offered the bite to Raithion before carving one for himself. He nodded in quiet satisfaction after a few chews.
“You know, the last time we had a meal at an inn together, you still ate sweet and sour roasted chicken and called me a tyrant,” Raithion said, the memory sending a wave of warmth through his chest. He remembered vividly how annoyed Azula had been with him back then.
“When I’m at home, I love grilled fish. When on a journey, I enjoy well-roasted sweet and sour chicken,” Azula replied, leaning back in his chair to glance out the leaded-glass windows. “It’s noisier here. A lot more people are walking on the streets. I can’t imagine how busy the capital itself must be.”
“We’re close,” Raithion said, his gaze lingering on the curve of Azula’s neck before turning toward the busy street beyond the inn. “There are always travelers coming in and out to trade, to deal with government issues, and to visit the hospitals and schools.”
Raithion watched as a faint crease formed between Azula’s brows. He followed Azula’s line of sight outside, spotting a pair of curious bystanders inspecting the heavy iron-rimmed carriages parked in the courtyard, watching both the legion brothers and the Sura clan members tending the horses.
“They watch us more,” Azula noted, his tone tight. “I suspect it is because of our hair.”
“Let them watch,” Raithion said softly.
Azula chuckled and picked up his fork, spearing another piece of chicken. Raithion glanced at him, caught by the sudden shift in mood.
“What?” Raithion asked.
“You would say that,” Azula said. “People have watched you all your life, haven’t they? You got used to it.”
“It was easier when I was Draeya General,” Raithion said, resting his arm over the back of Azula’s chair, his fingers brushing the fabric near Azula’s shoulder. “Back then, I just needed to make sure the assigned missions were successful and that my legion had its pay.”
“What about now?” Azula asked gently.
Raithion let out a tired sigh, the exhaustion of constant vigilance pressing behind his eyes. “Commandery Prince has to deal with too much politics in the capital. I wish I could abandon the post, but my little sister is Basilinna. I can’t fail at protecting her.”
Azula studied him for a moment, his gaze searching Raithion’s face. Then he cut a bite-sized piece of chicken and lifted the fork to Raithion’s lips.
“Eat,” Azula said softly. “Everything is easier when your stomach is full, and you have strength.”
Raithion parted his lips and accepted the meat. A quiet, sharp jolt of joy settled in his chest when Azula used the same fork to spear a roasted potato for himself. The subtle intimacy of the indirect kiss warmed Raithion from the inside out, softening his stern expression into a genuine smile as he chewed.
Haedor approached their nook, pulling out a heavy wooden chair to sit across from them.
“We have a message from Kailu. He’s asking if we can find a place to stay outside the city tonight,” Haedor said, lowering his voice below the roar of the dining hall. “There are too many people interested in our convoy. He can’t guarantee safety tonight.”
“Safety from whom?” Azula asked, lifting his cup to take a slow sip of tea.
“Every prying eye in the city,” Haedor said. “There’s particular interest from the Dowager Basilinna. She has people watching the Maenaer house.”
Raithion tapped his index finger against the table’s surface, thinking for a moment, then he nodded. “Reach out to Noriel. House Draug will help us.”
“Right.” Haedor stood up and hurried away to dispatch the message.
“Noriel?” Azula asked, turning his head toward Raithion.
Raithion leaned in close, his breath brushing the shell of Azula’s ear as he whispered over the ambient clamor.
“She’s my sister, the middle child of the family,” Raithion said, enjoying the momentary closeness. “She married a merchant. They have discreet routes to move around without drawing attention. She’ll be invaluable.”
“Sounds interesting,” Azula said. He stretched his arms above his head, the movement fluid and relaxed. “I’m going to the outhouse. Make sure Wolfe and Haedor pay for the meals here. The inn actually has good chicken.”
“Mm, I’ll handle it,” Raithion said, his eyes following Azula’s retreat before he motioned across the room for Sharian.
****
Azula got up and left the dining room, conscious of four of his guards following him, shadowing his steps as he walked out of the main inn building through the back door. Three of them stayed outside the clean outhouse, while one went in with him. The inn had vases of sweet-smelling herbs mounted on the walls alongside sinks with fragrant soap pods in bowls. The stalls were clean. There were five stalls in total.
Azula walked into one. The toilet was made of a low-quality ceramic material, not the same standard as the smooth porcelain crafted on Sura Island, but it was clean and durable. A large tank of water was mounted at the top of the stall with a string that pulled a lever to release the water when done. A pipe connected to the ceramic toilet, flushing after use. Azula assumed the wastewater went out through a pipe underneath the building. The plumbing solution was quite well thought out, efficient for an establishment handling so many customers. A wooden holder was mounted on the wall of the stall with a stack of mulberry paper for toilet use.
Azula approved as he finished his business in relative comfort and pulled the cord to flush.
He stepped out of the stall and moved to the stone sinks built in a neat line on the opposite side of the room to wash his hands. The rafters of the outhouse were high and exposed, with thick timber beams crossing from one side to the other. Two of the large beams supported a heavy earthenware tank filled with water for handwashing. As cold water poured over his palms from a bronze tap, a sudden prickle of unease tightened Azula’s chest.
High above, a sharp outline broke the pattern of dust motes in the sunlight streaming through a gap in the rafters. A shadow shifted.
Azula adjusted his footing, keeping his breathing steady through a surge of adrenaline. With a muted thud, a man dressed in all black dropped from one of the overhead beams, landing lightly on his boots just a few feet behind him.
“Who are you?” Azula asked, letting the cold water slide over his hands. He rubbed his fingers together and checked his short nails, making sure they were clean, forcing a calm he didn’t feel into his voice to buy a fraction of a second.
“You should never have come to the capital,” the man growled, unsheathing a long, wicked blade from the scabbard at his back. “The Sura do not belong here.”
A cold anger flared in Azula’s chest; he was tired of the capital’s endless prejudice against his people. He slammed his left palm down on the bronze tap’s lever, shutting off the water with a sharp snap. In the same motion, his right hand flicked open the leather catch of his custom holster on his right hip. His fingers locked around the wooden grip of his modified repeating crossbow, his index finger resting against the smooth metal trigger.
The assassin lunged forward, driving the tip of his longsword straight for Azula’s chest.
Azula didn’t flinch. He raised the compact weapon, lined up the sight, and pulled the trigger.
The heavy bolt buried itself deep into the assassin’s left thigh. The man gasped, his momentum faltering, but the sword’s thrust carried through. Azula pivoted sharply to the right, the cold steel of the blade slicing through the empty air where he had been standing a second before.
Before the attacker could adjust his grip, Azula’s personal guard closed the distance. The guard caught the assassin’s sword-arm in a brutal wrench, twisting the limb back until the bone popped, then sank a heavy dagger straight into the man’s shoulder. The assassin collapsed to the stone floor with a muffled groan, incapacitated.
Azula racked the side lever on his crossbow with a swift, practiced motion of his thumb. Internal gears whirred as the top-mounted ten-bolt cartridge fed the next steel-tipped bolt smoothly into the chamber.
Suddenly, the wooden doors of the outhouse burst inward. The rest of his guard ran inside the outhouse, forming a protective circle around him. They were followed by a large number of assassins dressed in black.
“Your Highness, stay back!” the guard yelled, stepping into a defensive stance in front of Azula. He faced three men in black charging at him, their swords drawn. The rest of the guard was similarly engaged with the onslaught of intruders.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Azula tracked an attacker with his crossbow. He didn’t wait for his guard to absorb the full wave. Aiming over the guard’s shoulder, Azula pulled the trigger; thwack, the bolt struck the intruder squarely in the chest. Without breaking rhythm, Azula’s thumb drove the reloading lever forward and back, locking another bolt into place with a crisp metallic click.
His guard was managing the remaining number of assassins easily, dropping them one by one. Azula noticed two remaining assassins rushing in through the doorway together. The guard standing in front of Azula stepped forward, parrying a violent downward chop with his short sword, while Azula leaned out from behind his defender’s flank, firing twice in rapid succession. Thwack. Thwack.
One attacker dropped to his knees, clutching his neck, while the other stumbled backward, falling into a vase mounted on the wall before he fell. Azula took in a deep breath, his right hand shaking with his efforts as his guard finished off the rest of the assassins scrambling to reach him.
*****
Raithion finished arranging the new route with Wolfe, Sennin, and Haedor. Noriel’s husband, Hujan, owned an estate outside the city called Draug Village. The Draug family owned many merchant carriages and knew obscure trade routes, which allowed them to move freely across the kingdom. If they could disguise Azula’s team among Draug merchants, they could reach the palace without interference.
“Let’s have one of Haedor’s lieutenants create a distraction,” Raithion said. “I’ll lead the Sura to the palace while Haedor and his lieutenants lead the most recognizable carriages to the Maenaer house. It will look like I’ve escorted visitors from the Draug family. They won’t have time to think twice…”
An explosion of panicked shouts near the kitchen hallway shattered the dining room’s friendly atmosphere. Raithion spun, steel clearing his scabbard in a heartbeat, as a terrifying realization hit him: the clash had erupted in seconds, a sudden strike aimed at the defenseless. Azula’s guard surged into a wall of iron, shielding the unarmed Sura clan members scrambling under tables while black-clad assassins lunged with lethal longswords.
Before the violence could spread, Raithion’s legion officers joined Azula’s guard, fighting with practiced ease. Within three pounding heartbeats, the legion and Azula’s guards cut down the assassins, disarming them before they could do any damage. However, the assassins slammed their jaws shut, biting into hidden poison capsules, and collapsed to the floor in convulsing silence, one after another.
Cold dread seized Raithion’s chest as he scanned the blood-spattered room.
Azula wasn’t there. He hadn’t returned from the outhouse.
Panic ripped through him, raw and suffocating. Raithion sprinted to the inn’s back exit, his boots slamming against the floorboards, his heart hammering in his throat. Every stride felt too slow; the thought of losing Azula rendered the world a terrifying blur.
He burst into the outhouse and froze at the threshold, gasping for air.
The scene inside was a shock of absolute, brutal efficiency. Nearly ten assassins lay broken and motionlessly scattered across the floor amidst shattered ceramic vases and crushed, fragrant herbs.
Azula’s personal guards were already calmly dragging the corpses into an organized pile by the entrance. In the center of the carnage stood Azula, alive, unbothered, and vigorously scrubbing at his left cuff under a trickling faucet.
“Damn it,” Azula muttered, frowning at his arm. “Alvas is going to kill me. She always harps on me when I get gear grease on my clothes. What will she be like when she sees bloodstains?”
Raithion crossed the room in two strides, throwing his arms around Azula and pulling him into a desperate, crushing embrace. He buried his face in Azula’s neck, needing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to stop his own hands from shaking.
Azula gasped, his arms frozen midair in surprise. “Why are you holding on so tight? Raith?”
“Shut up,” Raithion rasped, his voice thick with unraveled terror. “I thought I lost you. Let me hold you, my heart.”
“I’m fine,” Azula soothed, his tone softening as he relaxed against Raithion’s chest and wrapped his arms around his back, giving a few gentle pats. “My guards are very good at their job. This isn’t the first time we’ve dealt with a few assassins.”
Even as Azula gently squirmed to free himself, Raithion couldn’t bring himself to let go. The terror remained etched too deeply, his chest still heaving with residual adrenaline.
“Raith,” Azula coaxed with infinite patience. “Let me go. We left one alive, but he was stabbed in the back. He has limited time to speak before he bleeds out. I’ll let you hold me later.”
A faint snort echoed from the entryway. Raithion reluctantly released his grip and turned to see Wolfe and Sennin standing by the door. Wolfe hastily slapped a hand over his mouth, turning his head to muffle a quiet laugh.
Ignoring the old man’s amusement, Raithion stepped back, his eyes tracking Azula as he walked toward an assassin kneeling on the floor. A guard held the man down, his hand still gripping the hilt of a dagger sunk deep into the killer’s shoulder blade. The assassin let out a wet groan as Azula crouched down in front of him.
Azula’s face was a mask of icy, terrifying stillness. There was no heat in his eyes, only an absolute, chilling detachment that sent an unexpected shiver down Raithion’s spine.
“Who sent you?” Azula asked, his voice low. “Earlier, you said the Sura don’t belong here. Where do you mean?”
“The c-capital,” the man spat through red-stained teeth. “You should never have returned.”
Azula leaned in close, his gaze locking onto the dying man’s pupils.
“Where the Sura belong is not yours to dictate,” Azula whispered coldly. “And your master’s blade will not cut us down before we have our say.”
“You won’t get to say anything,” the assassin hissed. “There are more of us…coming for you.”
“Then we’ll see who wins the argument.”
Without a flicker of hesitation or pity, Azula offered a single nod to the guard holding the dagger. The guard ripped the steel free in one fluid twist. The assassin gasped, collapsed onto his side, and bled out on the floor within seconds.
Raithion stared at the dead assassin, then at Azula, who simply stood, turned back to the basin, and resumed rubbing at his sleeve as if he had merely stepped on an insect. Raithion’s breath caught in his throat. He had known Azula as passionate, soft-spoken, and warm, yet here stood a sovereign prince who dispatched a life with ruthless, razor-sharp pragmatism.
The contrast both impressed and terrified him, as he realized his partner was far more dangerous, and lethal, than he remembered.
“You killed him,” Raithion said quietly, still processing the swiftness of the execution.
“I’m sure he’s right,” Azula said casually, inspecting his wet cuff. “More will come. If you want a live prisoner to interrogate, pick one from the next batch. For now, we eliminate the pests and force whoever sent them to suffer the losses. It’s better never to be kind to an assassin. Otherwise, you’ll lose your life.”
“Azula…” Raithion began, awe and residual shock warring in his chest.
It was clear now more than ever that Azula had come prepared to fight it out and spared no time to mourn a bunch of assassins coming after his life. It was both comforting and worrying.
“It was never going to be a welcome party, Raith,” Azula said, turning his gaze toward Wolfe. “Tell all our guards to wear their armor and arm up. We’re in for a wild ride in this capital.”
Raithion let out a long breath, a fierce pride swelling beneath his lingering worry. His partner wasn’t a fragile prize to be sheltered; he had turned into a hardened, brilliant blade.
Looks like my consort is as deadly as any general, Raithion thought, a dry smile touching his lips as he watched Azula coordinate with Wolfe and Sennin.
“They’ve shown their hand,” Raithion said, stepping up beside him. “It’s time to play ours. Are you ready?”
Azula finally gave up on the bloodstain and looked at him.
“It’s your game for now,” Azula said. “We’re just the players until we stand before the Basileus.”
“And what happens then?” Raithion asked, intrigued.
“Then we play by my rules,” Azula said smoothly. He turned on his heel and strode out of the outhouse, Wolfe, Sennin, and his escort falling into line behind him, leaving the pile of dead assassins for Raithion’s legion to clean up.
Raithion watched him go, a sudden laugh breaking from his chest when he remembered that Azula hardly ever followed any set game rules. Azula’s rules meant no rules at all.
******
Soriel peeled apples for her son and cut them into little rabbit shapes, her heart swelling with warmth as Rane made the fruit hop through the air before happily devouring them. Beside her, Dio reclined on a lounge chair, engrossed in administrative reports, absently opening his mouth to accept the sweet apple slices she fed him. The lunch hour sun bathed the Rose Hall courtyard in brilliant light, filling the air with the delicate scent of blooming petals and soft laughter. A large white canvas was draped over four pillars, offering them restful shade.
Meira, Soriel’s trusted guard, entered from the main palace archway with fast steps. She approached the low table and handed Soriel a small, tightly rolled scroll, making her pause mid-slice.
Soriel set her knife and the half-peeled apple on the silver platter, unrolling the parchment to read the neat script from Noriel:
‘Brother has asked me to host a guest in my house. He specifically asked for hazelnut wafers to be available. He also asked to let this guest use the bedroom I keep for his personal use. Curious. – Noriel’
She gasped softly. Her eyes widened, and a slow, radiant smile spread across her face, a mix of disbelieving hope and intense sibling curiosity. Her heart beat faster against her ribs.
Could it truly be? After five long, agonizing years of watching Raithion wall off his heart, had someone finally cracked through his armor? A protective affection welled up inside her. She desperately wanted to believe he was allowing himself to live and love again.
She looked up from the note, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and found Dio watching her intently, his sharp gaze softening at her reaction.
“What?” Dio asked, setting his reports aside. “Your smile is unusual, my rose. Who has sparked your interest?”
Soriel chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with fond mischief as she pressed the parchment into Dio’s open palm.
“Weren’t you curious about my brother and whether he has someone he cares for?” Soriel grinned, leaning closer.
Dio scanned the brief lines, his brows drawing together in thought as he sat up. “This is… it reads like he’s taking care of Yulin.”
“Yulin likes peaches,” Soriel countered, a gentle impatience lacing her voice as she leaned over the arm of his chair. “The point is not the food, though hazelnut wafers are certainly telling. It is the bedroom, my love. He has not allowed a single soul near his private quarters for four long years.”
“Oh.” Dio frowned, handing the note back to her. “I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand; you just need to appreciate that I understand,” Soriel said. She dropped the scroll into a water bowl resting on the table, watching with satisfying finality as the ink bled out into blue clouds and dissolved completely. She turned to Meira, her voice ringing with newfound purpose. “Hurry. I want to visit Noriel immediately. Help me plan a discreet exit.”
“You’re going yourself?” Dio asked, a faint crease forming between his brows.
“Mm,” Soriel said, nodding firmly as a protective maternal instinct flared alongside her excitement. “I have to see who it is with my own eyes. I won’t let Raithion meet another snake. I’ll protect him if I have to. He has suffered enough. He deserves genuine happiness.”
“But,” Dio sighed, glancing between her and their son. “What about Rane and me?”
“I’ll take Rane with me,” Soriel decided, a brilliant smile lighting her features. “You’ll be fine here for a few days, my love. Wait for my return.”
She leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss against Dio’s cheek. She stood in one fluid motion and held out her hand to their son.
“Rane, come with Mamma. Let’s go see who Uncle Raith brought home.”
A delighted, breathy giggle escaped her lips as she turned to leave, her pulse dancing with anticipation.
“I want to see who Raith brought home too,” Dio called after her, pouting slightly. “You didn’t even offer to bring me.”
Soriel paused, a soft wave of affection washing over her. She looped back around the marble table, leaning down to capture Dio’s lips in a warm, reassuring kiss that lingered just long enough to leave him breathless. She then gently nudged Rane, who dutifully planted a sticky, sweet apple-kiss on his father’s cheek.
Satisfied, Dio sank back into his chair with a helpless, loving smile. Soriel took her son’s small hand in hers, her heart light and full of eager hope as they swept out of the sunny courtyard.
****
Dio watched Soriel leave, then offered a sharp nod to the head of the silent guard lurking at the courtyard entrance. The tall man dressed simply in a blue tunic, crisp white trousers, and white boots approached Dio with soundless footsteps. Anyone who encountered him within the palace halls would assume he was merely one of the attendants keeping the marble floors polished, never imagining he managed Dio’s covert network. His unit was designed to reinforce the official palace guard under Lord Theod Dorn and secure intelligence on every corner of the realm for his monarch.
“Why is Raithion involving Lady Draug in his movement, Pera?” Dio asked, his voice low and commanding, the quiet authority of a supreme ruler settling effortlessly over the sunlit space.
“The Draeya Prince faced resistance in the form of assassins outside the city walls,” Pera said, bowing his head. “He reached out to Lady Draug to secure safe passage for your guest. The plan is to smuggle them into the city and directly into the palace, where we can offer direct protection and control the narrative. They are currently en route to Draug Village.”
Dio leaned back against the plush cushion of his lounge chair, calculating the political ripples of the Sura Prince’s visit to the capital and his apparent personal attachment to Raithion. He loved Soriel fiercely; her joy was the anchor to his heavy crown, and he would gladly let her indulge her curiosity. But as Basileus, his priority remained absolute stability and control.
“Support the Draeya Prince’s efforts,” Dio commanded, his tone hardening. “Nothing is permitted to happen to the Sura Prince on Lyrian soil. I will not have my court undermined by reckless assassins. Direct Prince Kailu and Duke Maenaer to stage a distraction within the capital. Something loud enough to draw every prying eye and buy Raithion the time he needs.”
“It shall be done at once, Your Majesty,” Pera said.
Dio waved his hand, dismissing his operative. He turned his gaze toward the water bowl, watching the faint blue residue of the note Soriel had dissolved floating on the surface. A rare, genuine thread of intrigue stirred beneath his royal composure. He was deeply fond of Raithion, not merely as his brother-in-law, but as one of the most formidable men in his realm, and an adopted brother his father had given him. Yet, winning Raithion’s unyielding personal trust was a notoriously brutal task.
Dio had spent five years earning every inch of Raithion’s loyalty, even after marrying his beloved little sister. For a foreign prince to break through those impenetrable walls in a matter of weeks was an extraordinary feat.
Dio respected power, but he respected those who could manipulate it even more.
“Sura Prince,” Dio murmured to the quiet courtyard, a dark, intrigued smile touching his lips as Pera slipped into the shadows. “You must be very interesting indeed.”
****
Azula opened the carriage window as the convoy passed through massive iron gates that clanked shut behind them. The private road was paved with smooth cobbles, but what caught his attention were the charming red-brick houses lined along the road. It felt less like entering a noble domain and more like stepping into a picturesque, prosperous village.
The residences were both modest and idyllic, carrying a romantic air. The atmosphere was heightened by blooming flowers on windowsill boxes and thick, gnarled trees growing in lush patches between the lanes. The carriages wound along forested paths before bringing them to a halt before a brightly lit, two-story house constructed of red brick and capped with a massive thatched roof.
The front doors stood open. A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a long, deep purple dress waited on the threshold beside a tall man whose arm encircled her waist, fussing gently with the heavy cloak over her shoulders.
Azula watched as Raithion dismounted and hurried toward the woman. He pulled her into a warm hug and kissed her cheek before offering a playful scowl to her companion. Raithion shook the man’s hand with exaggerated reluctance, letting go after a brief exchange.
Azula chuckled as he recognized Raithion being petty for pettiness’s sake. Moments later, his own carriage ground to a halt.
Sennin opened the door and stepped out first. Raithion hurried over as Azula emerged, taking his hand to assist him down.
“We’re here,” Raithion said, giving Azula’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “Come, I’ll introduce you to my sister.”
Azula reached up to straighten his collar, but Raithion tugged him along before he had the chance. Seconds later, they were standing before Raithion’s sister and her husband, with Azula offering a helpless, disheveled smile.
“Hujan, Noriel, this is Prince Azula Doriel of the Sura Nation,” Raithion said, his tone softening as he turned to Azula. “Azu, this is my second sister, Noriel Draug. She married Hujan the year we met. He’s the merchant of the family. We’ll stay here tonight and rely on his network to get us safely into the capital.”
Azula gently slipped his fingers from Raithion’s grip to straighten his collar before facing the hosts.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Azula said. “I’m sorry to impose on you with such short notice, and I appreciate your hospitality.”
Noriel smiled warmly, extending her hand. Azula took it with care. She was striking: her hair was like rich black mink, the color of her green eyes reminded Azula of fresh moss, and her features were a distinctly feminine echo of Raithion’s. Her gaze was kind when she looked at Azula.
“Welcome to our home, Your Highness,” Noriel said softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone Raithion speaks of so earnestly. This is my husband, Hujan. He will help settle the members of your convoy in our merchant quarters. If you come inside with me, our staff can begin arranging the rest. You must be exhausted after days on the road. I have a comfortable room, a warm bath, and a hot meal waiting for you.”
“That sounds heavenly,” Azula said. He signaled to Wolfe and Sennin to follow as Noriel stepped away from her husband to lead the way inside.
Raithion remained by the entrance to speak with Hujan. Azula continued inside, assuming they would cross paths again later in the evening.
Noriel proved a gracious host, guiding him up a grand staircase and down a quiet corridor to an expansive suite at the end of the hall. She opened the double doors and invited him in.
“Please, come in,” Noriel said, her eyes briefly darting toward a decorative folding screen near the open terrace windows. She looked away, nervously adjusting the edges of her cloak.
Azula caught the subtle movement, instantly aware that someone was standing behind the screen.
“The suite is modest, but clean,” Noriel continued. “The linens are fresh, the furniture is comfortable, and my brother uses these quarters when he visits. It is an honor to host a prince in our home.”
Azula gave a polite nod and stepped into the center of the sitting area. Noriel moved toward an armchair and sat, resting a hand protectively against her stomach. Azula noted the faint curve beneath her dress, realizing she was pregnant, which explained why her husband had been so attentive at the door. Her presence here was not a threat; she simply wanted to assess him.
Azula turned to Wolfe and Sennin. “Will you wait outside for me for a moment?” Azula asked.
Sennin nodded immediately. Wolfe cast a meaningful glance toward the terrace screen before following Sennin into the hallway. They pulled the doors shut behind them.
Azula turned back to Noriel, who was watching him with quiet interest.
“Lady Draug, you have questions for me,” Azula said with a knowing smile.
“Your Highness is perceptive,” Noriel admitted. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not letting you rest first, but I couldn’t resist.”
“I understand,” Azula said, clasping his hands loosely behind his back as he glanced around the room. “It’s clear how much you care for him.”
“I do,” Noriel said. “My brother specifically requested these quarters for you.” She looked around the room. “I know what happened to your clan, and I understand why you’ve returned to the capital to seek justice for the wrongs done to you.”
“You believe we were wronged?” Azula asked, surprised by her candor.
“Capital politics are treacherous,” Noriel replied with a slight shrug. “Your clan ran reputable workshops here. I doubt you would risk your reputation on forged silver. As a merchant’s wife, I know that business requires stability to thrive. The Sura would not have stirred trouble needlessly.”
Azula studied her, touched by her genuine belief in his people’s innocence. It was a comforting realization, and he felt a quiet warmth bloom in his chest. Raithion’s family was disarmingly easy to like.
“Raithion has carried a heavy burden,” Noriel continued. “He told me your mother helped heal Yulin, and for that, you have my deepest gratitude. But I am curious how you gained his trust so quickly, enough for him to share his private space with you.”
Azula released his hands and walked around a nearby sofa, seating himself on the far end. He leaned an elbow on the armrest, absently brushing at the bloodstain that still bothered him on his left sleeve.
“So you’re concerned that Raithion has placed his trust in a Sura prince who might have hidden motives,” Azula surmised gently. “And you’re wondering if he’s being naive.”
“Yes,” Noriel answered directly.
Azula appreciated her honesty, so he offered her an equally frank response. “He trusts me because I am someone who trusts his authority the least in this world.”
Noriel raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“I don’t care what authority he holds, or who his family is,” Azula said with a faint smirk. “It took effort on his part for me to take his word seriously. I judge him by his actions, not his rank. My distrust of his promises has eased after our recent candid conversations, but his position still holds little weight with me.”
“He is the Commandery Prince of Lyria,” Noriel pointed out. “Isn’t that a bit dismissive, considering everything he has done? Aren’t you being too disrespectful of him?”
“I am a Sura Prince. What is a Commandery Prince to me?” Azula replied. “Titles and job positions are only as meaningful as the sovereign who grants them. The one who elevated Raith did so while betraying my people, which led to the deaths of so many of my people. This act diminishes the honor of that title in my eyes. So, as you see, I am the person who cares least about what title your brother holds.”
Noriel stared at him in surprise, then let out a soft laugh.
“That is certainly a unique perspective,” Noriel said.
“It is,” Azula agreed, smiling. “In truth, I’d prefer it if he gave up his title to become a horse trader or a carpenter. Then I could easily spirit him away to Sura Island as my consort. I am quite fond of how he holds me when we dance, among other things. Have I eased your concerns?”
Noriel met his gaze for a long moment before bursting into a bright, genuine laugh, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief.
“Soriel, you might as well step out,” Noriel called toward the window. “I do believe Raith has found his match. I can’t wait to tell him he’s at risk of being carried off to an island by a prince.”
Azula’s expression softened as a young woman stepped out from behind the screen. She wore an elegant dark blue gown, her dark hair woven into a thick braid accented with gold bird-shaped clips. She appeared to be the same age as him, and her eyes sparkled with the same bright humor that Noriel could not hold back.
“You spoiled the fun, Nori,” Soriel teased, stepping over to sit beside Azula and taking his hand. “I apologize for hiding. We weren’t sure what to expect and decided to play a small trick. Please don’t be offended. I am Soriel, Raithion and Noriel’s youngest sister. I’ve been incorrigible under their care. Blame me. And my goodness, you are exceptionally handsome.”
Azula couldn’t help but smile as Soriel held his hand in her warm palm. His gaze caught the pure red jade ring on her right index finger, and he realized with a quiet jolt that he was facing the Basilinna herself. Yet her playful warmth completely dissolved any sense of royal authority.
“Say something,” Soriel prompted with a soft laugh. “I hope we didn’t startle you. I want to hear everything. How you met Raith, what life is like on Sura Island, and whether you would truly expect him to move there if you were ever married. It’s so far away; we would miss him dearly, just as we miss Yulin now that he’s in Draeya County. And thank you, truly, for helping Yulin.”
“Little bird, you’re asking a thousand questions in one breath. Give him a chance to think,” Noriel interrupted gently. “How can he answer all of that at once?”
Azula laughed softly, the lingering tension of the journey dissolving as he realized this playful interrogation felt remarkably like being cornered by his own sister Alise and her friends.
*****
Raithion finished talking to Hujan and Haedor, then froze as he turned and spotted Meira striding purposefully toward the back of the house. If Meira was here, it meant Soriel had left the palace and was in residence too.
Panic flared in his chest at the thought of Azula facing a cunning Basilinna on his own without any warning. Excusing himself abruptly, Raithion turned and sprinted into the main house.
He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs in a desperate hurry to reach Azula. Hujan had warned him earlier that Noriel was in a delicate state, her pregnancy making her mood unpredictable. The thought of his sharp, calculating second sister joining forces with their brilliant, mischievous younger sister made a cold sweat break out on Raithion’s neck. He knew the intricate, exhausting mind games they were capable of playing on an unsuspecting outsider.
They were only staying one night in Draug Village. In fact, at three in the morning, Haedor and Wolfe were scheduled to help him sneak Azula, the Sura clan members, and their key witnesses out of the estate under the cover of darkness to ride directly for the palace.
Azula needed quiet, uninterrupted rest before the storm ahead, not a relentless cross-examination by the two most formidable women in Lyria.
Raithion skidded to a halt in the open doorway of his usual bedroom, breathless and braced for disaster, only to stop dead in his tracks.
The tense confrontation he had imagined was nowhere to be found.
Instead, Azula, Noriel, and Soriel were squeezed together on the silk-upholstered couch like lifelong confidantes. There was a plate of hazelnut wafers and mint toffees on the low table. They were having steaming cups of tea as they leaned into one another, sharing bright, unrestrained laughter while comparing notes on the best ways to craft game cards.
Sennin and Wolfe were nowhere in sight, having clearly deemed the room safe, while Sharian quietly laid out a fresh set of sleeping robes on the grand four-poster bed in the corner for Azula to change into later.
Raithion stood at the doorway, the lingering panic in his chest dissolving into a profound, overwhelming stillness. For five agonizing years, his life had been defined by duty, loss of his free will, and the heavy hatred of a marriage he did not want to honor. He had guarded his heart amidst the worst of betrayals, trying to stay afloat amidst the pain.
Yet here, bathed in the warm lamplight of his private sanctuary, stood the two sisters he lived to protect, and they were enchanted by the man he had chosen to stand beside him for the rest of his days.
A wave of warmth bloomed deep within Raithion’s chest, richer and gentler than anything he had felt in years. Seeing his chosen lifelong partner, his consort-to-be, so effortlessly folded into the heart of his family filled a hollow space he hadn’t realized still existed in his chest, and it warmed his heart as nothing ever could.
*****
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