Adrian's boots skidded on the slick cobblestones, his wrists raw from the ropes binding them. The city's fog was a shroud, muffling the Draven loyalists' grunts as they dragged him and Lira toward the river. Toren's second betrayal—selling them to Lady Draven for his sister's safety—cut deeper than the spell burn on his arm. The copper disc, slipped into Lira's sleeve with a whispered Break it, was their only hope. The safehouse had been a trap, but Adrian's fight for House Valorian's honour was far from over. The ciphered letter revealing Kael's coup plot, now in Lady Draven's hands, was a ticking bomb. He had to act, or the Dravens would bury the truth—and him.
Lira stumbled beside him, her scarf gone, curls matted with sweat. Her eyes, fierce despite the ropes, met his, a silent vow to fight. The river loomed ahead, its black waters glinting under torchlight, a grave for those who crossed the Dravens. Four loyalists surrounded them, two sparking magic, one gripping Toren's stolen dagger. Toren himself trailed behind, his face a mask of guilt and resignation, Lady Draven's orders binding him tighter than any rope.
Adrian's mind churned, every sense sharpened by fear and fury. The disc's disruption rune could stun their captors, but Lira needed a moment to activate it. The loyalists were careless, their steps heavy with confidence. Lady Draven's words—The king's weak, and Elara's a fool—echoed, fueling his resolve. She'd underestimated him as she had five years ago when she framed his family.
"Move it, Valorian," a loyalist growled, shoving Adrian forward. The riverbank was close, its stench of fish and rot choking. Adrian caught Lira's eye, nodding faintly. She flexed her bound hands, the disc's edge glinting in her sleeve. His heart pounded—now or never.
Lira tripped, a deliberate stumble, crashing into the nearest loyalist. "Clumsy fool!" the man snarled, but her fingers snapped the disc. A light pulse flared, and the loyalists' magic fizzled, sparks dying in their hands. Adrian lunged, headbutting the loyalist behind him. Pain exploded in his skull, but the man staggered, dropping the dagger.
Lira kicked another's shin, rolling free as the loyalists cursed. Adrian grabbed the fallen dagger, slicing his ropes with shaking hands. "Run!" he yelled, cutting Lira's bonds. They sprinted for the alleys, the loyalists' shouts echoing. Toren stood frozen, his eyes wide, but Adrian couldn't look back. Betrayal was a wound he'd nurse later.
The alleys were a labyrinth, narrow and slick with grime. Adrian's lungs burned, his arm throbbing where the spell had seared it. Lira kept pace, her breath ragged but determined. A loyalist's spell grazed a wall, showering sparks, but the disc's pulse had bought them time. They ducked into a crumbling doorway, pressing against the damp stone, hearts hammering.
"They'll search the district," Lira whispered, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We need a plan."
Adrian's mind raced. The safehouse letter—Kael plans a court coup. Strike at the king's council—was their leverage, but Lady Draven had it. Princess Eryn's orders to spy were their only shield, but her guards would be hunting them too. "We go to Elara," he said, voice low. "She has the vault parchment. She'll believe us about the coup."
Lira's jaw tightened. "If she doesn't arrest us first. Toren—"
"Don't," Adrian cut her off, the name a blade in his chest. "He's gone. We focus on Kael."
They moved, sticking to shadows, the city's pulse a distant hum. The Academy was too risky, crawling with Eryn's guards, but Elara's private study was in the city's scholarly quarter, a gamble they could take. Adrian's shoulder ached, blood seeping through his sleeve, but pain was an old friend. The Dravens had taken his family, his name, his peace. They wouldn't take his fight.
The scholarly quarter was quieter, its cobbled streets lined with bookshops and lamplit windows. Elara's study was a narrow building, its door unmarked. Adrian knocked, his knuckles bruised, praying she was there. The door creaked open, and Elara's sharp eyes met his, widening at their state.
"Corveth," she said, ushering them in. "You're a walking disaster. Explain."
The study was cramped, shelves groaning with tomes, a single candle flickering. Adrian spilt everything—the safehouse trap, Toren's betrayal, Lady Draven's taunts, the coup letter. Lira added details, her voice steady but fierce. Elara's face was stone, but her fingers tightened on the vault parchment, still on her desk.
"You've stirred a viper's nest," Elara said, voice cold but not unkind. The king's council is tomorrow. If Kael strikes, Alaric's reign ends before it begins."
"Then use the parchment," Adrian urged, leaning forward, pain forgotten. "It proves the Dravens' treason. Combine it with what we know—Kael's coup, the safehouse. The king has to act."
Elara's gaze flicked to Lira, then back. "You're fugitives now. Eryn's guards are hunting you, and Kael's allies are everywhere. Why should I trust you?"
"Because I'm still here," Adrian snapped, his voice raw. "The Dravens took everything, but I'm not running. I'm fighting for my family, for the truth."
Lira's hand brushed his, a quiet anchor. "We're not asking for trust," she said. "We're asking for a chance."
Elara exhaled, her steel softening. "Fine. I'll present the parchment to Alaric tonight, with your coup warning. But you stay hidden. There's a safehouse—mine, not Draven's. Lay low until I signal."
She scribbled an address, handing it to Lira. "Don't make me regret this, Corveth."
They left, the fog thicker now, swallowing the city's lights. Elara's safehouse was a derelict tailor's shop, its windows boarded, its door hidden in an alley. Inside, it was sparse—cots, a lantern, a crate of supplies. Adrian collapsed onto a cot, his arm screaming, his mind a storm. Lira knelt beside him, cleaning his wound with a cloth, her touch gentle but firm.
"You're a mess," she said, her voice soft but edged with worry. "We can't keep doing this."
Adrian met her eyes, the weight of her loyalty crushing. "I didn't ask you to stay," he said, his voice hoarse. "The Dravens won't stop. You could—"
"Shut up," Lira cut in, her glare fierce. "I'm here because you're not alone in this. You don't get to push me away."
Her words hit hard, a warmth he didn't deserve. He nodded, throat tight. "Thanks," he whispered, the word heavy with everything he couldn't say.
As Lira bandaged his arm, Adrian's thoughts turned to Toren. His betrayal—They have my sister—was a wound that wouldn't close. Yet a flicker of doubt lingered. Toren's eyes had held guilt, not malice. Was there a chance he'd turn again? Adrian shoved the thought down. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The lantern's light caught a glint in his cloak—a forgotten scrap, missed by the loyalists. He pulled it out: a second cypher, torn from the safehouse table. His pulse quickened as he traced its symbols, decoding with practised ease. Kael's ally in council: Lord Varn. Strike at dawn.
"Varn," Adrian muttered, the name a spark. Lord Varn was Alaric's advisor, trusted by the court. If Kael had turned him, the coup was deeper than they'd feared. He showed Lira, her face hardening.
"We tell Elara," she said. "Tonight."
Adrian nodded, exhaustion battling resolve. The safehouse was a fleeting shelter, but the Dravens were closing in. Elara's gamble, Eryn's leash, Kael's coup—they were a tightening vice. Yet the cypher was a weapon, and Varn's name was a crack in the Draven wall. Adrian's family had fallen, but he'd risen from their ashes. He'd expose Varn, stop Kael, and burn the Dravens' lies—or die with the truth in his hands.