Adrian's breath rasped in the tailor's shop safehouse, the lantern's flicker casting jagged shadows on the boarded walls. The second cypher, clutched in his trembling hand, named Lord Varn as Kael's ally in a dawn coup against King Alaric's council. The vault's parchment, safe with Elara, proved House Draven's past treachery, but this new evidence was a live ember—proof of a plot that could topple the crown. Toren's betrayal still burned, a raw wound, but Lira's steady presence anchored him. The Dravens thought they'd won, but Adrian was their reckoning, and he'd strike before the sun rose.
Lira sat across from him, her curls damp from the fog, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etching her face. She'd bandaged his arm, the spell burn now a dull ache, but her frown said she felt the weight of their task. "We can't wait for Elara," she said, voice low but firm. "Varn's in the palace by now, with Kael's orders. We need to move."
Adrian's jaw tightened. Elara's promise to present the vault parchment to Alaric was their lifeline, but the cypher's warning—Strike at dawn—left no room for delay. Princess Eryn's orders to spy were a leash, and her guards hunted them as fugitives. Yet Varn's betrayal was a crack in the Draven wall, and Adrian would pry it open. "The palace is a fortress," he said, rubbing his bruised knuckles. "But the council chamber's side entrance—servants' access. It's our way in."
Lira's gaze hardened. "Guards, wards, and Varn's magic. You're not bulletproof, Adrian."
He forced a wry grin, though his stomach churned. "Never was. But I'm smarter than they think." His copper disc, its disruption rune worn but functional, lay on the crate beside him. It had saved them at the river; it would have to work again.
They left the safehouse at midnight, the city's fog a thick veil. The palace loomed, its spires piercing the mist, a monument to power and betrayal. Adrian's cloak hid his bloodied sleeve, the cypher tucked inside, its words a mantra: Kael's ally in council: Lord Varn. Lira moved like a shadow, her steps silent, her trust in him both a comfort and a burden. The Dravens had taken his family's honour, but they wouldn't take her.
The servants' entrance was a rusted gate, its ward faint under Adrian's disc. The rune hummed, disabling the magic, and they slipped into a narrow corridor, the air heavy with polish and stone. Voices echoed from the council chamber, low and urgent. Adrian's pulse raced—Varn was there, and dawn was hours away.
They crouched behind a tapestry, its threads frayed like Adrian's nerves. Through a slit, he saw the chamber: a long table, nobles in finery, Varn at the head, his silver hair glinting. His voice was smooth, a velvet blade. "The king's youth blinds him," Varn said. "We act for stability. Kael's plan ensures it."
A noble hesitated. "Treason risks war. The vault's evidence—"
"Is handled," Varn cut in, his smile cold. "Corveth's proof will vanish, as will he."
Adrian's blood boiled, his grip tightening on the disc. Varn knew about the vault parchment, meaning Kael's reach extended to Elara's circle. Lira's hand grazed his, a warning to stay calm. But calm was a luxury he'd lost when Toren sold them out.
"We need Varn alone," Adrian whispered, scanning the room. A side door led to a private study—perfect for an ambush. "I'll lure him. You watch the hall."
Lira's eyes flashed with protest, but she nodded, slipping to the corridor. Adrian waited, heart pounding, until a servant passed. He stepped out, cloaked as a messenger, and muttered to a guard, "Lord Varn's needed in the study. Urgent."
The guard relayed the message, and Varn excused himself, his stride confident. Adrian slipped into the study first, a cramped room of books and candlelight. When Varn entered, Adrian pressed the disc to the door, sealing it with a faint pulse. Varn's eyes narrowed, magic sparking in his hand. "Corveth," he sneered. "You're persistent."
"And you're a traitor," Adrian shot back, voice steady despite the fear clawing his chest. "Kael's coup ends tonight. I know everything."
Varn laughed, a chilling sound. "You're a boy with a grudge. The Dravens own this court. Your proof is ash by now."
Adrian hurled the disc, its rune flaring to dim Varn's magic. He tackled the older man, slamming him against a shelf. Books crashed, but Varn was strong, his elbow catching Adrian's jaw. Pain exploded, but Adrian held on, rage fueling him. "The king will know," he hissed, pinning Varn's arm. "Your name's on the cypher."
Varn's eyes widened, a flicker of fear. "You have nothing," he spat, but his voice wavered. Adrian pulled the cypher from his cloak, shoving it in Varn's face. The noble's composure cracked, and Adrian saw his chance.
"Guards!" he shouted, hoping Lira heard. The door burst open, but not with palace guards—Draven loyalists, three of them, magic blazing. Adrian's heart sank. Varn had backup, and Lira was alone in the hall.
He dove behind a desk as spells scorched the air, singeing his cloak. Varn scrambled free, barking orders. Adrian's disc was spent, its rune dark. He grabbed a candlestick, hurling it at a loyalist's head. It connected, buying a second, but the odds were grim. Then Lira's voice rang out: "Drop it!"
She stood in the doorway, a stolen guard's blade in hand, blood on her sleeve—not hers, Adrian prayed. A loyalist lunged, but she parried, her movements sharp from Academy training. Adrian tackled another, his fists desperate. The third loyalist raised a spell, but a new figure appeared—Princess Eryn, her plain cloak hiding royal steel, a dagger flashing as she struck the mage down.
"Enough!" Eryn commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. Guards—her guards—flooded in, binding Varn and the loyalists. Adrian sagged against the desk, chest heaving, blood dripping from his jaw. Lira lowered her blade, her eyes blazing with relief.
Eryn's gaze was ice, but her nod to Adrian held respect. "You've done what I asked," she said. "Varn's exposed. Elara's with Alaric now, presenting the vault parchment. The coup's finished."
Adrian's relief was fleeting. "Kael's still out there," he said, voice raw. "And Lady Draven. They'll strike again."
Eryn's lips tightened. "They will. But you've earned a pardon for you and your family. Stay sharp, Valorian."
As guards hauled Varn away, Adrian's eyes caught a glint on the floor—a ring, Varn's, etched with a Draven sigil. He pocketed it, a new lead. Lira's hand found his, her grip fierce. "We're alive," she whispered. "That's something."
He nodded, throat tight. The fight wasn't over. Kael, Lady Draven, and Toren's shadow loomed. But the council was safe, and his family's honour was closer to restoration. Then a guard rushed in, face pale. "The king's chamber—attacked. Kael's men."
Eryn's face hardened, and Adrian's blood ran cold. The coup wasn't finished—it had shifted. He clutched the ring, its sigil a promise of more lies to burn. The Dravens had underestimated him, and they'd pay. He'd find Kael, end this, or die with the truth blazing.