Chapter 8: The Price of Deception
The Archduke’s words landed like stones in the still, cold air of the suite. The fabricated intimacy of the bloodstain on the sheets suddenly seemed childish, a petty lie dwarfed by the raw fact of a corpse in a corridor.
Finn was already moving, the blanket falling away. “When? Where exactly?”
“West service corridor, near the old laundry chutes. The watch found him during the change of guard. The ring was in his fist, clenched so tight they had to break two fingers to retrieve it.” The Archduke’s eyes, like chips of flint, didn’t leave his son’s face. “Alaric is screaming it’s a plant. The Emperor is… considering.”
“Considering what?” Nadia’s voice was a thread. She stood, clutching her own blanket like a shield.
“Whether my son,” the Archduke said, still looking at Finn, “finally decided to do the family a favor and frame his cousin for murder, or whether someone else is playing a very deep game.” He finally glanced at Nadia, a swift, assessing cut. “Dress. Both of you. The Emperor wants you in the Map Room. Now.”
He left, leaving the door agape, a yawning mouth into the hostile palace.
The fragile camaraderie of the night shattered. Finn moved with a soldier’s economy, splashing water from the basin onto his face, running wet hands through his hair. He didn’t look at the bed. “We have five minutes,” he said, his voice all business.
Nadia’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the fastenings of her travel gown, the same one from the day before. There was no maid, no pretense of luxury. It was just the two of them, scrambling in the pale light, the specter of a dead scribe crowding the room.
“Do you think he did it?” she asked, her back to him as she struggled with a stubborn latch.
“Alaric?” Finn’s reflection appeared beside hers in the dark glass of the window. He was buckling a plain leather baldric over his tunic, a utilitarian dagger now at his hip. “Kill a random scribe? No. He’s vicious, not stupid. Leaving his ring is phenomenally stupid. Which means either he’s being set up, or he wants us to think he’s being set up.” He let out a sharp breath. “It’s a maze.”
They were escorted by four of the Archduke’s personal guards this time, through hushed, back passages. The grandeur of the palace felt like a painted backdrop, its gold leaf and tapestries hiding rot. The Map Room was at the heart of the administrative wing, a place of strategy, not ceremony.
The Emperor was there, standing before a vast table laden with charts. He looked smaller without his ceremonial robes, a frail man in a heavy velvet dressing gown. Alaric stood to one side, his face a mask of outraged innocence. His eyes, when they met Nadia’s, glittered with pure, unadulterated hatred.
The Archduke leaned against the wall by the fireplace, a brooding statue.
“Close the door,” the Emperor said. The guards obliged, leaving the five of them in the windowless room, lit by smoky lamps.
The Emperor’s obsidian gaze went first to Finn, then settled on Nadia. He did not acknowledge the murder. He pointed a bony finger at the floor before him. “Come here, girl.”
She walked forward, her steps echoing on the parquet. She felt Finn shift behind her, not following, but a constant, tense presence.
The Emperor’s eyes traveled over her, not with desire, but with the cold assessment of a man inspecting livestock. “Turn around. Walk back to him.”
Confused, she turned and walked back to stand beside Finn. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“A performance,” the Emperor stated, his voice dry. “From the beginning. The sullen silence. The terrified bride. The strategic alliance of two misfits.” He took a slow step toward them. “You took me for a fool.”
“Uncle, I don’t—” Finn began.
“Silence.” The Emperor didn’t raise his voice. It cut anyway. He stopped before Nadia, so close she could smell the camphor and the faint, sour scent of his breath. “The blood on the sheet was from a finger-prick. A child’s trick.”
Nadia’s blood ran cold. He knew.
“You see,” the Emperor continued, speaking as if lecturing a dull student, “I have had your household watched since the betrothal was signed. Your father, the Duke of Ashford, is a sentimental man in his own cruel way. He could not bear the thought of you, his greatest disappointment, finding any pleasure or power with another. So he took steps. To make you… unspoilable. To ensure no man would find value in you, even on your wedding night.”
The words were arrows, each finding its mark. Nadia’s breath hitched. She felt Finn go utterly still beside her.
The Emperor leaned in. “The physician in Ashford who attended your mother, he was quite talkative once a few gold coins clinked in his cup. A simple procedure, he said. To preserve family honor. A few stitches, after a riding accident. To ensure you remained intact, in the only way that matters to men like your father.”
The room tilted. Nadia’s vision tunneled. The clinical horror of it, laid bare in this cold, political room, was worse than any beating. Her father hadn’t just neglected her; he had her surgically altered, her body made into a permanent, secret cage. The malnourishment, the isolation—they were just the outer walls. This was the central lock.
A low sound came from Finn. It wasn’t a word. It was the vibration of pure, undiluted rage.
The Emperor heard it. He smiled, a thin, gash-like movement of his lips. “So you see, the little stain on the sheet is a lie. A consummation, were it even attempted, would have required a physician’s intervention. There would have been screams. There would have been a flood of blood, not a drop.” He stepped back, folding his hands into his sleeves. “The marriage is unconsummated. A farce. I could annul it before noon and send you back to Ashford in disgrace.” His eyes pinned Nadia. “Why should I not?”
The weight of the threat crushed the air from her lungs. Ashford. The dark room. Her father’s smug contempt, her sister’s glee. It wasn’t a return; it was a death sentence.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The old conditioning, the years of enforced silence, rose like a wall in her throat.
Then Finn spoke. His voice was different. It was not the soft-spoken prince, nor the weary soldier. It was flat, cold, and carried the absolute authority of a man who had commanded armies.
“Because you need us.”
The Emperor’s eyebrow twitched. “I need a legitimate heir from your line. This… creature cannot provide one without significant and scandalous medical aid.”
“I’m not talking about heirs,” Finn said. He took a single step forward, placing himself slightly in front of Nadia, not touching her, but a shield nonetheless. “You have a dead scribe in the west corridor. Clutching the Crown Prince’s signet. The court is already whispering. You need the truth found, and you need it found by someone whose loyalty to the throne is above question, but who is not already entangled in every faction in this palace.”
“And that is you?” Alaric sneered from the sidelines. “The savage who beheads messengers?”
Finn didn’t even look at him. He kept his eyes on the Emperor. “Precisely. They fear me. They tell lies about me. That makes me an excellent tool. No one will dare obstruct me, because they believe the stories. And no one will suspect my loyalty, because they believe I am too simple for politics. They think I only understand force.” He finally glanced at Alaric, a flick of dismissive gray eyes. “Let them think it.”
The Emperor was silent, calculating.
“Annul the marriage, and you lose that tool,” Finn continued, his logic merciless. “You send Nadia back, you confirm every vile story her family spread, and you create a martyr for my enemies to use against me—the poor, betrayed Wolf, his wife stolen by political maneuvering. Keep us married, keep this farce intact, and you have a united front. A prince known for brutal efficiency, and a wife everyone pities and underestimates. She can hear whispers in places I cannot go. We can navigate this for you. Find out who really killed your scribe. And why they want a war between your heir and your spare.”
The Map Room held its breath. The lamplight guttered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the maps on the table seem like shifting continents.
The Emperor’s gaze slid from Finn to Nadia. She forced herself to meet it, to not look away. She let him see the shame, yes, but beneath it, she summoned the cold, clear intelligence she had nurtured in her solitude. She did not speak. She let her silence, for once, be mistaken for strength.
“An interesting proposition,” the Emperor murmured. He turned and walked slowly to the head of the map table, tracing a border with one finger. “The scribe was copying certain… letters. Correspondence between the Crown Prince and the Duke of Lorimar.”
Alaric stiffened. “Those were private!”
“Nothing is private,” the Emperor said without heat. “The letters were mundane. Trade agreements. But their existence in the hands of a dead man is not.” He looked up. “Very well. The marriage stands. For now. You will investigate this death. You, Finnian. And you will take your wife with you. She will be your eyes in the solar and the sewing circle. You have three days. Find me the hand that wielded the knife. If you succeed, your… marital difficulties will be forgotten. The court physician will be placed at your disposal, discreetly. If you fail, the annulment will be the least of your concerns.”
It was a stay of execution. A bargain with a demon.
Finn gave a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”
The Emperor waved a dismissive hand. “Go. See the body. Talk to the guards. Do not speak of the other matter.” His meaning was clear: Nadia’s secret was to remain one.
As they turned to leave, Alaric’s voice slithered across the room. “Enjoy the sight, Wolf. I hear it’s quite messy. But then, you’re used to that.”
Finn didn’t respond. He placed a hand lightly on the small of Nadia’s back, a guiding pressure that felt both protective and possessive, and steered her from the room.
The door shut behind them, leaving them in the cool, empty hallway with their two silent guards. The weight of the Emperor’s knowledge was a yoke on Nadia’s shoulders. She felt exposed, flayed open.
Finn stopped walking. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor. The rage she had heard was gone, replaced by something more complex.
“I…” she started, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even fully understand it myself until he said it.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “We have a murder to solve
The words were a lifeline thrown into the churning sea of her shame. He wasn’t asking for explanations. He wasn’t offering hollow pity. He was stating a simple, terrible fact that required forward motion. Nadia grasped it, her mind clawing its way back from the precipice.
“Right.” The word was brittle, but it was a start. She straightened her shoulders, the coarse wool of her gown scratching her neck. “Where do we begin?”
“The body,” Finn said, already walking. The guards fell in step behind them. “Before it gets colder or vanishes.”
The west service corridor was a stark contrast to the main halls, a bare stone throat of the palace. It smelled of damp masonry, old soap, and now, the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Torches guttered in iron brackets, throwing frantic shadows.
A knot of Imperial guards stood around a shape on the floor, covered by a rough canvas sheet. The blood had seeped through, a dark, blossoming stain. The captain, a man with a face like weathered oak, saluted Finn.
“Your Grace. The scene is as we found it, mostly.”
Finn nodded, his expression detached, professional. He crouched by the shape, not yet lifting the cloth. “The ring. It was definitely Alaric’s?”
“Without doubt. The boar and star crest. He’s claiming it was stolen from his chambers a week ago, reported to the chamberlain.” The captain’s tone was meticulously neutral.
“Convenient.” Finn’s voice was flat. He glanced up at Nadia, who hung back. “You don’t have to look.”
She did. She needed to see the reality of the game they were in. She stepped closer, the cold of the stones leaching through her thin soles. “Show me.”
Finn lifted the canvas.
The scribe was a young man, pale and thin. His throat was a ruined mess, a second, grisly mouth gaping beneath his chin. His eyes were open, a startling milk-blue, fixed on the ceiling. One hand was curled into a fist, the fingers visibly broken and angled wrong.
Nadia’s stomach turned. This wasn’t the clean violence of stories. It was ugly, personal, and wet. She made herself study his tunic, plain and serviceable, the ink stains on his fingers.
“He was dragged,” she heard herself say.
Finn looked at her. “What?”
She pointed, her hand steady though her insides trembled. “The back of his tunic. It’s scuffed and filthy. The front is relatively clean. He was killed elsewhere and pulled here. The blood pool is… contained. It didn’t spray.”
The guard captain blinked, reassessing her. “The lady is observant. We thought the same. No drag marks in the blood here, though.”
“Which means the killing floor was cleaned,” Finn concluded, standing. He looked down the dark corridor. “Or it happened on a rug, or a tapestry, that was removed.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This was planned. The ring, the placement. The broken fingers are theatrical. Someone wanted the ring found.”
“But why frame Alaric so clumsily?” Nadia asked, her mind latching onto the puzzle, a welcome distraction from the horror on the floor. “It feels too obvious.”
“Maybe obvious is the point,” Finn murmured. He looked at the captain. “Who had access? Who found him?”
“The night scrub crew. An old laundress. She’s in the kitchen, half-terrified out of her wits.” The captain shifted. “There’s one more thing, Your Grace. A bit… odd.”
“Go on.”
The captain crouched and, with a gloved hand, gently turned the scribe’s head. The hair at the nape of his neck was shaved in a small, precise patch. On the pale skin beneath was a symbol, freshly inked: a small, crude rabbit, with what looked like sutures drawn across its middle.
Nadia’s breath stopped. The world narrowed to that little mark. A rabbit. Stitched.
Her hand flew to her own abdomen, a reflexive, protective gesture. Finn’s gaze snapped to her, then back to the mark. His gray eyes turned to ice.
“That’s new,” the captain said. “Wasn’t there when we first rolled him. Must’ve been done just before, or just after. A killer’s signature?”
“Or a message,” Finn said, his voice dangerously soft. He dropped the canvas back over the dead man’s face, the motion final. “For us. Specifically.”
The Emperor had just unveiled Nadia’s secret to them minutes before. But this symbol proved someone else already knew. Someone who had killed to whisper that knowledge in the most grotesque way imaginable.
“The physician,” Nadia whispered, the pieces clicking with a sickening clarity. “The one from Ashford. He said he talked.”
“For gold,” Finn finished. He looked at the captain. “Where is the court physician’s quarters?”
“East wing, third floor, near the imperial apartments. But, Your Grace, he’s been attending the Emperor’s gout all morning. Dozens of witnesses.”
“I don’t care about his alibi for the murder,” Finn said, already striding back the way they came, his long legs forcing Nadia into a near-jog to keep up. “I want to know who he’s been drinking with, or bragging to, for the last six months.”
They moved through the palace, a focused storm. The polite fiction of their morning-after was gone, replaced by a grim partnership. Nadia’s mind raced alongside her feet. The shame was still there, a cold stone in her gut, but it was now ringed with a growing, furious heat.
“This changes the investigation,” she said, trying to match his pace. “It’s not just about letters or framing Alaric. It’s about me. Using my… condition to send a message. To unnerve you.”
“It’s working,” Finn admitted, a raw edge in his voice. He didn’t look at her. “But they’ve made a mistake. They’ve shown us their hand is in our business. Our private business. Now we find which rat has been gnawing at those particular walls.”
He stopped abruptly before a nondescript door, nodding to the guards to take positions on either side. This wasn’t the physician’s official office; it was a small personal study, smelling of dried herbs and alcohol.
Finn didn’t knock. He opened the door.
The room was empty, but in disarray. Ledgers were open on a desk, vials lay uncorked. A half-eaten meal sat congealing on a plate. And on the floor, near the cold hearth, was a single, muddy boot print, facing the door.
“He left in a hurry,” Nadia murmured.
Finn walked to the desk, his eyes scanning the open pages. They were supply inventories, lists of tonics. Nothing obvious. He nudged the plate with a finger. “Still slightly warm. He was here recently.”
A soft sound made them both turn. It came from a large cabinet in the corner, a faint shuffle, like fabric against wood.
Finn moved silently, gesturing for Nadia to stay back. He positioned himself beside the cabinet, hand on his dagger. In one fluid motion, he yanked the door open.
A young man in a healer’s apprentice uniform tumbled out, landing in a heap on the floor. He was perhaps eighteen, eyes wide with terror, clutching a small leather satchel to his chest.
“Please! Don’t hurt me! I don’t know anything!” he blurted, scrambling backward until he hit the desk leg.
Finn didn’t move. He just looked down, his exhaustion evident. “We’re not going to hurt you. Where’s Physician Corbin?”
“G-gone! He said he had to check the frostbite in the stables. Twenty minutes ago. But he took his personal case, the one with the silver tools. He never takes that to the stables.”
“Did he seem frightened?” Nadia asked, keeping her voice low.
The apprentice’s eyes darted to her, then away. “He was… agitated. He kept muttering about ‘loose tongues sinking ships.’ He told me to tidy up and forget I saw him today.” The boy’s grip tightened on the satchel. “But… he forgot this. He hides it under a floorboard. I was curious.”
“Give it to me,” Finn said, not asking.
The apprentice hesitated, then thrust the satchel forward. Finn took it and upended it on the desk.
Out fell not medical tools, but letters. Dozens of them, tied with different colored ribbons. And a small, heavy ledger. Finn picked it up, flipped it open. It was a log of payments. Column after column of dates, initials, and sums.
Nadia leaned in. She pointed to a recurring set of initials, always paired with substantial amounts. “A.L.,” she read aloud. Then her blood chilled. Below those entries, in a different ink, were notes. ‘Procedure, Ashford. Discretion.’ And later, ‘Silence renewed.’
A.L. Alaric. Or someone using his initials.
Finn’s finger traced down the page. The payments from ‘A.L.’ stopped abruptly three months ago. The final note beside the last entry was a single, stark word: ‘Dissatisfied.’
“He was blackmailing someone,” Nadia whispered. “He got greedy, or he stopped being useful.”
The apprentice was shaking. “He told me once that knowing secrets was better than knowing medicine in this palace. He said it made you valuable, until it made you a liability.”
From the hallway, they heard a new voice, loud and commanding. It was the Archduke. “Find them! Check the physician’s quarters!”
Finn shoved the ledger and letters back into the satchel and thrust it at the trembling apprentice. “Hide this. Now. Forget we were here.”
He grabbed Nadia’s hand, his grip firm, and pulled her toward a second, smaller door behind the desk—a servant’s passage. They slipped through just as the main door to the study burst open.
They stood in the narrow, dark passage, listening to the Archduke’s men ransacking the room behind them. Finn’s chest rose and fell steadily against her back. The air smelled of dust and old linen.
“My father isn’t looking for the killer,” Finn breathed into the darkness, his voice a low rumble she felt as much as heard. “He’s cleaning up a mess. A.L. could be Alaric. Or it could be my father, Archduke Loras. His name also starts with an L.”
The realization was a new layer of cold. The killer wasn’t just sending them a message about Nadia. They were exposing a network of secrets, starting with the man who had stitched her closed. And someone very powerful was now desperately trying to erase the trail.
Finn’s hand found hers again in the dark. “We need to find Corbin before they do. Alive.”
“Where would a frightened man with a bag of silver tools go?” Nadia asked, her mind scrambling.
“Somewhere he thinks he can buy, or cut, his way to safety.” Finn began moving down the passage, pulling her along. “The docks. The river gate. But he’ll need to wait for cover of darker crowds.”
They emerged into another vacant corridor, this one lined with stored furniture draped in dust cloths. Distant shouts echoed.
Nadia’s thoughts circled back to the stitched rabbit, to the violation of it. “They wanted us to know they knew. They’re laughing at us.”
Finn stopped, turning to face her. In the gloom, his scar was a dark line, his eyes intense. “Let them laugh. Right now, they’re the only ones who think this is a joke.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dust from her cheekbone, a gesture so startlingly tender after the morning’s horrors that she froze.
“The mouse,” he said quietly, “just saw what the cat did and told the wolf. The cat isn’t laughing anymore.”
He dropped his hand, the moment gone, replaced again by urgency. “Come on. The stables are a ruse, but we should check. He might have left a real trail there.”
As they moved toward the service stairs, a new, chilling sound filtered down from the courtyards below—not shouts, but the distinct, organized clash of practice swords and the bark of drill sergeants. The palace guard was mobilizing, but for what?
Ahead, the stairwell promised only more shadows and unanswered questions. Behind them, the trail was already going cold.