The private dining chamber was smaller than most noblemen's closets, but it had always felt like a trap disguised as intimacy.
High ceiling lost in shadow. One long table of dark ebony that could seat twelve but tonight held only two places. A single candelabra of twisted iron dripped black wax onto a silver tray. The windows were narrow arrow-slits draped in heavy velvet, letting in just enough moonlight to paint silver edges on everything. No servants. No guards. Just the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the distant howl of wind through the citadel's spires.
Alex arrived first.
He'd changed again—same black coat, but sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open one button too far. Casual for a duke. Dangerous for anyone else. He took the high-backed chair at the head of the table and waited.
The system had been mercifully quiet since the corridor encounter. No pop-ups. No snarky commentary. Just a single notification that had appeared and vanished like smoke:
**[Affection Tracker: Liora Voss – Current: -51]
[Trend: Rising. Slowly. Like a tide over broken glass.]**
He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.
The door opened without a knock.
Liora entered carrying a silver tray balanced on one palm like it weighed nothing. No maid's apron tonight—just the crimson-and-black dress, but with the skirt slit higher on one side, revealing a flash of thigh and the hilt of a throwing knife strapped there. Her hair was down now, falling in loose waves that caught the candlelight like spilled ink.
She set the tray on the sideboard with deliberate care.
Two plates. Two goblets. A carafe of deep red wine. A covered dish that smelled of roasted venison, rosemary, and something faintly metallic.
She didn't speak at first. Just poured the wine—first his glass, then hers. The liquid caught the light like fresh blood.
Then she sat. Opposite him. Back straight. Hands folded in her lap. Dagger still visible on her thigh.
Alex lifted his goblet in a mock toast.
"To interesting evenings."
Liora mirrored the gesture without smiling.
"To surviving them."
They drank.
The wine was excellent—rich, smoky, with a bite that lingered on the tongue. If it was poisoned, it was the slow kind. The kind that let you enjoy the meal before your heart quietly stopped.
Alex set his glass down.
"You didn't bring tasters."
"I am the taster," she said simply. "If I die, you'll know not to eat."
He studied her over the rim of his goblet as he took another sip.
"That's almost romantic."
"It's practical."
Silence settled between them again—not uncomfortable, exactly. More like the pause before a storm decides whether to break or just grumble.
Alex uncovered the main dish himself. Slices of venison, seared dark on the outside, pink in the center. A reduction of blackberries and port. Roasted roots glistening with honey and thyme. It looked… normal. Almost kind.
He served her first. A generous portion. Then himself.
Liora watched every movement.
"You're not eating," he noted.
"I'm deciding whether tonight is the night."
Alex cut into his meat. The knife went through clean.
"If it is," he said, "at least make it quick. I hate drawn-out deaths. They're so… theatrical."
She finally picked up her fork.
"I've never been theatrical. You were the one who liked monologues."
He laughed—quiet, surprised at himself.
"Fair."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds: silver on porcelain, the fire popping, the wind outside.
Then Liora spoke.
"Why did you change the orders at council?"
Alex paused mid-bite.
"You were listening?"
"I always listen." She set her fork down. "You could have ordered the villages burned. The wells poisoned. The wraiths unleashed. Any of those would have slowed the hero. Weakened him. Instead you told them to wait. Why?"
He leaned back in his chair, twirling the stem of his goblet.
"Because burning villages makes enemies. Poisoning wells makes martyrs. Unleashing wraiths makes monsters—and I'm already the monster in this story. I don't need more."
Liora's eyes narrowed.
"You sound like someone trying to rewrite the ending."
"Maybe I am."
She leaned forward slightly. Candlelight carved sharp shadows under her cheekbones.
"You can't. The prophecy is written. The Chosen One will come. The shadows will fall. The tyrant will die screaming."
Alex met her gaze.
"And if the tyrant decides he doesn't feel like screaming?"
For the first time, something cracked in her composure. Not fear. Not hate. Something closer to… uncertainty.
"Then the world breaks differently," she said quietly. "And everyone in it pays the price."
Alex reached across the table—slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed hers where they rested on the wood. Cool skin. Steady pulse.
"I'm not asking you to trust me, Liora. I'm asking you to watch. Really watch. And if I start becoming the same monster you've spent ten years trying to kill… then use that knife. No hesitation. No monologue. Just end it."
Her fingers twitched under his.
"You'd let me?"
"I'd deserve it."
The words hung there—naked. Honest in a way Vesper Blackthorn had never been.
Liora stared at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
Then she pulled her hand back. Not sharply. Just… deliberately.
"I don't believe you," she said. But her voice lacked its usual edge.
Alex smiled—small, tired.
"That's fine. Belief is earned. I've got time to earn it."
She stood abruptly.
"I should clear the plates."
"Leave them."
She hesitated.
He stood too. Rounded the table until he was close enough to smell the faint jasmine on her skin—her perfume, or maybe just her.
"Liora."
She looked up at him. Violet eyes unreadable.
"If you decide tonight is the night," he said softly, "aim for the heart. It's cleaner."
She searched his face for a long moment.
Then she reached up—slowly—and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The touch was light. Almost tender.
"Idiot," she whispered.
Then she turned and walked to the door.
She paused with her hand on the latch.
"Tomorrow," she said without looking back. "You have a visitor. Someone who claims to be a messenger from the hero's camp. Under truce flag. They want an audience."
Alex's stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"Princess Elara Voss."
The name landed like a thrown knife.
Liora glanced over her shoulder. One corner of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile.
"Sleep well, Your Grace. You'll need it."
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Alex stood alone in the candlelit room.
The fire had burned low. The wine in his goblet caught the dying light like spilled secrets.
He exhaled slowly.
The system finally broke its silence.
«Affection +22 (Current: -29).
She touched your hair, host. Voluntarily. That's… new.
Also, incoming plot armor: Elara Voss. The assassin princess. The one who's supposed to stab you in book three.
Current survival timer: 64 hours.
Buckle up. Things are about to get stabby.»
Alex picked up his goblet. Drained the last of the wine.
Then he smiled into the dark.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I was hoping they would."
He blew out the candles one by one.
The room went black.
But for the first time since waking up in this cursed body, the darkness didn't feel like a grave.
It felt like possibility.