Chapter 48: The Question of Mercy

Morning arrived in the capital looking as miserable as ever, with grey skies and rain threatening to ruin everyone’s day. Fortunately, the breakfast parlor had its priorities straight. Fried bacon, baked apples, and freshly made oatcakes filled the room with a smell so good that Lioren was willing to forgive the weather for its many crimes.

Lioren pushed his plate back with a loud, contented sigh, leaning his head back against his high-backed chair. "Ah, absolute bliss! Truly, a masterpiece. Make sure to pass along my personal praise to Tian, will you? The man’s a bloody wizard in the kitchen. I swear, if he ever decides to leave our service and open a bakery down in the south, I’ll have to declare war just to bring him back."

The young maid clearing the side table giggled softly, curtsying before scurrying off toward the kitchens with the empty pewter platters.

Sitting across the round mahogany table, Xavion dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, his single violet eye tracking the Grand Duke’s theatrical stretching. He’d slept fitfully—his body still carrying the ghost memory of that strange, sharp throb behind his eyepatch from the night before—but the calm, ordinary domesticity of the morning had gone a long way toward dulling his frayed edges.

Lioren suddenly sat up straight. The exaggerated grin softened just a fraction, settling into a quieter, far more deliberate expression. He rested his forearms on the table, looking directly across at his betrothed.

"Prince Xavion," Lioren said, his tone casual on the surface, yet carrying a distinct, subtle shift that made the room feel instantly quieter. "Do you have a bit of time to step aside and talk? Just the two of us."

Xavion set his napkin down beside his plate. He didn’t ask questions. He simply offered a sharp, single nod. "Of course."

They headed down the quiet hallway to a smaller drawing room, a cozy octagonal space furnished with plush velvet armchairs and wide arched windows overlooking the herb garden. Unlike the grand study, this room was free of paperwork and official documents. It was a place for pleasant conversation, not political headaches.

Lioren closed the door behind them and turned to Xavion. Rather than take a seat, he wandered over to the window, leaned against the sill, and folded his arms across his chest.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, careful, stripped entirely of its usual booming theatrics.

"I went down to the lower cells last night," Lioren began quietly, his blue eyes watching a pair of sparrows darting between the frost-dusted rosemary bushes outside. "After our dinner, I had a... well, a rather direct conversation with our friend from the alley."

Xavion had already taken a seat in one of the chairs. He listened quietly, his single eye fixed on Lioren’s face.

"He’s an operative," Lioren explained, turning his head to meet Xavion’s gaze," Lioren explained, turning his head to meet Xavion’s gaze. "A low-level field hand working out of this guild down in the river district. He wasn’t sent by a border warlord, and he wasn’t carrying a court assassin’s seal. His ticket was posted on an open board two days ago. High coin, simple parameters: observe Prince Xavion Astervan. Note who you speak to, track what you buy, mark where you go, and see if you leave the estate grounds without an escort."

Lioren paused, shaking his head with a faint, wry sigh. "He doesn’t know who commissioned the job. The guilds don’t share client names with their ground rats, it’s how they keep their trade secure. The customer pays a clerk at a back counter, the clerk posts the mark, and the runner drops his daily reports into a blind box behind the weaver’s hall."

Xavion’s jaw tightened slightly, though his expression remained remarkably calm. "An information broker."

"Precisely," Lioren agreed. "Therin and Caldrin are already pulling thread on it. Therin’s digging through the local guild’s exchange ledgers to trace any sudden foreign draft transfers, and Caldrin is going to pay a very quiet, very firm visit to the clerk who issued the ticket. If there’s a paper trail or a recognizable accent tied to that coin, my men will find it."

He pushed off from the window sill, taking three slow steps across the rug until he was standing a few feet from Xavion.

"In the meantime," Lioren said, his voice dropping into an earnest, incredibly gentle tone, "the rat is still sitting down in our lower cells. He’s bound, his wounds have been patched up so he won’t rot, and he’s waiting."

Lioren looked straight into Xavion’s single eye, his own bright blue ones utterly serious.

"And I want to know what you want done with him."

Xavion blinked. A rare, genuine flicker of surprise broke through his disciplined, stoic composure. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze searching Lioren’s face as if looking for the punchline to an unfamiliar joke.

"You... want my decision?" Xavion asked, his deep voice carrying a faint, hesitant rasp. "Your Grace... he was apprehended on your estate grounds. He drew sword on your captain, and he attempted to strike you in an alleyway within your own capital. By every law of the realm, his execution or imprisonment falls entirely under your authority as Grand Duke."

"Oh, nonsense," Lioren scoffed lightly, though there was zero anger in it. He gestured broadly with one hand. "Law books be damned, Prince Xavion. The man wasn’t trailing my sister. He wasn’t spying on my stewards, and he certainly wasn’t taking notes on what I like to eat for breakfast. He was stalking you."

He stepped closer, resting one hand lightly on the carved wooden back of the armchair between them.

"I am protecting you while you are under my roof, that is my duty, and I take it very seriously," Lioren said softly, his voice firm and unwavering. "But protecting a man doesn’t mean stripping away his autonomy, Xavion. It doesn’t mean stepping in front of him and deciding how his life, his safety, or his justice ought to be handled. I am not going to sit on a high cushion and issue an order over a situation that directly targeted you, nor am I going to force you to be merciful if you’d rather see him hanged from the battlements."

Xavion stood entirely frozen, the weight of Lioren’s words settling into the quiet room like a warm, unexpected hearth fire.

Lioren couldn’t help wondering if it was really so surprising to let Xavion decide what should happen to the man. From what little he knew of the prince’s circumstances in Ostharia, perhaps it was. A bastard prince whose own family had treated him as a weapon and whose magic was now gone probably wasn’t accustomed to having much say in matters concerning himself.

Xavion seemed to have gone quiet, his gaze lowered as he considered the offer. Whatever surprise he’d felt at being given the choice, his mind had already begun working through the possibilities.

There were several paths forward, each carrying its own weight.

He could order the man handed back to the guild under tight guard, using him as a bargaining chip to force the guildmasters into revealing the client’s identity, though information guilds were notoriously stubborn about breaking client confidentiality, even under threat of iron.

He could demand the operative be held in the Roscaire cells indefinitely, kept in the dark until Caldrin’s investigation yielded a name, ensuring the client remained completely unaware that their shadow had been compromised.

Or, he could simply have the man quietly removed from the city, broken, branded, and exiled, sending a clear, silent warning to whoever had paid for the ticket that the North was no longer an easy ground for southern eyes.

Xavion slowly raised his head, his single violet eye locking back onto Lioren’s patient, attentive face.

"It is a complex matter," Xavion murmured quietly, his chest rising with a slow, deliberate breath. "If we press him too hard through the guild, we risk alerting the client before your men can trace the coin. If we release him, we lose our leverage. But if we keep him..."

"Take all the time you need," Lioren interrupted gently, a small, genuine smile curving his lips as he held up a reassuring hand. "I don’t need an answer this second, Your Highness. I just needed you to know that the choice belongs to you."

Lioren leaned back slightly, watching Xavion with an expression that was surprisingly gentle. He didn’t look impatient for an answer or eager to take the decision back into his own hands. He simply seemed willing to let Xavion decide for himself.

"I have my own opinions on the matter, naturally," Lioren added, his tone slipping back into that light, familiar, slightly mischievous purr. "I’d personally love to see him scrubbing the lower stable stalls with a tiny brush for the next sixty years. But whatever you decide, whether it’s execution, exile, or using him as bait, that is what we will do. You have my word."