CHAPTER TWELVE

On the other side of the library, moonlight slanted through the shutters of the apothecary's loft, scattering pale lines across the worn wooden floor. The painter stood in the shadows, arms folded tightly, the scent of dried herbs and bitter tinctures clinging to the air. He'd been waiting for her for nearly an hour, pacing like a man sentenced to death.

When the door finally creaked open, Elena stepped inside, cloak drawn close, her hood half-shadowing her face. "You shouldn't have summoned me here," she whispered. "It's too exposed."

"I had no choice," he snapped back. "Everything's changing. We need to talk. Now."

She closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it, eyes sharp as flint. "You're trembling."

"I'm thinking. There's a difference."

Elena's gaze narrowed. "No. There's not. Not when your thinking puts our entire cause in jeopardy."

He took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady the war in his chest. "No fire. No chaos. We change the plan. The king dies quietly, poison only."

Elena straightened, crossing her arms. "That isn't your decision to make."

"I secured the floor plans. I memorized the patrol shifts. I spent months building trust with the servants who'll open the tunnels. I've earned the right to say how he dies."

"You've earned suspicion," she said. "You're unraveling. Because of her. Because of the girl."

"Eliza..." he began, but stopped himself.

A smirk tugged at Elena's lips. "Ah. You say her name now. Dangerous."

He turned away, fisting his hands at his sides. Images flashed behind his eyes: Eliza's ribbon in his pocket, her voice in the library, the way her skin had burned against his chest. "She's not what you think."

"No?" Elena's voice dropped. "She's the king's daughter. Raised in the lion's mouth. She may smile sweetly, but her blood is treason to us."

He spun to face her. "You think I don't know that?"

"Then stop acting like a boy in love. You're not here to be saved. You're here to avenge. Your mother didn't bleed so you could fondle the princess."

His jaw tightened. Elena never spoke of his mother unless she wanted to wound him. He met her gaze. "I'm asking for a cleaner kill. That's all. We don't need fire. We don't need innocent people screaming in the ballroom."

Elena walked slowly toward him. "We need the kingdom to see their king fall. We need the nobles to panic. When they scramble, when they fight for the throne, we strike. That's the plan."

"The plan was justice. Not a massacre."

She stopped before him, close enough he could see the veins pulsing in her neck. "You think justice is clean? You think your mother's execution was clean? She begged, and the king's men laughed. You were a child, but I was there. I heard it."

He looked away, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Then let him die the way he made her die. Quiet. Dignified."

Elena's expression shifted, something almost like pity flickering through. "You've changed. She's changed you."

He shook his head. "She's made me remember who I was before I was broken."

"That man can't win this war. The rebels won't follow someone in love with the enemy."

A silence fell between them.

Finally, Elena stepped back. "I'll speak to the others. But if you falter, if you betray the cause for her, they'll kill you. And they'll kill her too."

He nodded. "Then I won't falter."

She gave a thin, bitter smile. "Love won't save you. It'll ruin you."

With that, she slipped out the door, vanishing into the night.

He stayed long after, staring into the dark.

Wondering if Elena was right.

Or if he could save them both.

The apothecary's loft faded into silence. But Elena did not go straight to her quarters.

She took a twisting alley through the city's underbelly, passing broken windows and whispering doors. She paused in front of a faded iron gate and knocked twice. A panel slid open. A pair of sharp eyes looked out.

"It's me."

The gate opened, revealing a hidden chamber lined with candles and rebel maps. A cluster of cloaked figures sat around a long table, their faces grim.

"He's hesitating," Elena announced without preamble. "She's in his head."

One of the rebels, a tall woman with a scar from brow to chin, leaned forward. "Do we cut him loose?"

"No," Elena replied. "Not yet. He's still useful. But if he steps out of line… we replace him."

A man with ink-stained fingers nodded. "I'll begin copying the floor plans he provided. We'll prepare a second agent."

Elena sat, her cloak falling away. "We give him one last chance. The king dies. No fire is a compromise I'm willing to make, for now."

"But if he warns the princess…"

"He won't. He's too conflicted. He still believes he can protect her. That delusion is our leash."

They agreed in silence.

Back in her quarters, Elena stared at her reflection, at the faint tattoo behind her ear, the rebel's mark. She had tried, truly tried, to keep her identity secret within the palace.

Every day, she donned her disguise like armor, slipping into the role of a servant with flawless precision. She watched from the shadows, listening for secrets, gathering details, feeding the rebellion that had entrusted her with the mission. Her task was clear: infiltrate, report, and help orchestrate the King's fall from within. Nothing more.

But then Eliza the golden girl in silk and firelight had started to unravel things.

Not by suspicion. By sweetness. By that unearned grace that always surrounded royalty like perfume. With her innocent questions and endless trust had made it harder. Not impossible, but harder. And Elena hated her for it.

Hated the way she smiled with such ease. Hated how she'd grown up soft while Elena's hands had blistered from stone and soot. Most of all, Elena hated how he looked at her.

And the book…

Elena had given it to Eliza that day in a moment of calculated strategy. Her mother's book about a woman's body, a symbolic gift to earn the girl's trust. But seeing it clutched in Eliza's hands like a sacred thing made Elena's stomach twist. That was hers. That belonged to a woman the King had executed without mercy. And yet now, his daughter leafed through its pages with idle curiosity, never knowing what blood stained the binding.

The painter. Marek.

Elena had seen it creeping into his gaze like rot beneath polished wood, this… longing. This pull toward the princess. It wasn't just lust; Elena could have forgiven him that. It was hesitation, the slow, dangerous kind. The kind that made men question what side they were on.

And the worst part? He didn't even try to hide it anymore.

He used to talk about vengeance. About his mother's death and the King's cruelty. But now, he is hesitating.

She had seen the way he looked at Eliza. And for the first time, Elena wasn't sure if she would be able to stop him… if he decided to choose the princess over vengeance.