THE PRINCE SHE POISONED: I returned as her brother-in-law

The Trash of the Imperial Palace

The courier didn't even wipe the river mud from his forehead before he slammed his knees onto the polished marble floor.

"Your Highness!" His voice cracked, shattering the string quartet’s melody mid-note. "The winter fleet... the river contracts are broken!"

Crown Prince Cassian froze with his golden goblet halfway to his lips. Heavy, golden mana flared around his broad shoulders, making the surrounding candle flames bow violently. "Mind your tongue, dog. Duke Julius guaranteed those food stores yesterday."

"The Duke’s paper notes were rejected!" the courier gasped, pressing his forehead against the cold stone. "A buyer swept through the harbor at sunset! Seventy percent of all river grain futures... bought out in hard gold advance!"

A suffocating silence fell over the three hundred aristocrats in the hall.

Duke Julius dropped his wine glass. The deep red liquid splashed across his white silk breeches, but he didn't even look down. His face turned the color of dry chalk. If the army's winter rations weren't in those warehouses, his family’s line of credit—and his political standing—was dead by morning.

"Who?" Cassian’s growl echoed off the high frescoes ceiling. He stepped down from the raised dais, his hand gripping the brass hilt of his broadsword. "Which house dares hoard grain meant for the crown?"

"No house, My Lord!" the courier stammered, his shoulders shaking. "The contract was stamped in dark wax. The barge master said... the buyer answers only to the Blind Broker."

Tucked into the freezing shadow of a stone pillar near the back exit, Cale leaned his weight onto his iron-tipped cane.

He kept his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, clutching the silk pouch of copper coins Evelyn had tossed him moments earlier. To anyone looking, he was just the pathetic Third Prince—coughing softly into his sleeve, trembling at his older brother's rage.

Behind his dark fringe, however, Cale's eyes were sharp, drinking in every drop of their panic.

He watched Cassian’s jaw clench in helpless fury. He watched Duke Julius frantically signal his private guards to clear a path out of the hall.

And then his gaze shifted to Evelyn.

She didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She stood beside Cassian in her icy-blue gown, her dark eyes sweeping the room with terrifying precision. She was searching for a slip. A smirk. A single face that looked too satisfied.

Her gaze dragged right over Cale.

She saw a sickly boy shivering in a threadbare tunic, clutching her pocket change like a lifeline. Her eyes didn't linger for even a second. She looked right past him.

Cale's fingers tightened around the silk pouch until the copper edge bit into his palm.

Look all you want, Evelyn, he thought, a dark, silent fire warming his ribs. You won't find the ghost standing in front of you.

Cale slipped out the side doors before the palace guards could lock down the gates.

The walk back to the South Annex was pure agony. Every step dragged his crippled left leg across the frozen cobblestones, sending sharp needles of pain up his spine. His shattered mana channels throbbed—brittle, dry, and strained to their absolute limit.

He welcomed the pain. It kept his mind razor-sharp.

He kicked open the heavy oak door of his room and pushed it shut behind him. The air inside smelled of wet moss, old straw, and damp stone.

"You're walking a bit fast for a dying prince," a dry voice rasped from above.

Lyra dropped lightly from the rafters, her dark boots hitting the floorboards without a sound. Her leather armor was slick with night mist, and her hand rested easily on her dagger hilt.

"Did the Duke look as pale as I think he did?" she asked, a small, wicked grin touching her lips.

"Paler," Cale said, sinking into the rickety chair behind his desk. He tossed Evelyn's coin pouch onto the wood with a dull thud. "Hold the grain. Don't sell a single sack when Julius comes begging tomorrow. Let the capital’s panic hit the ceiling before you set the price."

Lyra picked up the pouch, weighing it in her palm. "And what's the next move? We've got hard coin coming in, but the whole city is hunting the Broker now. What are we buying?"

"The Sinking District," Cale said softly. "There’s a black-market alchemist den near the old canal—the Nightshade Circle. They're drowning in debt and hiding from the city watch."

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "You want to buy illegal potions?"

"I want to buy the whole syndicate," Cale corrected, leaning his elbows on the rough wood. "Buy their debts. Buy their silence. I need an alchemist lab that answers only to the Blind Broker—where no one asks who drinks the draughts or what channels they heal."

Lyra stared at him, her sharp eyes searching his pale face. "You're hiding your tracks. If a crippled prince goes looking for a channel-restoration draught, the palace guards notice. But if a shadow broker buys out a bankrupt apothecary guild..."

"It's just a business expansion," Cale whispered. "Disguise my cure inside a hundred routine trade transactions. Leave no thread that leads back to this room."

Lyra nodded slowly, a look of cold respect flashing in her eyes. She turned toward the dark window, pulling her hood low over her face. "I'll have the deeds signed by dawn."

Lyra stepped onto the window sill, but paused, her hand gripping the wooden frame.

"Lyra?" Cale asked, his eyes narrowing in the dim moonlight. "What is it?"

Lyra turned back, her expression dead serious. The playful smirk was completely gone.

"I almost forgot," she whispered. "Before I left the docks, one of my runners brought word from the court inner ring. Evelyn didn't panic over the grain like Cassian did tonight."

Cale’s chest tightened. "Speak."

"The moment the messenger spoke the Blind Broker's name, she didn't throw a fit—she acted," Lyra said, her voice barely a breath in the dark. "She convinced Cassian that the Broker must have an insider taking information from within the royal palace. She’s ordered an immediate lockdown and audit of every quiet, unmonitored wing of the court."

Cale’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Starting where?"

"Starting with the South Annex," Lyra whispered, her hand tightening on her dagger hilt. "She thinks the Broker is using the abandoned servants' quarters as a hideout. Her imperial guards are already down the corridor, searching room by room."

Outside the heavy oak door, the distant, heavy rhythm of armored boots echoed against the cold stone floor.