A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 15

Clarisse wasn’t used to fear—but this wasn’t a moment for pride.

She stormed into the study, eyes wide, hands clenched. “He knows,” she said, voice too loud for the quiet house. “Lucan’s seen the files.”

The words hit the room like a dropped glass. Marion, seated by the window, barely turned her head. Her voice came out calm, cold. “He won’t say anything. He never does.”

Clarisse paced near the fireplace, heels clicking against the stone. “He was different this time. He wasn’t confused. He was angry. Focused.

That folder—he didn’t just stumble onto it.” Marion remained unreadable. “He’s not our enemy.” “He’s not our ally either,” Clarisse snapped. “He’s unpredictable.”

Marion met her eyes finally. “He’s sentimental. He won’t ruin us. That’s not who he is.”

But Marion hadn’t seen Lucan in days. Not the Lucan who sat in the archives of Valderra’s legal system, requesting logs through court permissions.

Not the Lucan who traced document seals through registrar databases and matched dates, timestamps, internal routing codes. He didn’t raise suspicion. He didn’t make calls. He moved like someone who had already made a decision.

Celeste knew none of it. Not yet. She was too busy moving forward—attending events, hosting advisors, approving housing reform drafts.

But in the middle of all her motion, she started feeling it. A presence. A shadow she couldn’t name. Not threatening—but there. Watching. Waiting. She’d step off a stage and see a familiar figure two rows back. She’d glance at the press pen and spot him.

Lucan never approached. Never called. But his silence wasn’t distance—it was investigation. He followed the path quietly, with no warning and no allies.

This wasn’t about saving Celeste. It was about unearthing the truth buried under years of manipulation. The deeper he dug, the more the patterns became familiar. Too familiar.

Marion, meanwhile, carried on like nothing had shifted. She arranged meetings. Kept up appearances. Maintained her presence at every donor circle that hadn’t yet turned to Celeste.

Clarisse checked headlines obsessively. “No leaks,” she reported every morning. “We’re still clean.”

But she was nervous, and Marion could see it. “You’re letting guilt get loud,” Marion told her. “Control it.”

But Clarisse couldn’t unsee the look on Lucan’s face—the one she saw when he walked past the dining hall last night. He hadn’t looked broken. He looked determined.

And she didn’t trust what that version of him was capable of. “We should shut down access,” she said. “Start deleting.”

Marion’s expression didn’t move. “No. That leaves fingerprints.”

Lucan’s trail took him back to estate servers—systems he hadn’t touched in years. Passwords long changed. But he remembered workarounds. He’d helped build the first tier with his father.

He bypassed encryption with old credentials buried under shell profiles. The records were there. Marion’s assistant. A tech contractor. Email attachments with scrub requests. The pieces weren’t vague anymore.

Celeste sensed something behind her again that afternoon. She’d just finished a press interview. Nothing sharp, nothing intrusive—but Lucan stood near the courtyard, still as stone, watching. He didn’t smile.

Didn’t wave. He just looked at her like someone who finally understood the thing he’d spent too long denying. It sent a chill up her spine. But she didn’t stop walking.

He traced the documents late into the night. Watched access logs. Cross-referenced names. He didn’t tell Clarisse. He didn’t confront Marion.

He wanted everything first. Proof, not suspicion. He didn’t want to accuse. He wanted to expose. This time, silence wasn’t cowardice—it was strategy.

Clarisse woke up from a nightmare. She ran barefoot to Marion’s room. “He’s going to destroy us,” she said. “He’s not the same. He’s not scared of you anymore.”

Marion was already awake, reviewing a list of donors. “Then let him try,” she said. “He has no power.” Clarisse sat down hard. “He has her.”

Lucan didn’t sleep. He poured over the final sequence of emails, double-checking every attachment. Each one linked back to the same assistant. Same contractor. Same subject line. He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak. He only nodded to himself once, like something had snapped into place. This wasn’t about grief anymore. It was about what was right.

Celeste sat in her office the next night, reviewing a charity budget proposal. Her aides filtered out. The halls quieted. A soft knock echoed through her front door.

Not frantic. Not demanding. Just one knock. Then another. She checked the time. Late. Too late for guests. But something in her chest told her who it was.

She opened the door slowly, carefully. And there he stood. Lucan. Not in a suit. Not as a politician. Just as a man with tired eyes and something clenched in his hand. He didn’t speak right away. Neither did she. They stared for a moment, both wondering what this meant.

In his hand was a folder. Nothing fancy. Plain, heavy, full. She didn’t reach for it. She didn’t move at all. He did. He stepped forward—not too close. Just enough.

“We need to talk,” he said. His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t apologetic. It was honest. And tired. And real.

Until one night, he showed up at her door with a folder in hand. “We need to talk.”