Married To The Dragon Prince Against My Will-Chapter 280: FINDING OUT

In the shadowed confines of his private office within the eastern tower—where towering oak shelves groaned under the weight of ancient tomes and battle maps, and a single oil lamp cast flickering amber light across the cluttered desk—Ashen paced like a caged beast. Parchments lay scattered, ink pots overturned in his earlier fit of rage, but he paid them no mind. His mind was a storm: the voice that had slithered into his skull earlier that day, cold and insistent—Kill her—still echoed faintly, a venomous whisper that made his scales itch beneath his skin. He’d left Lumina locked in their chambers, sealed by his own power, her body weakening from the poison’s grip while Stella and Aria tended to her. The thought gnawed at him—his wife, alone, feverish, reaching for him—and he couldn’t go to her. Not yet. Not until he purged this curse from his veins. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into palms hard enough to draw blood. How long could he stay away? The emptiness clawed at his chest, a raw ache that fueled his fury.

The heavy door creaked open without a knock.

Ero slipped inside, his lean frame cutting through the lamplight like a shadow. In one hand, he clutched a thin scroll, its edges frayed, the wax seal shattered. His eyes—sharp, ever-calculating—met Ashen’s, and for once, the usual glint of wry humor was absent. Instead, his face was etched with grim resolve.

"My lord," Ero said, voice steady but laced with urgency. "We’ve confirmed it. The attack on Princess Lumina—your lady—was orchestrated by the Crown Prince. But the strings pull from beyond our borders. An outside realm."

Ashen stopped pacing mid-stride. The air in the room seemed to thicken, heat rising from his skin in invisible waves. Scales flickered along his jawline—black, iridescent—before vanishing. His golden eyes narrowed to slits, and a low, draconic rumble vibrated from his throat, shaking the ink pots on the desk. Fury boiled up, hot and immediate, but beneath it lurked the deeper wound: Lumina, his fierce, unbreakable wife, targeted because of him. The voice in his head stirred again—Kill her—but he shoved it down, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. He couldn’t afford weakness now. Not when she lay vulnerable, poisoned, and he was forced to keep his distance. The separation burned like acid; nights in their chambers, her body warm against his, her laugh cutting through the palace’s cold intrigue—gone, replaced by this cursed exile. His heart twisted, a sharp pang of longing mixing with the rage.

"Who?" Ashen growled, voice rough as gravel. "Name the realm."

Ero unfurled the scroll just enough to reveal the black sigil at the bottom—a twisted serpent entwined with thorns, pulsing faintly with dark enchantment. "Shadowver. The King himself. His hand guided the Crown Prince’s blade."

Ashen’s breath hissed out. Shadowver—the fog-shrouded kingdom to the east, ruled by a tyrant whose sorcery rivaled even dragon blood. The attack on Lumina replayed in his mind: the assassins’ blades laced with that insidious poison, the one now twisting inside him, urging murder. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the effort of holding back the shift. He wanted to roar, to unleash flame and tear through stone, but instead, he slammed a fist onto the desk. Wood splintered under the impact, sending parchments fluttering like startled birds. "Where are the men?"

Ero didn’t flinch. "In the undercroft cells. Chained and waiting. Five of them—mercenaries, not loyalists. They broke under preliminary questioning, but they’ve clammed up on the details."

"Lead me," Ashen said, already striding toward the door. Ero followed without a word, his cloak whispering against the stone floor.

The descent wound deep into the palace’s bowels, torches sputtering in damp brackets, the air growing thick with mildew and the metallic tang of blood. Guards straightened as Ashen passed, their eyes averting from the storm brewing in his gaze. He barely registered them; his thoughts circled Lumina—her pale face as he’d pushed her back onto the bed, her pleas echoing in his ears: I want you right now. The poison had turned her desperate, feverish, and he’d sealed her there, fleeing before the voice could win. Now, separated by walls and his own cursed blood, the ache deepened. He wasn’t happy—not even close. This distance was torture, worse than any blade. He craved her touch, her fire, but touching her meant risking everything. The frustration coiled tighter in his gut, fueling the rage toward these captives.

They reached the cell block. Moans leaked from behind iron bars. Ashen shoved open the heaviest door, hinges screeching in protest. Inside, the five men knelt in a row, wrists manacled to the wall, ankles fettered to rusted rings in the floor. Their faces were a map of bruises—swollen eyes, split lips—but defiance still smoldered in their stares. Hired killers, reeking of sweat and fear-sweat beneath the bravado.

Ero lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, silent sentinel.

Ashen entered, boots echoing like judgments. He stopped before the leader—a burly man with a jagged scar across his brow, chains rattling faintly as he shifted. Ashen crouched low, eye level, his presence filling the cell like smoke.

"Who sent you?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.

The leader sneered, spitting a glob of blood at Ashen’s feet. "Dragon scum. We’ll die before we sing."

Ashen’s lips curved in a cold smile. No humor, just promise. He extended one hand, fingers splaying. Black scales rippled up his arm, spreading like spilled ink. Heat bloomed from his palm—not flame, but a searing aura that made the air shimmer. He pressed it to the leader’s chest, right over the heart.

The man convulsed, veins bulging like ropes under skin. A strangled scream tore from his throat as internal fire licked at his ribs—slow, agonizing, cooking from within without breaking flesh. Ashen watched impassively, but inside, the voice whispered again—Kill her—twisting his fury into something sharper. He thought of Lumina’s weakening body, her strength sapped by this same poison these men had delivered. The separation gnawed deeper; he should be at her side, holding her, not here in this pit. But he couldn’t—not yet—and that helplessness fed the heat.

"Talk," Ashen murmured, increasing the pressure.

The leader thrashed, chains clanking. "Crown... Prince... hired us..."

Ashen withdrew his hand. The man slumped, gasping, sweat pouring. "And who pulls his leash?"

Silence.

Ashen rose and moved to the next—a wiry assassin with tattooed arms. No preamble. He summoned a thin whip of flame from his fingertip, coiling it around the man’s thigh like a serpent. The fire didn’t consume; it burrowed, tracing nerves, igniting pain receptors in waves. The assassin bucked, screaming hoarsely, the smell of singed cloth filling the air.

"Shadowver!" he wailed finally. "The King of Shadowver!"

Ashen let the flame dissipate. The man collapsed forward, sobbing. "Why her? Why my wife?"

The leader lifted his head, voice ragged. "You... you messed with his sister. Defiled her. He sent us to make you pay—starting with your bitch."

The word hit like a spark to dry tinder. Ashen’s control snapped. Scales erupted across his neck and shoulders. The air superheated, making chains glow faintly. He lunged forward, grabbing the leader by the throat. Flame licked from his fingers, blistering skin in precise patterns—runes of agony, etched deep.

The other men screamed in unison as Ashen extended his power: invisible tendrils of heat wrapping each one, searing joints, boiling blood just shy of lethal. One reached desperately for a hidden vial in his boot—poison for a quick end—but Ashen flicked a wrist. Telekinetic force yanked it away, shattering it against the wall. Another tried to slam his head against stone; Ashen’s power pinned him mid-motion, muscles locked.

"You don’t escape that easy," Ashen snarled, voice echoing with draconic resonance. "Not after what you did to her."

He intensified the torment—flames dancing along spines, heat pulsing in waves that mimicked the poison’s fever. Minutes stretched into an eternity of cries. Ashen’s own turmoil fueled it: the voice in his head growing louder—Kill her, kill her—mirroring his forced absence from Lumina. He wasn’t happy; the office felt like a prison, the chambers a forbidden sanctuary. Longing twisted with guilt—had his past sins brought this on her? The ache was unbearable, a void where her presence should be.

Finally, the leader broke. "It was the King! For his sister—you ruined her honor! He wanted your wife dead... slow... poisoned..."

Ashen released them all at once. They crumpled, whimpering heaps, bodies steaming faintly.

He straightened, scales receding, but the fire in his eyes remained. Turning to Ero, he spoke low. "Send ravens to the border clans. Shadowver has war on their doorstep. We strike first."

Ero nodded. "And these wretches?"

"Brand them with our mark. Let them crawl back to their king—as warnings."

Ashen strode out, the door slamming behind him. In the corridor, he paused, leaning against cold stone. The voice whispered once more—Kill her—but he crushed it down. Lumina waited, locked away for her own safety. The separation clawed at him; he wasn’t happy, far from it. But he’d end this threat, purge the poison, and return to her side. Until then, the ache would drive him.

Above, the palace slept. Below, five broken men wept in the dark, their screams a prelude to greater fires.