The Duke and his elite knights arrived at a safe house situated far from the imperial palace — far from prying eyes, far from listening ears.
Most of the capital's inhabitants, noble and common alike, had flocked to the city center for the New Year's celebrations. Here, in this forgotten corner of the district, a deathly silence blanketed the street like fresh snowfall.
From the outside, the house was unremarkable — indistinguishable from the modest dwellings flanking it on either side. But inside, the floors were swept, the furniture dusted, the air carrying the faint scent of wood polish. Someone maintained it with quiet diligence, keeping it ready for occasions precisely like this one.
And even if a man were to scream himself hoarse within these walls, not a soul would hear him. There was no one left to hear.
In the center of the living room, a young man sat on the bare floor, his wrists bound behind his back, his ankles lashed together, a thick cloth gag stuffed between his teeth. He had not the slightest chance of escape.
"Mmmphhh! Nnnghhh!"
The moment the door swung open and unfamiliar figures filled the threshold, the captive thrashed against his bindings. Whether the muffled sounds pouring from behind the gag were pleas or protests, it was impossible to tell.
"This man's name is Donovan," Hardin reported. "I'm confident he's the one who came calling on the young lady."
Lennox studied the figure writhing on the floor and felt a flicker of disappointment settle in his chest. The man was utterly ordinary — average build, average features, the kind of face one's gaze would slide over in a crowd without ever catching. For a brief moment, Lennox wondered whether his men had seized the wrong person entirely.
But he pushed the doubt aside and gave a curt nod.
"Remove the gag."
The cloth was yanked free, and the man called Donovan immediately erupted into a wail of terror.
"Oh God! Please — *please* spare me! I'll pay it all back, I swear, just don't kill me!"
Lennox's brow furrowed. He turned to Hardin.
"What money is he talking about?"
Hardin's expression was uncertain. "One of our sources reported that he recently opened a clinic with borrowed funds. He likely assumed we were creditors come to collect."
Donovan, his face a portrait of naked despair, fell silent and listened to the exchange between the two men. After a long, trembling pause, he ventured a cautious question.
"You... didn't bring me here to demand money?"
Neither man answered. They simply turned and fixed him with gazes so cold that the remaining color drained from his face.
Lennox crossed the room with deliberate steps, then dropped to one knee beside the bound man. He lowered himself until their eyes were level — close enough for Donovan to see every shade of intent in the Duke's dark gaze.
"Do you know Juliet Montague?"
Donovan blinked rapidly. "M-Montague? You mean... the daughter of the late Earl of Montague?"
"What is your relationship with her?"
"My — *what?*" Donovan's eyes went wide as saucers. "Are you suggesting we're *lovers?* I've never even met the woman!"
The denial came fast and desperate, his voice cracking on every syllable. It seemed he had finally pieced together why he was here.
"Then why," Lennox said, his tone dangerously even, "were you trying so persistently to see her?"
"Well, it's... that concerns a patient's personal information, and it's a rather sensitive matter—"
Donovan's gaze darted sideways. Beside him, one of the knights rested a gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was unhurried. Almost casual.
Donovan's composure shattered.
"It's because of my mother!"
---
## — The Pharmacist's Son —
The words tumbled out of him in a torrent — halting at first, tripping over themselves, but gathering momentum as fear loosened his tongue. Lennox and his knights listened in silence, gradually assembling meaning from the fractured account.
"My mother is — *was* — a pharmacist," Donovan began, correcting himself with a wince. "She worked in the Eighth District for years. Built up a loyal clientele through sheer skill and dedication."
He spoke of her with unmistakable pride, his voice steadying whenever he described her work. His mother had been no ordinary apothecary. Noble families, he explained, typically relied on their personal physicians. But there were times when certain aristocrats required medicines they preferred their family doctors not know about — and for such discreet orders, they turned to trusted pharmacists.
"Even high-ranking nobles sent her commissions regularly," Donovan said. "She had a real gift."
His expression dimmed.
"But not long ago, she fell ill and could no longer practice."
Donovan, then still a medical intern, had been forced to return home. He placed his mother in a nursing facility that could provide the specialized care her condition demanded, then set about closing up the pharmacy and sorting through years of accumulated records.
It was during this painstaking work that a terrible thought struck him. His mother's illness was dementia — progressive and merciless. If her mind had already begun to falter before she stopped working, she might have made errors in her prescriptions. Errors her patients would never have thought to question, trusting her reputation as they did.
The possibility gave him no peace. He began reviewing every prescription she had written in her final months of practice, cross-referencing ingredients, checking dosages, searching for anything that didn't belong.
And that was when he found it.
"I discovered something... unusual in the prescriptions written for Miss Montague." Donovan swallowed hard. "I tried asking my mother about it, but her dementia had progressed too far. She couldn't tell me anything."
Lennox's jaw tightened. "Juliet ordered medicine from your mother?"
"The late Countess Montague was a longtime client," Donovan replied carefully, watching the strain tighten across Lennox's face. "After her passing, Miss Montague continued ordering some of the same medications."
"What kind of medicine?"
"It's called *silphium*."
"*Silphium?*"
Donovan shifted uncomfortably. "It's a rare herbal preparation for the female body. You may not be familiar with it, but silphium is quite popular among women of high society."
Lennox's expression darkened. He knew exactly what it was.
Silphium — a rare herb cultivated in the sun-scorched southern provinces of the empire. A tea brewed from its roots, consumed regularly over time, acted as a reliable contraceptive. It was widely favored among noblewomen for its gentle efficacy, its lack of harmful side effects, and its delicate, almost floral aroma. Its only drawback was the price; the herb's scarcity made it exorbitantly expensive, a luxury only the wealthy could afford.
*Contraceptive.*
The word landed in his mind like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples in every direction.
In that moment, Lennox understood why this unassuming young man had been so doggedly persistent in his attempts to see Juliet. Despite being the daughter of a ruined house, Juliet bore the Montague name — a lineage ancient and illustrious. More than that, she was an unmarried young woman of marriageable age. If she had suffered harm from a wrongly prepared prescription, Donovan could not have escaped the consequences. The scandal alone would have destroyed him before the law ever reached him.
*No.* Lennox's thoughts sharpened. *That's not all of it.*
If it were simply a matter of a faulty prescription, Donovan could have relayed his concerns through a maid. He could have sent a letter. He could have passed along a message and been done with it.
Instead, he had come in person, again and again, with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
*What is he so afraid of?*
"I take it," Lennox said slowly, "that there's more."
Donovan flinched. "A few months ago, Miss Montague placed her final order. She requested mistletoe... and silphium *flowers*." He paused, his throat working visibly. "My mother prepared and sent the herbs as requested. It was the last prescription she ever wrote."
He clearly knew something else — something he was circling around like a man approaching the edge of a cliff. His eyes kept darting to Lennox's face, gauging, measuring, as though trying to calculate how much truth the Duke could bear.
*If that was all Juliet ordered, why does he look as though he's about to be sick?*
An ominous weight settled in Lennox's chest. He leaned closer.
"What is mistletoe used for?"
Donovan wet his lips. "The problem isn't the mistletoe itself. On its own, it's actually beneficial — it helps prevent miscarriage, supports the healthy development of the child in the womb, protects against various complications." He hesitated, then forced himself onward. "The problem is that Miss Montague ordered it *together* with silphium flowers."
The room went very still.
*...Child?*
The word detonated silently in Lennox's mind.
"The effect of silphium flowers on the body is entirely different from that of the root," Donovan continued, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "The root is the contraceptive. But the *flowers* — the flowers are far more toxic. They are used to... to ***terminate*** unwanted pregnancies."
The air in the room turned to ice. No one moved. No one breathed.
But Donovan was not finished.
"Taken separately, mistletoe and silphium pose no danger. But taken *together* —" His voice cracked. "Together, they create a severe risk of miscarriage. I tried to meet with Miss Montague to warn her that if she wanted to keep the child, she needed to stop all medication immediately and seek examination at once. I wanted to tell her—"
He never completed the sentence.
***The door exploded open with a deafening crack*** as Lennox threw it wide and stormed into the night.
"Sir!"
His knights scrambled after him, but Lennox did not wait. He was already in the yard, already seizing the reins of his black stallion, already swinging into the saddle. The horse reared beneath him, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, and then they were gone — a dark blur tearing through the empty streets.
The city lay deserted around him. Every soul in the capital had gathered in the central square, faces turned skyward in anticipation of the midnight fireworks. Not a carriage, not a pedestrian, not a single obstacle stood between him and his destination.
Lennox rode as though the devil himself were at his heels, bent low over the stallion's neck, the winter wind slicing against his face like a blade. But he barely felt it. His mind was a maelstrom — thoughts colliding, fragmenting, reforming into shapes he could not yet bear to name.
*Juliet.*
*You could have simply explained everything to me.*
His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles went white.
*No — you* ***had*** *to explain everything to me.*
Donovan's words echoed relentlessly, circling like vultures over carrion:
*"It's a good medicine that prevents miscarriage and helps the baby develop better in the womb..."*
*"The flowers are used to terminate unwanted pregnancies, as they are far more toxic than the roots..."*
*Contraceptive.*
*Miscarriage.*
*Child.*
*Why, Juliet?*
As these ominous, fractured pieces clicked into place one by one, a memory surged up from the depths of his mind — unbidden, unavoidable, ***blinding*** in its sudden clarity.