Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 83

pov: Cordelia

The tavern is buried beneath the city like a secret no one wants to admit they know.

I only find it because I follow the sound of laughter that doesn’t belong aboveground—too rough, too unguarded. It leaks out of a narrow stairwell between a butcher’s shop and a shuttered apothecary, the kind of place people pass every day without ever really seeing. I pause at the top of the steps, listening.

“...telling you, the runes were carved wrong…”

“...magic doesn’t just explode on its own…”

I smile faintly and descend.

The air grows warmer with each step, thick with smoke and sweat and spilled ale. By the time I reach the bottom, the noise has wrapped itself around me completely—voices layered over one another, coins clinking, chairs scraping stone. Lanterns hang low from iron hooks, their light uneven, casting long shadows that cling to corners like they belong there.

No one looks twice at me when I enter.

That, more than anything, tells me this is the right place.

I move through the room slowly, letting my senses stretch outward, not touching—just listening. Magic hums here, low and restless, woven into the walls like old scars. Not practiced openly, not flaunted. Hidden. Respected.

I take an empty seat at the bar.

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asks without preamble.

“Something cheap,” I reply.

He snorts. “Everything here is.”

I watch him pour as I slide a coin across the counter. When his fingers brush it, the warmth nudges—automatic, instinctive. He blinks, shakes his head, then keeps moving.

Interesting.

I take a sip and let the liquid burn down my throat. Around me, conversations rise and fall in fragments.

“—north says the ley lines shifted—”

“—witch burned a village last winter—”

“—doesn’t mean she didn’t know what she was doing—”

I keep my face blank.

“You’re not from here.”

The voice comes from my left, calm and observant.

I turn.

He is not what I expect.

Not armored. Not imposing. No visible weapons. Just a man in dark clothes, well-worn but clean, sitting with his back to the wall like he prefers to see the room before it sees him. His hair is dark, tied back loosely. His eyes—sharp, assessing—are already cataloging me.

“No,” I say carefully. “I’m passing through.”

“So is everyone,” he replies. “But most don’t walk like they’re measuring exits.”

I lift my cup. “Habit.”

He studies me for another moment, then nods. “Fair.”

We sit in silence for a few heartbeats. I feel the warmth coil tighter beneath my ribs, alert but not alarmed. He hasn’t reached for me with fear or greed. He hasn’t flinched.

That alone sets him apart.

“You’ve got magic,” he says finally.

The words are quiet. Not an accusation. An observation.

I don’t answer right away.

“I don’t practice,” I say instead.

He smiles faintly. “Neither do storms.”

My fingers tighten around the cup. “Careful.”

“I am,” he says easily. “That’s why I noticed.”

I lean back slightly. “If you noticed, why aren’t you running?”

“Because I’m not afraid of power,” he replies. “I’m afraid of ignorance.”

That earns him my attention.

“Henry,” he adds, inclining his head. “And you are…?”

I hesitate.

“Cordelia.”

The name settles easily between us.

“Well, Cordelia,” Henry says, “you’re either very reckless or very skilled to sit in a place like this without shielding.”

“I am shielding,” I say.

He raises a brow. “You think that’s shielding?”

The warmth flares instinctively, sharp and warning. The lantern above us flickers.

Henry’s eyes light—not with fear, but fascination.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “You’re compressing instead of dispersing. That’s… unusual.”

I set my cup down slowly. “You should stop talking.”

“Why?” he asks. “Because someone might overhear? Or because no one ever explained to you what you’re doing?”

That lands closer than I like.

I stand. “I’m leaving.”

“Sit,” he says, not commanding, not pleading. “Please.”

I don’t know why I listen.

He lowers his voice. “You’re burning through yourself. Anger’s doing the work fear used to do, but it’s not sustainable. You know that.”

My pulse jumps. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know patterns,” he says. “And I know when someone’s power learned survival before it learned restraint.”

I stare at him, every instinct screaming caution.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“A scholar,” he replies. “A poor one. A curious one. One who’s spent his life studying magic without being able to touch it.”

I frown. “You don’t have magic.”

“No,” he agrees. “Which is why I had to understand it instead.”

I search his face for mockery, for manipulation. I find none. Just interest. Careful, measured interest.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“To talk,” he says. “To exchange knowledge. To help you before you tear something important apart—including yourself.”

“And what do you get out of that?”

His smile fades slightly. “Truth.”

I consider him.

The tavern roars around us, oblivious. Somewhere, a man laughs too loudly. A chair tips. Life continues, unaware that something quiet and dangerous is forming at the bar.

“I don’t trust you,” I say.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Henry replies. “Trust is expensive. Knowledge is cheaper.”

He slides a folded piece of paper toward me. Symbols mark its surface—runes, old and precise.

“Read it later,” he says. “If it means nothing to you, walk away. If it doesn’t… you’ll know where to find me.”

I pick it up despite myself.

“Why help me?” I ask.

Henry meets my gaze steadily. “Because power like yours doesn’t disappear. It either destroys, or it learns.”

Silence stretches between us.

Finally, I sit back down.

“Talk,” I say.

His smile is slow, careful. “All right.”

We speak until the lanterns burn low.

He explains theory—why compression works, why anger sharpens focus but corrodes control, why some magic answers blood and others answer will. He never touches me. Never pushes. He listens when I interrupt, corrects me when I’m wrong, asks questions no one ever has.

For the first time since the tower, I feel… seen.

Not feared. Not pitied.

Understood.

When we part, it is well past midnight.

“You’ll be back,” Henry says quietly.

I pause at the stairs. “You sound certain.”

“I am,” he replies. “You’re not done learning.”

I glance back once, then disappear into the night.

The paper is warm in my pocket.

So is the power beneath my ribs—restless, curious, awake.

For the first time in a long while, hunger has nothing to do with food.