The world swam back into focus, not in a gentle tide, but in jagged shards of awareness. Three days had bled into a feverish haze, a disorienting dreamscape where my mind, though lucid, felt like a prisoner in my own body. Amelia, a steadfast silhouette against the blur, her cool hands a balm against the heat, which had finally relinquished its hold this morning.

A soft, hesitant knock. “Thalia? It’s Amelia. May I come in?” Her voice was a familiar comfort.

“You may,” I managed, the word scraping my throat like dry leaves.

She entered, her usual calm slightly ruffled by an uncharacteristic urgency. “Thalia, we must hurry. Your cousin, Lord Dolion, arrives today. You are expected for lunch.”

Dolion. The name alone sent a shiver, colder than any lingering fever, down my spine. I’d perfected the art of evading family gatherings, each a carefully constructed tableau of false smiles and unspoken barbs. But Dolion… he was a different breed of discomfort, his presence an insidious caress that always left my skin crawling. This time, though, a new resolve solidified within me, I have to be there.

With a groan, I pushed myself upright. My limbs, protesting days of stillness, screamed in defiance. I reached towards the edge of my bed, stretching until my joints popped, a small, unsatisfying symphony of stiffness.

“Come now, Thalia,” Amelia urged, though her tone was gentle. “I dislike rushing you, but if you intend to face them, you must at least appear… composed.”

A ghost of a smile touched my lips. “Composed. Of course.” The word felt foreign.

I shuffled to the ornate vanity. My reflection was a stranger: skin pale, eyes—my mother’s vibrant blue—dulled by exhaustion, a stark contrast to the tangled riot of light brown waves cascading down my back.

“Right then,” Amelia said, her voice taking on a determined edge as she surveyed the wreckage of my hair. “Let’s weave some magic.” Deftly, she began to coax the knots into submission, her touch surprisingly soothing. She selected a gown of flowing white silk, ethereal and deceptively innocent. 

“Tonight, Amelia, I shall be the princess they desire. A vision of charming ignorance. I will smile until my face aches, and I will absorb every slight.” I turned, meeting her gaze directly, the unspoken plea for her to understand hanging heavy between us. “That last part,” I added, my voice barely a whisper, “is as much for me as it is for you.”

“You have more strength than you know, Thalia,” Amelia murmured, her hand briefly squeezing mine. “Things may not seem clear for a while, but trust that it will all make sense in the end. I promise.”

A familiar knot tightened in my stomach. Whenever she speaks of paths and promises, I thought with a surge of unease, the ground beneath my feet inevitably crumbles.

“I see that look,” Amelia said, her voice a soft reproof, yet laced with an undeniable firmness. “You know I cannot divulge more. This is your fate to navigate.”

“Okay,” I conceded, the word heavy with unspoken questions. Rising, I smoothed the silk of the dress. “Then let us proceed to the dining hall.”

The palace corridors were a familiar, sterile expanse of white marble, the monolithic pillars and walls echoing our footsteps. Heavy oak doors punctuated the seemingly endless passages, each massive window a gaping eye from floor to ceiling, framing curated glimpses of the manicured grounds. Priceless antiques, cold and lifeless, were strategically scattered, more like museum pieces than cherished possessions.

Thunk!

A sharp, bruising impact slammed into my shoulder, jarring me from my thoughts. My head snapped up to see a blonde-haired maid, her lips curled into a contemptuous smirk. She offered no apology, simply swept past, her disdain a palpable wave. Nothing changes in this place, I mused, a familiar resignation settling over me. Shoving aside the sting of the insult, I pressed on until I reached the colossal oak doors of the dining hall, flanked by two impassive knights, their armor gleaming under the light. 

“Announcing Crown Princess Thalia!” a thundering voice boomed from within, the sound vibrating through the thick wall. With a synchronized movement, the knights heaved the doors inward.

Amelia offered a fleeting, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement before melting back into the shadows of the corridor. And then I saw them. My father, King Zylair, enthroned at the head of the long, polished table. Beside him, Blair, her dark eyes already dissecting me. My breath caught, a traitorous flutter in my chest, and a fine tremor started in my hands. Deep breaths, Thalia. You can do this. I clenched the soft fabric of my dress, the texture a small anchor in the rising tide of apprehension, and began the long, slow walk across the marble.

“How gracious of you to join us for once,” my father greeted, his voice a familiar tapestry woven with threads of annoyance and thinly veiled disappointment.

I sank into the indicated chair. Now, the smile, I commanded myself, stretching my lips into an expression of joyful pleasure. “I am so deeply honored by your invitation, Father.”

His brows, thick and dark, knitted in confusion. He opened his mouth, a retort no doubt forming, but the announcer’s voice, like a clap of thunder, interrupted him. “Now announcing Lord Dolion Cevrean!”

The great doors groaned open again, revealing my cousin. His wavy blonde hair possessed a deliberately tousled charm, but his green eyes – those were the unsettling part. Piercing, analytical, they seemed to strip away all pretense. He executed a shallow bow. “Your Majesty, I am honored by your summons.”

“Indeed. Dolion, please, be seated. Next to Thalia,” my father instructed, his gaze flicking between us.

Dolion glided to the chair beside me, his smile a masterpiece of insincerity that never quite reached those unsettling eyes. “Cousin. A rare pleasure to see you gracing us with your presence beyond your chambers.”

“And you, Dolion,” I replied, infusing my voice with a warmth I didn’t feel. “It has been an age. I’ve missed you.”

He cleared his throat, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Ah, yes.” As he settled, a silent army of servants materialized, placing the first course before us: a delicate arrangement of spring greens.

The simple act of eating suddenly felt impossible. I prodded the leaves with my fork, managing a minuscule bite. 

The silence in the vast hall was a heavy cloak, punctuated only by the faint clinking of silverware. I could feel Blair’s stare, a physical weight on my skin. Slowly, deliberately, I raised my eyes to meet hers. The impact was like a shard of ice down my spine. My hands, hidden beneath the table, twisted the fabric of my dress tighter.

“So, Thalia,” Blair began, her voice a silken purr laced with venom, “to what do we owe this… sudden enthusiasm for family?”

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Smile. “I simply realized how remiss I’ve been, Blair. I felt a longing to spend more time in Father’s company.” The lie felt surprisingly smooth on my tongue.

“If you say so, dear.” Her long, black-lacquered fingernail tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm on the table.

I dropped my gaze to my lap, where my hands were now clenched into tight fists. Shadows of that day flickered at the edges of my mind – the screams, the chaos… No. Not now. I ruthlessly shoved the memories back into the dark recesses where they belonged.

The main course arrived: roasted chicken, glistening carrots, and potatoes dusted with herbs. Just as the plates were set, Dolion, with an almost theatrical smoothness, began to rise.

“If you will graciously excuse me,” he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips, “a brief moment is all I require.” He pushed back his chair and departed, leaving me enveloped in the suffocating silence, bound by my father’s disapproval and Blair’s predatory watchfulness.

Suddenly, the oppressive quiet was shattered. Another attendant, not one of the stoic dinner servers, burst into the room, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with panic. “King Zylair!”

My father slammed his glass onto the table, wine sloshing over the rim. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? This had better be a matter of grave importance to interrupt my meal!”

The man practically threw himself on the floor, his voice trembling. “Your Majesty, forgive me! A terrible incident… in the town square. Some of The merchants… they are… displeased.”

My father’s eyes rolled with theatrical impatience. “Find me someone coherent enough to articulate the situation! Remove yourself!”

The attendant, ashen-faced and quaking, scrambled to his feet and fled. As the heavy doors swung shut behind him, Dolion reappeared, slipping back into his seat with an unnerving calmness, as if the interruption had been a mere breath of wind.

I stared at my plate, idly nudging a carrot with my fork, when Dolion suddenly erupted in a series of deep, wracking coughs. They seized his entire frame, his face contorting. My gaze snapped to him. Is he choking? My pulse thundered in my ears. Is he alright?

Servants converged instantly, one already producing a small, intricately carved vial containing a shimmering liquid. With practiced efficiency, they opened it and tipped the contents down Dolion’s throat. The tension in the room was a tangible thing as we waited. Slowly, agonizingly, the violent spasms subsided, his ragged gasps softening into more even breaths.

No sooner had that immediate crisis ended than another servant, a woman with sharp, focused eyes, stepped forward. Her hands, held palms down, began to emit a faint, ethereal glow as she passed them methodically over Dolion’s plate, then over the communal serving platters. Her eyes, moments before calm, widened in unmistakable alarm. She scurried to my father’s side, whispering urgently into his ear.

He shot to his feet, his face a mask of cold fury. “Bring every member of the kitchen staff to me! Now!” he roared, the command echoing off the high-vaulted ceilings.

They were assembled in moments, a trembling line of white-aproned figures, as my father paced before them, his eyes narrowed, glinting with menace. I noticed one of the youngest maids, her face pale and slick with nervous perspiration, her gaze darting about.

My father stopped directly in front of her, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. “You,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Was it you?”

She crumpled to the marble floor as if her strings had been cut, a choked sob tearing from her throat. “No! It wasn’t me! I swear it!” she shrieked, her voice raw with terror. Then, slowly, her head lifted. A trembling hand rose, an accusing finger extending, pointing directly—at me.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Why? Why me? I haven’t done anything!

“The Princess!” the maid wailed, her voice cracking with a desperate, feigned conviction. “She tried to force me! She offered me gold to put the poison in Lord Dolion’s food! She had it in a small leather satchel, but I refused! I swear on my life, I refused!” She bowed her head to the floor again, her shoulders shaking. “Please believe me, Your Majesty!”

No! It’s a lie! All of it! The accusation was a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Why is this happening? What game is this?

“Guards!” my father thundered, his face contorted into a mask of pure rage. “Search the Princess’s chambers! Every inch! Now!”

Two guards detached themselves from their posts and strode purposefully from the room. They returned with a speed that chilled me to the bone. They can’t have found anything, I pleaded silently with a universe that seemed determined to betray me. I’ve never touched poison in my life.

One of the guards stepped forward, his gauntleted hand opening to reveal a small, unassuming leather satchel. The other guard took it, his movements precise and deliberate. He carefully loosened the drawstring and tipped a small quantity of fine, dark powder onto a pristine square of parchment.

The same servant whose hands had glowed before, the one who had scanned Dolion’s plate, approached the table. Once again, that faint, blue luminescence emanated from her palms as she passed them over the powder. A moment stretched into an eternity. She looked up, her gaze meeting my father’s, and delivered a single, grave nod. “It is as I suspected, Your Majesty. A potent posion.”

Panic, cold and sharp clawed its way up my throat, threatening to suffocate me. I didn’t do this! This isn’t real! This can’t be happening!

My father’s eyes, colder and harder than any winter ice, fixed on me. “All evidence condemns you, Thalia,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, any flicker of doubt. “Take her to the dungeons.”