The palace did not sleep after the poisoning. By dawn, it was already alive with whispers, scurrying feet, and the scrape of doors opening too quickly. Servants carried trays and basins with their eyes lowered, their voices hushed but sharp enough to slip under thresholds.

The prince’s concubine collapsed.
It was her cup, not his.
The Shadowlord touched her, and she lived.

Every word tangled her name tighter in the palace web.

Myrren lay in her own chamber now, the familiar scents of dried herbs and clean linens doing little to mask the metallic tang still lodged in her mouth. Her body ached as though she had been struck, her lungs heavy from the battle to draw air. She had been moved here after the chaos, after fire and shadow had clashed over her still body.

Thane was not here. He had left in the grey hours, torn away by some urgent summons outside the kingdom. His absence left the chamber colder, emptier.

Ori sat at her bedside, wringing a cloth between restless hands. Every few moments she reached to touch Myrren’s wrist, as if to reassure herself the pulse still beat. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but fierce, too—Ori had not left her side long.

What unsettled Myrren most was not Ori’s tears, nor Thane’s absence, but the phantom weight in her chest. Even with the chamber door shut, even with the morning sun casting pale light across the floor, she felt him. The tether hummed faintly, a chain she had not asked for, binding silence into her bones.

Corven was not here. She had opened her eyes in Thane’s arms, seen golden light blazing through tears—and when her vision cleared, the Shadowlord was gone. He had left without a word, vanished into silence.

It should have been a comfort. Instead, his absence pressed heavier than his presence. Myrren could not forget the shadows that had slipped beneath her skin, nor the low command that had anchored her pulse.

Ori broke the silence with a whisper, bitter as gall. “They’re already saying things. That you were meant to be the poison’s target. That you’ve bewitched him.” She shook her head fiercely. “You mustn’t listen.”

But Myrren already heard it—the whispers of servants, the rumors in the halls. She was no longer just a girl who brewed scents and herbs. She had become something else now. Something the court would not leave in peace.

The corridors of the palace still smelled of panic. Burnt herbs, spilled wine, and too many footsteps pressed into the carpets overnight. When Corven walked them, no servant dared meet his eyes.

He had meant to vanish into silence, to bury the chain gnawing at his ribs. But a voice caught him before he reached the sanctuary of shadow.

“Lord Corven.”

Eryndor stepped from a side passage, robes hanging loose, ink stains blotting his fingers. His spectacles were absent; his eyes were sharp enough without them. He inclined his head slightly, more scholar than courtier, but his tone held no deference.

“You felt it, didn’t you?”

Corven stilled. The tether pulsed once, a drag in his chest, a reminder of the girl gasping for breath beyond these walls. He did not answer.

Eryndor continued, voice low, meant for no ears but theirs. “The tether has awakened. I had prayed never to see it in my lifetime, but Saints have cruel humor. Do you understand what this fracture will be if revealed?”

The words settled like ash.

Corven’s jaw tightened. He had read the old texts, the half-buried fragments of the Umbral Covenant. He knew the bond was not mercy. It was mathematics. One life lashed to another until both broke.

“She should not know,” he said at last. His voice was low, cut from stone.

“No,” Eryndor agreed. “For her sake and yours. If the Queen learns of it, she will make her a pawn. If the court whispers of it, they will wield you both like weapons.”

Silence stretched. Corven did not ask how the scholar knew, did not ask how far the rumor had already spread. He only listened to the echo of the tether inside his chest, each pulse a command he could not ignore.

“Then bury it,” Corven said.

Eryndor’s mouth twitched, neither smile nor frown. “Shadows are deep places to bury, my lord. But chains… chains have a way of rattling free.”

The council chamber smelled faintly of smoke and damp wool. Rain streaked the high windows, dulling the light to a pewter haze. Nobles filled the long table, their silks muted under the weather’s gloom.

A stir ran through them as the chamber doors opened. A man in mud-streaked boots stumbled inside, cloak soaked through. His bow was clumsy, breath ragged.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped, “Lord Harren of Graymere—he was struck down last night. Poisoned at his own hearth. His household begs for aid.”

Murmurs burst like sparks along the table. Graymere lay two days’ ride beyond the palace gates; for poison to reach even there meant panic would spread with it.

Queen Aelira did not lift her eyes from the goblet in her hand. She swirled the wine once, as if the envoy’s desperation were no more than background noise.

It was Serneya who rose, her pale silk immaculate despite the storm. “Your Majesty, you hear how the rot spreads. Shall we now risk the prince’s household further by harboring the girl at its center? The court already whispers that where she treads, poison follows.”

The words carried easily in the hush. Serneya’s eyes gleamed as she let the silence hang.

From further down the table, Seliora leaned forward, her smile faint, voice lilting almost playfully. “Poisons are like assassins, Majesty. They strike once, then again. Better to send her where the sickness already festers.”

The envoy swallowed, eyes darting between them, unsure if he had brought salvation or curse to his lord.

Other nobles shifted, some nodding agreement, others whispering more quietly—danger, scandal, curse. Myrren’s name wove through their mutters like a thread, binding fear into something heavier.

Still the Queen said nothing. Her stillness was more chilling than any outcry.

The chamber waited, restless, for her verdict.

The summons came before Myrren was steady on her feet. Guards escorted her into the council chamber, their hands respectful but firm on her elbows as if she might collapse—or flee.

Every eye turned when she entered. Nobles leaned forward, their whispers soft as moth wings, yet sharp enough to cut. Her steps faltered against the weight of them. She felt the tether in her chest thrumming, though its other end remained shrouded in silence.

Queen Aelira did not rise when Myrren bowed, weakly, at the center of the chamber. The Queen’s gaze was level, pale as winter sky, and she let the silence stretch long enough for Myrren’s pulse to echo in her ears.

“You will go to Graymere,” Aelira said at last. Her tone was not commanded so much as inevitability, like snow falling on stone. “Lord Harren lies poisoned. His household cries for aid. You will deliver it.”

The words struck harder than the poison had. Myrren’s throat tightened. She lifted her head, though her knees trembled. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, “I am not yet recovered. I can barely—”

“Then prove,” Aelira cut across her, voice cool as a blade, “that your survival was not wasted breath.”

The chamber held its silence. Not one noble stirred to speak for her. Even Ori’s voice was absent; she had not been permitted inside.

Myrren swayed, the floor tilting beneath her. Still she forced the words out: “The Crown Prince—”

“The prince is absent,” Aelira said, unmoved. “And you are not his shield. You are my instrument.” Her gaze slid past Myrren to the shadows at the chamber’s edge. “Lord Corven will accompany you.”

A ripple ran through the table. Some nobles stiffened, others smirked at the cruelty of the pairing. Myrren felt the blood drain from her face.

Corven stepped forward once, silent, a dark shape against the frost-blue of the Queen’s presence. His eyes did not meet hers, but the tether in her chest pulled tight as iron.

“You depart at dawn,” Aelira said. Her goblet touched her lips again, as if the matter were already sealed and forgotten.

Myrren’s breath caught. Too weak, too soon—and yet there was no appeal, no mercy. Only exile cloaked as duty, and the Shadow Lord at her side.