Whispers still curled through the throne hall like smoke when Prince Thane rose from his seat.

“Bring her forward,” he said warmly, the sound rolling over the courtiers like sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

They obeyed. Myrren walked because she refused to stumble, each step steady only through sheer will.

Up close, Thane’s presence was blinding. Hair spun of sunlight, eyes flecked with gold, every inch of him a study in charm honed sharp as a blade. He smiled at her as if they were old friends.

“Myrren Vale,” he said, as though her name was not new on his tongue. “The palace has been waiting for you.”

A murmur hissed behind her. “She sniffs goblets and thinks herself clever.”

“A perfumer among kings,” another sneered.

Thane’s smile did not falter, but his tone struck clean as steel. “Strange, how quick you are to mock the one who noticed what none of you did. Had wolfsbane lingered in your own cups, would you still be standing here to laugh?”

Silence. Eyes lowered. Yet Myrren felt another gaze, colder than all the rest. The Queen—elegant, cruel in her stillness—tilted her head.

A single, razor-sweet line left her lips. “A woman who lectures lords on death belongs in an apothecary, not before a throne.”

The courtiers laughed thinly, relieved to echo their queen. Myrren’s heart thudded, but she kept her chin lifted.

Before she could form a reply, Thane’s voice cut through, bright and unyielding. “What my mother calls insolence, I call courage. And Eirden has starved too long for it.”

A ripple of shock. The Queen’s lips curved the faintest fraction—not a smile, but a promise that this insult would not be forgotten.

One lord dared to press on. “What does a perfumer know of medicine?”

Myrren’s voice was iron. “I know how aconite seizes the heart better than your healers. Tingling lips. A pulse that falters before the lungs surrender. Shall I demonstrate?”

Gasps. The lord’s face blanched. The Queen’s gaze sharpened, cold interest pinning Myrren like a moth. Dangerous, that look seemed to say. But useful—until she wasn’t.

Thane leaned forward, golden light incarnate. “You saved a life tonight, Mistress Vale. Whether you intended it or not.”

“I only told the truth.”

“Then keep telling it. This court has need of eyes that do not flinch.”

At his side, Lord Corven stood in silence. His storm-dark eyes found hers and held them, shadows curling almost imperceptibly at his boots. A weight pressed against her chest—not scent, not sound, only danger.

Thane gestured smoothly. “Sit. You must be tired.”

A servant brought a chair near the dais. Myrren perched on its edge, satchel clutched like armor.

Thane bent closer, voice velvet-soft. “Tell me, Mistress Vale—how does a woman from the artisans’ quarter learn to smell lies in the air?”

“Every craft leaves residue. Ink. Metal. Blood. Perfume. Pay attention, and the scent tells you what words try to hide.”

His smile sharpened, hungry. “A dangerous gift.”

“Only to those who lie.”

For a heartbeat, the space between them thrummed—his golden warmth against her guarded defiance. Then Thane laughed, bright and delighted, and the hall laughed with him. But his gaze never wavered from her face, and she understood: this was no kindness. This was a claim.

Later, when the courtiers dispersed, Myrren turned to follow the servants.

“Stay a moment,” Thane called.

She froze. He descended the dais with unhurried grace, every step a prince’s performance, yet his voice was warm, disarming, when he reached her.

“I wished to thank you,” he said. “For tonight—and for stepping into a court that was never meant to welcome you.”

“That is nothing new.”

“But you carried yourself as though their scorn slid off you like rain. That is rare here.”

“Why summon me?” she asked quietly. “You have healers. Alchemists. Mages.”

“None like you. The reports said you are precise. Relentless. That you refuse to be wrong. That is exactly what I need.”

“That speaks poorly of your council.”

His grin broke, boyish again for a heartbeat. “And very well of you.”

“You’re quick with compliments, Highness.”

“Not compliments. Observations.” His voice dropped lower, silk over steel. “Though I admit, I enjoy watching you unsettle them.”

Her skin prickled. Not desire—not yet. But danger, bright as flame.

“Careful,” she murmured. “Flattery is another kind of poison.”

“Then you will be my antidote.”

Behind him, Corven lingered, silent as stone. Watching. Shadows seemed to lean toward him, restless, hungry. Myrren’s pulse skittered. When his eyes caught hers, she swore she heard a whisper—you shouldn’t have come—though his lips never moved.

Thane brushed her satchel lightly with his hand. “Come to me tomorrow. We will speak privately.”

Just like that, the golden prince had bound her path to his.

But as Myrren turned to leave, a chill snared her lungs. Beneath the perfumes of the hall, she caught it again—bitter almond, laced with frostmint. Cyanide, this time. Masked poorly, but masked enough.

Two poisons in one night.

Not an accident. Not a chance.

A pattern.

And the second goblet bore not a lord’s sigil—but the Queen’s crest, its rim slick with cyanide. Whether meant to kill her, or planted by her own hand as a trap, Myrren could not tell. Only that poison now touched the throne itself.