The hall did not release her, even when Thane was carried away and the nobles scattered like carrion birds. Their stares clung to her skin, their whispers trailed her steps. By the time she reached her chamber, the scent of fear still pressed against her lungs, heavy as smoke and she knew she was not alone.

“You linger too long in the lion’s mouth.”

The voice slid from the shadows and her hand went to the dagger at her belt.

 “Corven.”

He sat in her chair as though he had been waiting hours, storm-gray eyes unreadable. His presence filled the small space, quiet as suffocation. Serenya was nowhere in sight. That unsettled her more than if he had brought the assassin to her bedside.

“You’d give your life so easily for him?” His voice was low, even, dangerous in its calm. “Before the court, no less.”

Her pulse jumped. She forced herself upright. “I kept the heir alive.”

“By seizing him. By laying hands on the heir before every eye.” His gaze sharpened, jealousy curling at the edges of his stillness. “Do you think they will forgive you? Do you think the Saints themselves won’t mark you cursed?”

Her temper flared, steadier than her pulse. “And why do you care, Corven?” She stepped closer, chin lifting. “Why does it matter if I live or burn, unless it’s because of what you said that night?”

For a heartbeat, his mask slipped. Storm eyes flickered, lightning in their depths. The words had been slurred, but true. Bond. Tether. She had not imagined them. She was bound to him, whether she wanted it or not.

He rose, closing the space until her back struck the window’s cold pane. His scent is iron, cypress, and a storm coiled around her like a chain. His voice rasped, intimate. “You belong to my circle. You may bleed for him, but every wound still answers to me.”

Heat surged through her veins with rage, fear and  something worse. Part of her wanted to spit in his face. Part of her, traitorous, leaned toward him as if pulled by the tether itself. At the last instant she turned her head aside. His breath grazed her cheek, searing. When she looked back, the hunger in his eyes was shuttered again, leaving only a storm.

He stepped into shadow, his words a knife. “Remember that, Myrren.” And then he was gone, leaving her shaken, cursing herself for the part of her that had wanted him to stay.

By morning, the palace had not slept. The hall hummed with tension, nobles buzzing fear into decrees and whispers. Perfume failed to smother the reek of panic.

She had barely stepped into the antechamber when a scream split the air. A nobleman, Lord Aelric of Merrow, staggered, clutching his throat. Wine spilled from his hand, staining velvet. He collapsed, limbs jerking, foam bubbling at his lips.

“Poison!”
“The same as last night, valerian!” someone shrieked.
“No, too violent for valerian” another voice cut in. “It must be hellebore!”

Myrren shoved past silks and boots, dropping to her knees beside him. His eyes had rolled white, chest heaving in shallow, rattling gasps. Every muscle quivered like strings pulled too tight.

“No,” she snapped. Two fingers brushed his lips, then his wrist. She inhaled sharply. His breath clung acrid to her tongue, bitter, resinous and warm where hellebore would have struck cold.

The scent pierced memory. She was a girl again, leaning too close to her father’s cracked vial. The fumes had stung her eyes, set her laughing, then sent her unconscious to the floor. Her father’s voice had been sharp as the bitterness itself: Wormwood is no child’s game. In ink it writes, in drink it charms, in excess it rots the brain.

Her eyes snapped open. “Wormwood.”

Gasps. Murmurs. “Surely harmless..”

“In tinctures, yes,” she cut them off. “But in excess it confuses the nerves, seizes the tongue. And if it reaches the lungs..” she glanced at Aelric’s heaving chest “The body drowns without water.”

Whispers thickened, perfume souring with fear.

Think. She clawed through her satchel of burn powders, fever salts, nothing for this. Her gaze darted to the banquet table sagging with platters. Amid sprigs of garnish: fennel, sharp and green.

Fennel. Antispasmodic. A counter to wormwood’s madness.

She seized a handful, crushed the seeds until oil slicked her palms. Forcing Aelric’s jaw open, she smeared the mash against his tongue, massaging his throat until reflex made him swallow.

He convulsed and then slackened. Foam thinned at his lips. His breath rattled still, but steadied.

Gasps rippled.
“She knew.”
“No physician”
“Witchcraft.”

And above it all, Thane’s eyes burned into her, golden and awed, as if she had torn him back from death again.

Across the chamber, Corven watched without a word.

Fear clung even after Aelric was carried away. Nobles whispered with every breath, their perfumes soured. Myrren’s name is tangled in each rumor.

Ori slipped to her side, eyes wide. “Do you hear them? Half the court thinks you’re a miracle. The other half thinks you’re cursed.”

“I’m neither,” she muttered, though the words felt hollow.

Ori grinned, whispering sharp. “Cursed or not, you should see how the ladies look at you. Save their prince twice and they’ll write songs. If you breathe wrong, they’ll tear you apart.”

“Enough, Ori,” she hissed, but her friend’s chatter steadied her more than silence ever could.

Rue appeared with a tray of steaming pots, slipping close. Her whisper brushed like smoke. “Word’s already spreading. Taverns emptied at dawn and no one dared touch ale. The city fears its bread, its broth, its cups. Poison in the palace is one thing. Poison in their bowls? That’s panic.”

Myrren’s stomach twisted. Famine already gnawed at the city. Fear would starve it faster.

At the dais, Lady Seliora’s silver voice cut through. “Enough prattle of succession. The prince breathes, twice saved. I will not hear whispers of the throne while he stands before us.”

A murmur of assent rippled, but hungry glances lingered. Myrren caught the scent of envy, sharp as vinegar.

Then Eryndor Draeven chuckled, gaunt as a crow. “Curious, isn’t it? Poisons no physician names, yet our perfumer girl names them all. Strange, how knowledge resurfaces when most convenient.”

The words pricked like needles. Memories clawed closer: her father’s shelves, forbidden notes, the child who once died from her hand. She forced her hands still.

Ori caught her look, grin fading. “Don’t listen,” she whispered. “They’re vultures.”

But Myrren smelled danger in Draeven’s words. Her past was not buried deep enough.

The hall swelled again with shouts.
“It was the servants!”
“They bring our cups, our bread, hang them all!”

Guards dragged a trembling kitchen boy forward, apron stained with wine and broth. His eyes wide, his breath sharp with yeast and fear.

“He poured the cups!”
“Servants always do!”
“Blood for blood!”

The boy collapsed to his knees, weeping. “Mercy, my lords! I knew nothing..”

The crowd roared over him. “Lies.” “String him up.”

Myrren’s chest tightened. She stepped forward. “No.”

Silence snapped, suspicion cutting toward her. Dozens of eyes pinned her. She crouched, inhaling near the boy’s apron. Rue. Acrid, deliberate, rubbed fresh into the cloth.

Her voice cut the chamber. “Rue causes nausea, but not collapse. It was planted. He’s guilty only of serving a poisoned cask.”

A ripple of unease. Nobles muttered, unwilling to release the prey they had cornered.

“Then who?” someone demanded.

Her gaze swept the hall. Eryndor’s smile curved, sharp as glass. He knew. He relished her silence.

Before she could speak, Thane’s voice rang out, hoarse but bright. He had risen from Holt’s arm, unsteady but unbowed. Golden light flickered faintly at his fingertips. “No boy will bleed tonight. Mistress Vale has spoken the truth. Let no man mistake planted evidence for justice.”

The nobles faltered, dazzled despite themselves. Murmurs bent into awe, resentment, disbelief. His defiance spread like a dawn breaking storm.

Myrren’s breath caught. Even weakened, he burned bright, dazzling. For one dangerous heartbeat, she wanted to believe in him.

Then Corven’s silence pressed heavier than the cheers. He stepped forward, gaze unflinching. His words cut low, meant for her yet sharp enough to wound the chamber. “If you let them take a servant’s head, you are complicit.”

The truth in it struck harder than any accusation.

The chamber erupted again, sharper, more vicious.
“She shields the boy!”
“She hides the poisoner!”
“If she won’t name him guilty, she is guilty!”

Perfumes soured, sweat stung the air. Ori clutched her sleeve. “Saints, they’ll hang him, and you’ll be next.”

Holt’s hand settled on his sword. Even Seliora’s smile was gone.

Then Thane leaned close, voice for her alone. “Can you be certain, Mistress Vale? Certain enough to face them all?” His hand hovered near hers, a plea and a shield both.

Her senses sharpened: valerian’s cloy, Rue’s acrid sting, nobles’ sour sweat. Together they sang the same refrain which is falsehood.

Her heart pounded. One word, and a boy would die. Or she would stand against the court and fall with him.

Across the hall, Corven’s eyes held hers. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. Daring her to stay silent—or to break it.

Silence thickened, every noble leaning forward, hungry for her answer. The boy sobbed. Ori’s nails bit crescents into her arm. Thane’s warmth lingered, fragile as glass. Corven’s storm gaze chained her.

She drew a slow breath. Rue. Valerian. Fear. Lies. Threads knotted tight. She could not un-smell them. She could not unsay the truth.

Her voice rang like steel drawn from its sheath. “They want the wrong head on the block.”

Gasps cracked the chamber. Nobles recoiled. The boy wept in relief.

And in the uproar, Thane’s golden light flared defiant against the storm, while Corven’s gaze only deepened, unreadable, as though he had been waiting for her to finally choose.