The throne hall emptied, perfume clinging to her like smoke. Each step was measured, though her mind raced. Poison had touched the throne itself. Whether meant as murder—or planted as a trap—she could not yet tell.

The whispers she had overheard upon her arrival rose now, curling through her memory:

The King’s ward. The traitor’s son.
Shadows bend toward him.
He is cursed. He is the Queen’s hidden blade. He is nothing at all—a pawn kept breathing only to remind us of treachery.

Contradictory tales, sharpened by fear. She had dismissed them as gossip—until a voice cut through the hush.

“Vale.”

Her breath caught.

By a pillar, half-swallowed by darkness, stood the man the rumors named. Lord Corven. His storm-colored eyes fixed on her, pressing against her chest like stone. For the first time, she understood why the court whispered at all.

“My lord,” she said evenly.

“You should not be here.”

The same words as before—but heavier now. Less warning, more inevitability.

“I was summoned.”

“You opened the seal. You stepped inside. You chose this.”

“And if I refused?”

“You would still be alive.” His pause was deliberate. “For now.”

A chill traced her spine. “Is that a threat?”

He pushed from the pillar, each step deliberate. Shadows stirred faintly at his boots—as though reaching for her—before he stilled them with ruthless control. When he stopped close enough for the air to thrum between them, her pulse betrayed her, quickening against her will.

“No. A calculation,” he said.

“And your sums?”

“They declare you… temporary.”

Her grip on the satchel tightened. “Then perhaps your sums are wrong.”

Something flickered in his eyes—too much like recognition. But in the next breath it was gone, shuttered behind stone.

“Tell me, Mistress Vale—how long will you last when they learn you can smell through their perfumes, their poisons, their illusions?”

“Long enough,” she said coldly, “to find who poured wolfsbane into a prince’s cup—and cyanide into the Queen’s.”

His mouth curved, though not in amusement. “Careful.”

“Of what? The truth?”

“Of assuming wolves hide only in shadows.”

Her pulse stuttered, a betrayal she despised. “And you? Which are you—wolf or shadow?”

His gaze did not waver. “Both.”

The word dropped like a stone into a well. For a heartbeat, his shadows twitched again, restless. His jaw clenched, and with visible restraint he stepped back—choosing distance instead of closeness. The silence between them pulsed like a wound.

“You speak in riddles, my lord.”

“No. In warnings.” His eyes lingered on her for one raw moment before he turned and melted back into the dark, leaving her with the echo of restraint—and the court’s whispers ringing louder in her ears.

The servant who came to lead her jumped when she approached. “Th-this way, mistress.”

They moved down long corridors, sconces humming faintly with wards. The air was thick with rose oil and myrrh—masking. Always masking.

Then it struck her nose again. Bitter almonds. Masked with frostmint.

She stopped so abruptly the servant nearly collided with her.

“Mistress?” he stammered.

“You carried a tray earlier. What was on it?”

“Wine, mistress. Only wine.”

“And nothing spilled?”

His color drained. “No, mistress. Of course not.”

Her voice sharpened. “Think. A drop on your sleeve, a rim touched, a goblet brushed against the tray?”

His throat bobbed. “N-no—”

But the truth stung her nose. Cyanide. Oil of stonefruit. Suffocates from within, leaving blood deceptively bright. Her mind recited the pathophysiology with cold precision, as if to keep her fear at bay.

The servant fled. Myrren let him go.

The chamber given her was plain: a narrow bed, a table, a basin. Better than she expected. Worse than she needed.

She closed the door and leaned against it. “Alive. For now.”

At the basin stood a cup. She reached—then froze.

Belladonna. Faint, but certain. The rim was tainted.

Her lips tightened. “They tested me.” Already.

She shoved the cup aside, threw open the window. Night air rushed in—bread from the city, wet stone, horse dung. Life, not death. Relief loosened her chest. For a moment.

A knock rattled the door. Slow. Deliberate.

Myrren’s hand hovered over her satchel. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

She cracked the door. The corridor was empty. Only a folded slip of parchment lay at her feet.

She bent, unfolded it. A handful of words, ink dark as iron:

Don’t trust him.

The ink smelled of cypress and steel. His hand had written only what he dared, though a thousand words must have burned on his tongue. A warning sharpened to its barest point—protection offered in silence.

Her fist clenched. Her whisper slipped into the corridor, too soft for anyone to hear—except perhaps the shadows themselves.

“Don’t trust who? The golden prince who smiles? Or the shadow who warns?”

No answer. Only the wards humming faintly in the walls, sealing her in.

And Myrren’s, heart caught between light and darkness, realized both answers could kill her.

Yet as the wards thrummed louder, she swore she heard something else beneath them—like a whisper pressed against her ear, low and unbidden:

Choose wrong, and love itself will be the poison that ends you.