Chapter 4: Whispers in the Court

The palace corridors were colder than the winter outside. I counted every step as Aldric led me through a maze of gilded arches and marble floors that gleamed like frozen lakes. My reflection followed me, a ghost in silver silk, and I hated how small I looked in these halls built for giants.

“The Queen’s solar is this way,” Aldric said, his voice a low, practiced purr. “Her ladies are eager to make your acquaintance.”

Eager. Right. In my old life, I’d learned that when noblewomen were eager, it meant they’d already sharpened their knives.

The solar was a study in suffocating femininity—rose-tinted light spilling through stained glass, embroidered cushions piled on every chaise, and the cloying scent of orange blossom and something bitter underneath, like crushed almonds. Six women looked up as I entered, their faces painted into masks of polite curiosity. The one in the center wore a gown of deep burgundy, her dark hair coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

“Lady Lyra,” she said, not rising. “I am Lady Seraphine, the Queen’s principal lady-in-waiting. We’ve heard so much about you.”

Heard. Not known. They’d heard rumors—that I was a nobody from the borderlands, a foreign bride bought with a treaty. And they intended to make me feel it.

“The pleasure is mine,” I said, sinking into a curtsey that was exactly one inch too shallow. Lady Seraphine’s eyes flickered. Good.

“We were just discussing the masquerade next week,” another woman said, fanning herself with a painted silk fan. “It’s such a pity you’ll have no costume. The royal wardrobe takes months to prepare, you know.”

“I’ve already commissioned a seamstress,” I said smoothly. “From the borderlands. She works faster than your court tailors, I assure you.”

A ripple of laughter—not kind, not cruel, just… dismissive. I’d expected that. What I hadn’t expected was the flash of something dark in Seraphine’s eyes. Recognition? No. Wariness. As if I were a piece on a board she hadn’t accounted for.

“How peculiar,” Seraphine said, finally rising. She glided toward me, her gown whispering against the floor. “You speak of the borderlands so fondly. Yet you left them behind willingly enough.”

My throat tightened. “I left because I was chosen.”

“Chosen,” she repeated, tasting the word. “How fortunate. Though one wonders—does the King know what he’s chosen? Or is he merely… blind to the thorns in his rose?”

Before I could answer, a crash rang from the corridor. A servant burst in, face ashen, hands shaking. “The King—he’s collapsed. The physicians have been summoned.”

The room erupted in gasps and sharp intakes of breath. I spun toward the door, but Seraphine’s hand clamped around my wrist—a grip like iron.

“Where do you think you’re going, Lady Lyra?”

“To see him.”

“The King has taken ill,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And the last person to serve him wine was… a kitchen girl from the borderlands. One of your retinue, I believe.”

The floor tilted beneath me. The wine. The girl. The bitter almond scent in this room—now I realized it wasn’t perfume at all. It was poison.

“I had nothing to do with this.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Seraphine’s smile was a blade. “But the King’s brother might see it differently. Prince Kael is already on his way. Shall we await him together?”

She didn’t release my wrist. I heard the march of boots in the corridor—guards, heavy and fast—and then the doors burst open. Kael stood in the threshold, snow dusting his shoulders, his eyes burning like a storm given human form. He looked at the chaos, at the servants weeping, at Seraphine’s triumphant face. Then his gaze found mine, and I saw the accusation before he spoke a single word.

“Lyra.” His voice was ice. “Explain.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because in that frozen second, I saw my reflection in the window—a stranger in silver silk, standing in a room reeking of poison, with guilt written across my face like I’d practiced it in the mirror.

“I didn’t do this,” I whispered.

“Then why,” Kael said, stepping closer, his voice barely audible, “is the poison in your cup?”