Chapter 7: The Accusation

The scream didn't end. It morphed into a wail, then a chorus of cries that echoed through the stone corridors like a funeral hymn. My blood turned to ice. I stood frozen in the narrow servant's passage, my hand still outstretched toward the door I'd been about to open—the hidden entrance to the King's private study.

"Your Majesty!" Someone's voice shattered the chaos. "Guards! Guards to the King's chambers!"

I stumbled backward, my mind racing. The King was dead. *He was dead.* And I'd been sent to warn him about—

No. No, I couldn't think about that now. I had to move. I had to leave before anyone found me lingering near the scene. My father had always said my cursed curiosity would be the death of me, and now it might literally be—

"Stop her!"

The shout came from behind me, sharp and commanding. I spun around to find Captain Aldric striding toward me, his ceremonial armor gleaming even in the dim light of the passage. His face was a mask of cold fury.

"You'll come with me this instant, girl. The council will want to speak with you."

"Captain, I didn't—I was only—"

"Save it." He grabbed my arm with a grip iron-tight, pulling me down the corridor. "You were seen entering the west wing not twenty minutes ago. Alone. Moments before the King took his final breath."

The west wing. The King's private chambers. My stomach dropped like a stone into the pit of hell. I hadn't entered the King's chambers. I'd been on my way to warn him. But the guards hadn't seen that. They'd only seen me, a kitchen girl, creeping through the restricted area. Again.

Because of course they had. Of course this was happening. The universe had always had a sick sense of humor when it came to me.

I opened my mouth to explain, to tell them about the letter, about the warning, about the shadow I'd seen slipping through the castle halls just an hour before. But the words died in my throat. Who would believe me? A scullery maid who'd been caught sneaking around the royal wing three times in the past two weeks? A nobody with no rank, no title, no connection to the court?

All I had were whispered words from a stranger who'd vanished into the night, and the memory of the King's kindness when he'd found me weeping in the gardens last spring. He'd given me a handkerchief and told me that even queens had to cry sometimes. That I should never let anyone make me feel small.

Now he was gone. And I was the only one who might know why.

Captain Aldric shoved me into the Great Hall, where the full court had already gathered. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and fear. Nobles pressed together in their silks and velvets, whispering behind their hands, their eyes wide and hungry for blood.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the ornate throne draped in black velvet, stood Prince Alexander. His face was carved from stone, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a grief so fierce it seemed to radiate from him like heat. Beside him, his mother, the Dowager Queen, clutched a lace handkerchief, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

But it was the man standing just behind them who made my blood run cold. Duke Reginald. The King's brother. His smile was barely concealed behind his hand, and his eyes—cold and calculating—found mine across the crowded hall.

Oh no.

The Duke had been the King's most trusted advisor. He was also the only person who'd known about my trips to the west wing. He'd sent me there. For the letters. The ones I'd never questioned, because he'd promised me coin enough to free my father from debtor's prison.

Letters that I now realized, with dawning horror, I had never once seen the King actually receive.

"Your Highness," Captain Aldric announced, his voice booming over the whispers. "I found this girl lurking in the passage adjacent to your father's chambers. She was seen leaving the west wing moments after the King's death."

The hall fell silent. Every eye turned to me. I could feel their weight like a physical press, crushing my chest.

Prince Alexander stepped forward, his boots echoing on the marble floor. He walked slowly, deliberately, until he stood before me, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tremor in his hands.

"What were you doing in the west wing?" His voice was low, controlled. Too controlled.

"I—" My throat closed. I forced myself to breathe. "I was on my way to warn His Majesty. I received word—someone told me there was a threat. I didn't know what it was, but I couldn't ignore it. I couldn't—"

"Warn him." The Prince's laugh was hollow, bitter. "You expected me to believe that a kitchen girl received intelligence that my own guards, my own spymaster, missed?"

"Your Highness, I know how it sounds. Please. I was sent to deliver a message, and then I heard the scream and I didn't know what to do—"

"By whom?" He leaned closer, his scent of sandalwood and grief washing over me. "Who sent you?"

The words hung in the air like a noose. I could feel the weight of Duke Reginald's gaze boring into my back. If I accused a Duke of the realm without proof, I'd be hanged for treason. If I stayed silent, I'd be hanged for murder.

Either way, I was dead.

The Prince's eyes searched mine, and for a single, breathless moment, I thought I saw something there—a flicker of doubt, of hesitation. A crack in the wall of his certainty.

Then Duke Reginald stepped forward, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Your Highness, this is clearly a simple thief caught in the act. The King likely walked in on her pillaging, and she panicked. The only question is whether we should make an example of her now or after a public trial."

The crowd murmured in agreement. Prince Alexander's expression shuttered closed.

"The girl will be taken to the tower," he said, his voice cold as winter. "She will answer for her crimes at dawn."

Guards seized my arms, dragging me backward. I didn't fight. I couldn't. My eyes were locked on the Duke's, watching the corner of his mouth curl into a triumphant smile.

And then I saw it.

A flash of silver in his hand, there and gone. A signet ring. The King's signet ring, the one that had never left His Majesty's finger.

He was holding it. The man who'd killed the King was standing beside the new one, and he was wearing the symbol of his victim.

I opened my mouth to scream the accusation, but the captain's hand clamped over my mouth before the words could escape.

And as they dragged me from the hall, Duke Reginald raised his hand in a mock farewell, the stolen ring glinting like a death sentence.

The tower door slammed shut behind me, and I finally understood the truth:

The King hadn't died from poison or a hidden blade. He'd died because I'd been used as the lure. And now, I was the only one who knew it.