The knock came before dawn.
I jolted awake, my mother's hand still resting on my shoulder from where she'd shaken me gently. The fire had burned to embers, and the chill of early morning clung to the air.
Knock, knock, knock
Not the measured rap of a royal courier. This was urgent. Desperate.
I stumbled to the door, still half-drowned in sleep, and threw it open.
A man I didn't recognize stood there, his face ashen, his breath ragged. He clutched his side, where dark blood seeped between his fingers. Behind him, the first light of dawn painted the sky in sickly yellows and bruised purples.
"Miss Sylvia," he gasped. "You must come. Now."
My mother was already moving, snatching my satchel from the table and thrusting it into my hands. "Who sent you?" she demanded.
The man swayed. "The king's brother. He said, A wet cough. "He said to tell you it's happening again."
Ice shot through my veins.
Because I knew.
I knew.
The princess hadn't been bitten by accident.
And now, neither had this man.
---
The streets were eerily silent as we ran. The man, Joren, he'd rasped out between labored breaths, led us through twisting alleys, away from the palace, toward the village eastern edge. The wealthier district. Where the king's brother, Lord Varro, kept his palace.
"Why not the palace healers?" I hissed as we ducked beneath a low archway.
Joren's laugh was bitter. "Because they're the ones who did this."
Then he collapsed.
I barely caught him before he hit the cobblestones. His skin was clammy, his pulse fluttering like a dying bird's. I rolled him onto his back and froze .
The wound wasn't a snakebite.
It was a puncture. Deliberate. Neat.
The kind left by a physician's needle.
---
Lord Varro's estate loomed ahead, its gates slightly ajar. No guards. No servants.
A trap? Or a warning?
Mother gripped my arm. "We should turn back."
But Joren's blood was on my hands, and his words echoed in my skull: It's happening again.
I stepped inside.
The grand hall was empty. No, not empty.
At the far end, slumped in a chair too large for him, was a boy. No older than twelve. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. And on his wrist...
Two tiny, perfect marks.
Vipera syltheria.
But the princess had survived.
Which meant someone needed a new victim.
---
A shadow moved in the corner of my vision.
I spun, just as a blade flashed toward my throat.
Mother yanked me back. The knife grazed my collarbone, sending a hot line of pain across my skin.
The attacker, a woman in healer's robes—snarled. "You weren't supposed to interfere."
I knew her.
Mistress Lira. The king's chief physician.
The realization hit me like a blow:
She'd poisoned the princess.
And now she was here to finish the job.
---
Mother didn't hesitate. She flung a handful of crushed blinding-root straight into Lira's face. The woman screamed, clawing at her eyes—
I lunged for the boy.
His pulse was weak, his skin already cooling. No time for subtlety. I ripped open my satchel, grabbing the first vial I touched, a volatile mix of frankincense and crushed emberstone—and forced it between his lips.
"Breathe," I begged. "Breathe"
A gasp.
Then...
His eyes flew open.
---
Behind me, Lira shrieked in rage.
I turned just in time to see her raise the knife again, but Joren, bloody and barely conscious, tackled her to the ground.
The blade clattered away.
Silence.
Slow, mocking applause.
From the doorway, a figure stepped into the light.
King Redworth
"Well done," he said softly. But far too late."
And I understood.
This had never been about the princess.
Or the boy.
Or even Lira.
It was about me.
And I had just walked straight into his trap.