The words "To new beginnings!" hung in the rose-scented air, a collective benediction from the flower of the Empire's nobility. Crystal and porcelain gleamed as cups were raised in unison. A hundred smiles, genuine or practiced, were turned toward the Crown Prince, the sun around which this garden world revolved.
I held my cup aloft, the weight of it—the literal, physical weight of the poison—a secret anchor in my hand. The steam curled, carrying the delicate fragrance of Silver Needle tea, now laced with the odorless, tasteless ruin called White Veil. My arm did not tremble. My smile, a faint, polite curve, felt carved from stone.
Across the pavilion, Seraphina's gaze was a physical pressure. She watched me like a hawk sighting a mouse in an open field, her cup raised, her lips parted in anticipation. Her smile was the most genuine I had ever seen on her—a pure, cruel delight. She was not toasting the spring or the Empire. She was toasting her victory, my humiliation, and the delicious moment when the rose would wilt. Her eyes screamed, Drink.
I did not.
I let the rim of the cup hover a hair's breadth from my lips, the heat of the liquid warming my skin. I was a statue in a moving tableau. Around me, the chorus of satisfied sips and murmurs of appreciation for the fine tea rose up. Elara took a tiny, nervous sip, her eyes wide over the rim. Kaelen, beside me, did not raise his empty place. He simply watched, a monolith of silent observation, his silver-gray eyes missing nothing.
And Cassian.
Oblivious, buoyant by the adoration and the perfection of his own staging, he raised his refreshed cup high. The gold rim caught the sun and flashed. "To the season of renewal!" he added, his voice rich and commanding. "And to the bright, unbroken future of our Empire!"
He brought the cup to his lips. My heart, a frantic bird against my ribs, seemed to stop entirely. The world narrowed to that single point: the gilded porcelain against his mouth, the tilt of his wrist, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
He drained it.
Not a polite sip, but a deep, hearty draught, the gesture of a man confident that everything he consumed was his by divine right. He drank the tea—my tea, the clean tea from the cup I had switched—and then, with a flourish, he finished the toast, tipping the cup to show it was empty before setting it down with a satisfied click on the saucer.
A beat of silence, filled only by the tinkling fountain.
Then, the expected applause, the ripple of cheerful agreement. "Hear, hear!" "To the future!" The party resumed its hum.
For three full seconds, nothing happened.
Cassian's smile remained, brilliant and untroubled. He accepted a compliment from the Duke of the East with a graceful nod. He was the picture of royal vitality.
A cold knife of doubt twisted in my gut. Had I been wrong? Had the servant not refilled the switched cup but replaced it entirely with a new, poisoned one meant for Cassian? Had my desperate gamble been for nothing? Was the poison still in the cup before me, and was Seraphina's smile now one of confusion that I hadn't yet drunk?
I looked down at my cup. The milky haze seemed to taunt me. My plan, my perfect, dangerous switch—had it evaporated into the spring air?
Then, I saw it.
A tiny, almost graceful shudder, like a leaf disturbed by a breeze that wasn't there, passed through Cassian's shoulders. It was so slight I thought I'd imagined it. He was mid-sentence, replying to the Duke, when his words faltered. Not stopped, but… slurred. The crisp, cultured cadence melted at the edges. "…the eastern trade routes are, of course, para… paramount…"
He blinked, his brilliant blue eyes losing their focus. They stared past the Duke, past the rose trellises, at some distant, invisible point. The effortless charm flickered, replaced by a profoundly unsettling blankness.
The Duke of the East, a sharp old man, frowned slightly. "Your Highness?"
Cassian's head turned slowly, too slowly, toward the sound of his voice. The smile was still plastered on his face, but it had become a ghastly rictus, the muscles refusing to obey the brain's command to relax. A string of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth, tracing a glistening path down his chin.
A low murmur started at the high table, a ripple of confusion.
"Is he quite alright?" someone whispered.
Seraphina's triumphant smile had frozen. Her gaze, previously fixed on me, now shifted to Cassian. The cruel pleasure was gone, replaced by dawning, horror-stricken comprehension. Her plan was unfolding—but on the wrong target. The blood drained from her face, leaving her powder stark against suddenly pale skin.
Cassian tried to speak. "I… f-feel…" The words were thick, gummed in his throat. He raised a hand, perhaps to wipe his mouth, or signal for help. But the hand did not complete its journey. It jerked violently, spasming as if struck by lightning. The tremor raced up his arm, convulsing his shoulder, then seized his neck and jaw.
A low, guttural sound escaped him—not a scream, but a choked, animal grunt of sheer neurological distress.
His body arched back in the gilded chair, every muscle locking in a brutal tetany. The chair legs screeched against the flagstones. His back bowed, his head thrown back, eyes rolling white. Then the violent, humiliating convulsions began in earnest. His limbs flailed, knocking over his empty cup, sending the saucer shattering to the ground. His fine jacket strained against the uncontrolled contractions. A wet, dark stain spread rapidly across the front of his impeccably tailored trousers.
The spectacle was grotesque. It was the precise, horrific pantomime of a divine seizure or sudden madness that White Veil was designed to produce. But it was not happening to the disgraced lady. It was happening to the Crown Prince, the Hero, the center of the universe.
Pandemonium erupted.
A lady shrieked. A man shouted for a healer. Chairs scraped back as nobles recoiled in horror. The serene spring tea party shattered into a scene of visceral panic.
"Poison!" The word exploded from a dozen throats, but this time, it was not an accusation against me. It was a terrifying diagnosis.
"The Prince! The Prince has been poisoned!"
"Guards! Seize the servants! No one leaves!"
Royal guards, who had been standing as ornamentation at the pavilion's perimeter, now surged forward, swords drawn, their faces masks of alarm. They formed a ring around Cassian's thrashing form but were helpless against the enemy within him.
My own hand, still holding the poisoned cup aloft, slowly lowered. I set it down on the table with exquisite care, as if it were made of glass. The milky poison within seemed to swirl in accusation, but its intended victim was safe. I was safe.
I looked across the chaos at Seraphina. She was standing perfectly still amidst the rushing guards and screaming nobles, a statue of pink silk in a storm. All color had left her face. Her eyes were wide, not with fear for Cassian, but with the utter, catastrophic understanding that her plot had reversed upon itself with apocalyptic force. Her gaze lifted from his convulsing form and found mine.
In that moment, the mask was utterly gone. What looked back at me was not the innocent maiden, not the cunning rival. It was raw, undiluted hatred, and beneath it, a flicker of something else—a profound, alien shock, as if the universe itself had just violated a fundamental rule. Her lips moved, shaping a single, silent word that I read as clearly as a shout: You.
Then the storm of activity swallowed her. A healer in Academy robes was rushing forward, elbowing through the crowd. Knights were shouting orders, trying to establish order and to cordon off the tea service.
Kaelen rose to his feet beside me, his bulk a sudden bastion in the chaos. He didn't look at the prince. He looked at me, his expression grim, his earlier question answered with terrifying clarity. "You," he said, his voice a low rumble meant only for me, "have ignited the powder keg."
"They lit the fuse," I replied, my voice strangely calm in the eye of the hurricane. "I merely turned it back toward the magazine."
He grunted, a sound that could have been acknowledgment or disapproval. "This is not over. They will look for a culprit. The true one," his eyes flicked toward the white-faced Seraphina, "will not go quietly."
As if summoned by his words, a commanding voice cut through the din. It was the captain of the Royal Guard, his face like iron. "Secure all the tea! Every cup, every pot! No one touches anything! Physicians, to the Prince!"
His gaze swept over the crowd with a hunter's intensity, finally landing on our table. His gaze landed on the single, full, untouched cup of tea that was sitting before me.
His eyes narrowed. In a scene of panic where everyone had either drunk, spilled, or abandoned their tea, my full cup was a stark anomaly. A beacon of guilt.
He pointed a gauntleted finger directly at me, his voice booming across the crumbling pavilion.
"Secure that woman! And seize that cup!"