The Captain of the Guard's command was a hammer blow on the anvil of chaos. "Secure that woman! And seize that cup!"
All movement in my immediate vicinity seemed to slow. I saw the shock on Elara's face turn to fury. I saw the calculation in Kaelen's eyes shift from grim observation to active defense. I saw the two royal guards nearest our table exchange a glance, then begin to push through the hysterical nobles toward us, their intent clear.
But my focus was not on the encroaching guards, nor on the captain's accusing finger. My focus was locked on the epicenter of the disaster: Crown Prince Cassian.
The healer had reached him, barking orders for men to hold the prince's thrashing limbs. Cassian's body was a violent arc against the ornate chair, his spine bowed so severely it seemed it must snap. The fine fabric of his jacket ripped at the shoulders. The guttural sounds from his throat were no longer human—they were the desperate, mechanical noises of a body at war with its own nervous system.
His face, once so classically handsome, was a grotesque mask. It had flushed a deep, ugly purple, veins standing out on his temples and neck. His eyes were rolled back, showing the whites, but occasionally they would shudder down, and in those fleeting moments of horrific clarity, I saw sheer, uncomprehending terror. This was not part of his script. This was not a glory he could steal. This was visceral, humiliating destruction, and it was happening to him.
A server tripped over a fallen chair, sending a tray of untouched pastries flying. A lady of the court fainted clean away, caught by her stunned husband. The air, once perfumed with roses and privilege, now stank of fear, spilled tea, and the sharp, acrid scent of urine from the Prince's soiled trousers.
"Stand aside!" Kaelen's voice, a whip-crack of Northern command, didn't shout. It cut through the din, silencing the immediate chaos around our table. He didn't move to block the guards, but he stood to his full, imposing height, and his presence alone became a barrier. "You will not seize a Duchess of the Realm on the strength of a full cup."
The guards hesitated. The Duke of the North was not a man to be brushed aside, even on a direct order from their captain when the crown prince was incapacitated.
The captain himself stalked forward, his face a thundercloud. "That cup is evidence, Your Grace. And her behavior is suspect. Everyone else is in a state of alarm. She sits there, calm as you please, with a full drink before her." His eyes, sharp and suspicious, raked over me. "It reeks of foreknowledge."
"It reeks of a lady who hadn't yet taken a sip before the tragedy occurred," Kaelen countered, his tone dropping to a dangerously low register. "Or do you now arrest people for not drinking poisoned tea?"
"The poison is not yet confirmed!" The captain snapped, but his gaze flickered to the convulsing prince. The evidence was rather definitive.
"Then perhaps," I said, speaking for the first time since the chaos began, my voice clear and steady, "your efforts would be better spent securing the actual source of the poison, Captain, rather than intimidating a witness who may be able to help." I slowly, deliberately, placed both of my hands flat on the table, palms down, in a gesture of non-aggression and transparency. "The cup is yours. Examine it. But I would advise your healer that the Prince exhibits the classic symptoms of White Veil poisoning. The antidote is a tincture of moonflower extract and activated charcoal. The Academy's main infirmary should have stores."
My clinical recitation hung in the air. The captain stared at me, his suspicion deepening into something more profound. How did a noble lady know that? His eyes narrowed further. "And how would you know the symptoms and antidote for a controlled poison, my lady?"
"I am a student of the Academy," I replied, holding his gaze. "My interests include botany and herbology. The properties of Ghost Bloom, from which White Veil is derived, are well-documented in the Royal Archives, albeit as a cautionary tale." It was a thin cover, but it was plausible. The old Rosalind had, in fact, dabbled in pressed flowers. A stretch, but not a break.
A groan, louder and more agonized than before, tore from Cassian's throat. The healer was trying to force a leather strap between his teeth to stop him from swallowing his tongue. "I need the antidote now!" the healer shouted, desperation cracking his professional demeanor. "His heart is straining!"
The captain was torn, his duty bifurcating. Secure the scene and a suspect, or save the Prince's life. The prince's agonized thrashing made the decision for him.
"Get the antidote from the infirmary! Run!" he roared at a junior guardsman, who took off like a shot. He then turned back to me, his jaw tight. "You will not move from this spot. Guards, secure this table. No one touches that cup but the royal physician when he arrives."
Two guards took up positions on either side of our table, effectively making us prisoners. The captain then turned his venom elsewhere. "Who served the Prince's table? Bring me every servant who touched that tea service!"
The focus shifted, a raging river diverted from me to the staff. Servants were being rounded up, their faces pale with terror. I saw the stern-faced woman who had served me being questioned roughly. I saw Gil, the servant with the jade ring, trying to shrink into the shadows by the western entrance, only to be grabbed by a guard.
And I saw Seraphina.
She was no longer a statue. She was in motion, the perfect picture of distressed concern. She had pushed her way to the edge of the circle around Cassian, her hands clasped to her chest, tears—real or masterfully conjured—streaming down her cheeks. "Your Highness! Oh, Saints, someone help him!" she wailed. It was a performance for a new audience: the shocked, leaderless nobility.
Her eyes, red-rimmed and glittering, swept the crowd. They found me and held me, and the hatred there was a palpable force. But then they moved on, searching, calculating. She was rewriting her script in real time.
Prince Lucian, who had been at a distant table, now shouldered his way through the crowd. His face was set in lines of grim concern, but his eyes were sharp, taking in everything: his brother's humiliation, the guards' actions, my detention, and Seraphina's performance. He went straight to the healer. "What do you need?" His voice was calm and practical—a stark contrast to the hysterics around him.
"Space, Your Highness, and the antidote! He must be moved to a quiet place!"
Lucian nodded and began issuing clear, concise orders to the guards, establishing a perimeter, and directing the movement of the Prince. He was a leader emerging in the vacuum of authority. His gaze met mine for a fraction of a second as he organized the grim logistics. There was no warmth in it, but there was an acknowledgment. He knew this was not random. And he knew I was at the heart of the mystery.
As Cassian was carefully, awkwardly lifted by four guards onto a makeshift stretcher made of a tablecloth, his convulsions beginning to slow into violent, intermittent tremors, the royal physician arrived, puffing and carrying a black medical kit. He was followed by the panting guardsman with a small blue bottle from the infirmary.
The physician took one look at the prince, sniffed the air, and grimaced. "White Veil. You," he pointed to the healer, "hold his head. We must get the antidote into him before the spasms lock his esophagus shut."
A brutal medical struggle ensued. It was a far cry from the elegant poisonings of ballads. It was ugly, desperate, and deeply humiliating for the semi-conscious prince. Finally, the physician managed to pour the dark, gritty liquid between Cassian's slack lips.
A hush fell, punctuated only by Cassian's ragged, wet breathing. The violent tremors began to subside, leaving behind a full-body twitching and the awful, vacant slackness in his face. The immediate crisis was passing, leaving a wake of shock and burgeoning fury.
The physician stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth. "He will live. But he will be weak, and his nerves may bear the echo of this for some time. The poison was ingested in the last half-hour. It was in the tea."
The pronouncement was a verdict. All eyes turned to the service table, to the remnants of the gold-rimmed set.
The captain, his face like stone, walked back to our table. The royal physician followed. "This is the cup you identified?" the physician asked the captain.
"It is. Untouched since the alarm."
The physician, a man with a kind face now hardened by grim duty, picked up my poisoned cup with a cloth. He sniffed it, then carefully dipped a clean silver probe into the liquid. He withdrew it, examining the tip. A faint, milky residue clung to the metal. He then produced a small vial of clear reagent from his kit, letting a single drop fall onto the residue.
It turned a sickly, undeniable green.
"Positive for White Veil," the physician announced, his voice heavy.
A collective gasp went up from the nobles who had crowded closer to hear.
The captain turned his iron gaze back to me. The suspicion was now hardened into certainty. "Lady Rosalind Thorne. You are found in possession of the poisoned cup intended for the Crown Prince. You displayed knowledge of the specific poison. You remained calm amidst panic. You will come with me now to answer to the Royal Investigators."
This was it. The moment the original Rosalind had faced. The accusation. The public disgrace.
But I was not her.
I did not cower. I did not weep. I looked past the captain, to the crowd, and found the face I needed.
"Captain," I said, my voice ringing with a clarity that silenced the murmurs. "That cup was placed before me by your servant. But the poison was not intended for me. It was intended for the Crown Prince."
A baffled silence met my words.
"You confess?" the captain asked, incredulous.
"I do not," I said, standing slowly, the guards at my table tensing. "I am telling you that you are looking at the wrong end of the plot. The person who poisoned that cup did so believing it would be served to the prince. They never intended it for me at all." I turned my head, my violet eyes sweeping across the sea of faces until they landed, unerringly, on the pink-clad figure clinging to the edge of the tragedy.
"Isn't that right, Lady Seraphina?"