Ophelia Ashvale's POV
The second night in the tower, Ophelia woke to the sound of paper sliding across stone.
She jolted upright, her heart hammering. For a moment, she thought it was the Duke returning—coming to make good on his earlier threat about needing her strength. But the room was empty. Silent except for her own ragged breathing.
She slid out of bed carefully, bare feet cold against the stone floor.
Under the door, barely visible in the darkness, was a corner of white parchment.
Ophelia's mind screamed danger. This was a trap. This was a test. This was something designed to hurt her. She knew this with absolute certainty.
She retrieved the note anyway.
The handwriting was small, precise, written in a shaking hand: The wine at dinner tomorrow will be poisoned. Do not drink it. —Whisper
Ophelia's hands began to shake so badly she nearly dropped the paper.
Poisoned wine. At dinner. Which meant the Duke was planning to kill her tomorrow instead of waiting for the wedding. Which meant she had hours—maybe less—before he ended her life.
She wanted to scream. Wanted to pound on the door and demand answers. Instead, she forced herself to think. Think like she'd learned to think in the slums—strategically, carefully, with an understanding that one wrong move meant death.
Someone had sent this warning. Someone inside the fortress knew about the poison. Someone was trying to save her.
Or it was a trap designed by the Duke to see if she would panic, if she would break, if she would give him reason to execute her now instead of later.
Either way, there was only one thing to do: survive dinner.
The day dragged with agonizing slowness.
Servants brought breakfast, which she couldn't eat. She tried to read, but the words swam meaninglessly across pages. She paced the tower room until her feet ached, searching for weapons, for escape routes, for anything that might help her survive what was coming.
By late afternoon, servants arrived with a gown.
It was beautiful—white silk with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice, and it marked her as a bride. A sacrifice. Something being prepared for slaughter.
She dressed numbly, letting servants style her hair, apply cosmetics to her pale face. They treated her with a strange gentleness, like she was already half-ghost.
Around sunset, guards came to escort her to the great hall.
The fortress revealed itself as she moved through corridors lit by torches—vast and cold and filled with shadows. Other servants watched her pass. Soldiers stood at attention. Everyone knew what she was walking toward. Everyone knew that tomorrow she would be different.
Or wouldn't be at all.
The great hall was enormous, with a table long enough to seat a hundred people. But only two places were set—one at the head of the table, one halfway down.
The Duke waited, still masked, still cold, still terrifying in his absolute stillness.
He didn't greet her. He just watched as guards seated her, as servants began bringing food.
Wine was poured.
A deep red wine, dark as blood, filling her glass until it was nearly full. The servant who poured it wouldn't meet her eyes.
Ophelia stared at the glass.
The Duke watched her watching it.
If she didn't drink, she would reveal that she knew about the poison. If she did drink, she would die. If she refused, he would know someone had warned her. If she accepted, she would be his victim.
There was no winning move. Only survival.
"You're trembling," the Duke observed. His voice was conversational, almost kind. Almost interested.
"I'm frightened," she admitted. There was no point in lying.
"Of the wine?"
"Of many things."
A long silence. Then he reached for his own glass and took a slow sip.
"The wine is excellent," he said, and set the glass down. He watched her expectantly.
She could poison herself. Could choose death on her own terms rather than his. Could drink and be done with the terror and the uncertainty and the horrible, waiting dread.
Instead, she deliberately reached over and knocked her glass straight into her lap.
Wine soaked into the white gown, staining it red like blood, spreading across the silk like a prophecy.
"Oh!" she gasped, standing quickly. "I'm so clumsy. I'm sorry, I—"
"It's fine," the Duke said, and something flickered across his face. Was it satisfaction? "Guards. Take her back to the tower. Find her another gown."
As the guards escorted her from the hall, she felt his eyes on her back. Watching. Assessing. Wondering.
She'd passed his test.
Or she'd failed spectacularly.
And as she was locked back in her tower room hours later, still trembling, still alive, Ophelia realized the terrible truth:
Someone in this fortress cared if she lived or died.
Someone was watching.
And she had no idea who, or why, or what they wanted from her.