Prince Ian led the way through the dim east wing, the air thick with incense and the faint scent of old stone. The passage narrowed as it neared the chapel—a modest sanctum that doubled as the castle's infirmary. Torchlight wavered over walls carved with angels whose faces had long since been blackened by smoke.
Behind him, Sir Cedric Arden advanced with measured precision, boots striking in a steady rhythm. His silver hair and weathered scar lent him the look of a man who had survived ambushes before and expected another tonight.
Alise Vayne kept pace, her long braid brushing against her shoulder like a whip. Her eyes, sharp and pale as winter, scanned every shadow, every corner of the hallway.
Lucian Darvos lingered at the rear, tense and pale, drawn along by grim duty rather than courage.
The heavy wooden door of the chapel stood ajar. Ian glanced at Cedric, and the knight's curt nod was enough—they stepped inside.
The chapel had become a makeshift laboratory: candles burned low, their smoke curling through the dimness, and the smell of herbs clung to the air. At the far end, on a rough pallet, lay the maid. Her body was wrapped in coarse linen, her face waxen and pale, lips blue. There were no bruises, no marks of a struggle—only stillness.
Kneeling nearby, Sister Brunilde stirred a steaming concoction in a small pan, murmuring a prayer under her breath. She looked up, startled by their entrance, wooden spoon shaking in her hands.
Cedric's voice was calm but implacable.
"Tell us what happened, Sister."
The nun's fingers tightened on the spoon.
"She was well last night. But at dawn… something changed. I found her lying in the chapel, eyes open but unseeing. For a moment they glowed… blue, like a jewel. And then—" Her voice cracked. "She stopped breathing."
Alise stepped closer to the pan, inhaling the scent.
"And this?"
"It is a calming draught," Brunilde said quickly. "Her lady-in-waiting gave me the ingredients herself. She said it was to help the princess rest."
Alise's expression hardened.
"Water. Crushed apple seeds. Lily of the valley. Lavender oil. Combined in these proportions?" Her lips curled. "That's not a remedy, Sister. That's poison."
Brunilde blinked, horrified.
"I swear, I didn't know. I only followed her orders."
Ian's voice was cold steel.
"Whose orders?"
"The court lady who attends your consort, my lord," Brunilde whispered. "She told me to prepare it at once. She said it was for the princess herself."
A chill settled in the room.
Ian's ironic smile was colder than steel.
"A cheerful convent of conspirators, then."
He turned to Cedric.
"Add this to today's grievances: any sign of forced entry in the maid's chambers?"
"None, Your Highness. No scratches, no broken locks. Whoever did this had a key—or she trusted them. We'll investigate the concoction and whoever ordered it."
Alise rose, her tone oddly bright. "Well, I suppose the fun is over—Lucian's spiritual retreats are officially canceled."
"They're not spiritual retreats!" Lucian snapped. "I study ancient magics and temporal anomalies!"
"Of course, dear," Alise teased, patting his arm. "Once the paperwork is done, you can bury yourself in dusty tomes again."
A dry cough interrupted them.
Apothecary Master Albrecht stepped forward, a tray of vials clinking softly. "Preliminary analysis, Your Highness," he rasped. "No known poisons—only common sedatives and an unfamiliar pigment that glitters in moonlight."
Ian seized a vial, holding it to the torchlight. The liquid pulsed with a faint cerulean glow. "The same hue I saw at dawn."
He handed it back. "Keep me informed."
As Albrecht withdrew, Lucian leaned closer to the body.
"No poison on her skin. No natural cause of death… How is this possible? We need to investigate further."
Ian nodded, eyes fixed on the glowing vial.
"Cedric, ready a stretcher. Move the body to Lucian's lab. Lucian, you're coming with us. Alise, make sure only trusted hands are involved—no gossips."
They lifted the maid with funeral-like care, torchlight flickering across anxious faces and polished steel. Passing beneath the stained-glass saints of the chapel—witnesses to cruelties worse than this—Ian murmured to Cedric, "If this is a political game, we'll raise enough dust to blind them."
Cedric's stern mouth curved slightly in acknowledgment.
Beside him, Lucian whispered to Alise, "What if this is a warning—a threat against the palace itself?"
Alise linked her arm through his. "Relax, little one. I've got you."
They reached the infirmary door, a slab of oak carved with the word Sanctum. Beyond, healing fires crackled and the scent of herbs hung in the air. A cluster of medics stood around a brazier, straightening at Alise's sharp nod.
Ian's voice brooked no dissent.
"Investigate this death as if your lives depend on it—because they do."
While Cedric positioned the stretcher, Alise watched the nurses scramble for bandages and warm cloths.
"People fall silent when death walks at their heels," she murmured. "Only then do they truly listen."
Ian leaned against the doorframe, hands clasped behind him.
"Alise…"
She turned. "My lord?"
"Come to my office later. I have a task for you. Cedric, you're with me."
His gaze swept the room.
"We have suspects, evidence, a dead maid, and a deadly court lady who tried to kill my wife. Half the puzzle is on the table. We need the rest before someone else goes silent—or I will make sure blood flows."
Sir Cedric fell into step beside him. "And the Council?"
"I'll tell the Emperor a sanitized version: 'The maid succumbed to a rare, chronic illness.' Privately, we'll call this… Chapter One."
Ian's grin was a blade in the gloom. "Every good story begins with a collapse."
♠♠♠♠♠
The arcane chamber greeted Inès with its usual hush—yet tonight the silence felt suffocating. Tendrils of incense coiled through the torchlit gloom like restless spirits, and every rune carved into the marble floor pulsed in rhythm with her racing heart.
At the room's center floated a violet orb, its surface swirling with shifting sigils—an elegant, silent threat. Normally, Inès would have welcomed the challenge. Tonight, the memory of the maid lying lifeless in the east wing gnawed at her resolve.
A distant drip echoed, pulling her from her thoughts. Her fingers itched; she traced the first rune in the air.
"Remember context, not casualties," came a dispassionate voice.
Her breath caught. Her hand faltered. The glyph flickered—and the orb spat a violet spark that hissed across the stone.
"Focus," the Archmage commanded. "One misstep, and we'll be scraping your ambition off the floor." A faint edge of humor laced his warning.
Inès swallowed hard, pressing her palms together as if to smooth away the image of those lifeless eyes.
"Again," he said. The word fell like a gravestone.
She drew in a steadying breath, inhaling the acrid scent of old failures. Chin lifted, she began the incantation anew. Runes flared, weaving in a delicate dance of light. For a heartbeat, hope warmed her chest. Then a crack appeared, spreading until the entire spell collapsed.
The orb detonated. Violet shards burst outward, etching angry scars into the marble and setting scrolls ablaze. Ash drifted like mournful confetti.
Inès staggered back, hands clapped over her ears against the ringing void. Her knees struck the floor with a hollow thud.
"Failure teaches in its own way," the Archmage observed calmly. "You're learning—just not as you hoped."
Flames licked at the hem of her robe. She slapped them out, muttering about his new signature scent: burnt ambition.
Silence reclaimed the chamber. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, promising headaches to come. Inès's chest rose and fell quickly; the maid's hollow plea for water haunted her. Guilt settled cold along her spine.
She knelt, tracing the charred runes with trembling fingertips. In every fracture she saw herself: fear, doubt, compassion—fused into one.
"Stand," the Archmage said, emerging from the haze like a living shadow. His boots clicked on scorched stone. The runes dimmed beneath his gaze, unwilling to glow.
"Every collapse is progress. You felt compassion—that, too, can be a weapon. Next time, wield it."
On trembling legs, she rose. Torchlight flickered over her face, haunted but resolute.
The orb's fragments lay cold and dark, violet stains marking where its power had bled away.
Inès brushed a fingertip across the ash.
"Next time," she whispered—half vow, half prayer.
Beyond the chamber, midnight corridors stretched empty. Each torch along the wall reminded her: magic can save lives—or shatter them. Tonight she had shattered her confidence, but in that ruin lay a blueprint for rebirth.
Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she allowed herself a wry half-smile. Shoulders squared, she stepped into the darkness.
The Archmage's final words followed like a promise:
"Don't worry—marble can always be polished."
From that grim but hopeful truth, she found a spark worth chasing.
♠♠♠♠♠
Late that night, Inès slipped into Prince Ian's study, the door closing softly behind her. He looked up from the scrolls scattered across his desk, eyes bright in the lantern light.
"What a surprise!" he teased. "Do you miss your prince's glamorous company, or have the palace corridors finally grown dull?"
Inès crossed her arms, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Neither. I heard rumors about the maid's case. Care to enlighten me?"
He shook his head.
"Straight to business, as always. Still a mystery. No poison, no wounds—she simply collapsed. And the runes in her blood defy explanation."
Ian leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"Earlier today, Alise caught Sister Brunhilde mixing what I'll charitably call an 'unfortunate brew.' Water, apple seeds, lily of the valley, lavender oil—and just enough of that cerulean pigment to turn a sedative into a death sentence."
Inès shot upright, her chair groaning in protest.
"Me? They meant to kill me?"
"Apparently," Ian said. "Alise almost stopped it in time, but the nun confessed she'd been told the draught was for you—to 'ease your burdens,' as she put it."
Inès raked a hand through her hair, heart pounding.
"So now we have a mysterious death and an attempted assassination. Wonderful."
Ian rose and crossed to her, voice softening.
"You won't face this alone. Starting tomorrow, Alise—cloak, braid, and all—will stand guard outside your chambers. She'll be your shield at court until we at least unravel the assassination attempt."
Inès tilted her head, lips tightening.
"So in addition to being a prisoner in this palace, I now get my own jailer."
His smile was slow and warm.
"Inès, ours may be a marriage of contract, but I'd rather not become a widower. Black doesn't suit me."
Inès smirked. "True. I can't picture you in black. But you could try a black eye—which I'll gladly give you if you keep this up."
Ian laughed, tempted to tease her further but refrained.
"The other night we said we were friends. Trust your friend who wants to keep you alive. It's a small sacrifice, and I'm certain you and Alise will be friends soon enough."
After a moment's thought, she nodded and turned for the door.
The lamplight caught the soft rustle of her nightgown, making the fabric almost translucent as it brushed her skin. Ian's eyes lingered on the cascade of dark curls down her bare back.
When the door clicked shut behind her, he realized that beyond the chaos of his paperwork, he now had a far more personal reason to lie awake all night.