Queen Valerie was now in her private study, the echoes of the successful state dinner fading as its lengthy proceedings finally concluded. She had presided over the evening with her usual dignity, engaging with dignitaries and local nobles alike, though a visible weariness had settled upon her by its close.
Lord Ainsworth, her half-brother, had been particularly attentive during the dinner, his handsome face a mask of solicitous concern, frequently inquiring after her well-being and offering charming anecdotes that drew polite laughter. To the untrained eye, he was the devoted younger sibling. Only those who knew him well, like Sylvia and Clara, might have caught the predatory gleam that occasionally flickered in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.
Ainsworth had been planning this for months, years even. He was, by blood, an heir. But Valerie was beloved, her claim strong, her rule just. No faction of note supported his own aspirations; they saw him as charmingly indolent at best, dangerously ambitious at worst. He knew he could never win the throne through popular support or political maneuvering. So, he'd cultivated a different path – one paved with shadows and whispers. His "secret order" was less a grand conspiracy and more a handful of desperate, greedy men bound to him by coin and promises of power once he was king.
Later that night, long after the last guest had departed and an illusion of quiet had settled over Eldoria Castle, Ainsworth met with a lean, cloaked figure in a disused alcove overlooking the moonlit training grounds. The air was cool, but a feverish anticipation burned within him.
"Is everything in place?" Ainsworth murmured, his voice a low hiss, betraying none of the triumph he felt coiling in his gut.
"Years. I have waited years for this night, for the pieces to align. Every sycophantic smile, every feigned deference to her 'wisdom'… all leading to this. Do not disappoint me."
The figure nodded, a mere shadow beneath its hood. "The diversion is set for the third bell. The target's wing will be… accessible. As we discussed. The payment?"
Ainsworth's lips curled. "Impatient? Good. A hungry wolf is a keen wolf." He pressed a heavy purse into the assassin's waiting hand.
"As agreed. And for this sum, I expect perfection. Clean. Quiet. No fumbling, no premature alarms raised by clumsy work. My sister… she plays the benevolent monarch so well, doesn't she? So beloved by the sentimental fools who cannot see past the gentle facade to the steel beneath, the steel that keeps me from my birthright. Any hint of my involvement before I am secure on that throne, and all this delicate planning turns to ash. Understand the stakes?"
The assassin's head tilted slightly, a silent affirmation.
"Her precious Royal Guard will be chasing phantoms in the kitchens, thanks to your little distraction," Ainsworth continued, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"That is your part. Mine is to play the grieving brother, to feign shock, to mourn her 'tragic, untimely demise,' and then, with great, feigned reluctance, of course, accept the burden of the crown. Ensure your work is thorough. The poison must be absolute. I want no lingering doubts, no miraculous recoveries whispered in the halls by hopeful idiots."
"When the sun rises, Eldoria must have lost a queen, and be ready to welcome a king who understands true power, not one who coddles peasants. Fail, and your shadow will haunt no one else, I promise you that. Succeed, and there will be more coin than you've seen in a lifetime, perhaps even a permanent, lucrative place for someone of your… particular talents, in my new order."
Another nod, more definite this time. "It will be done. To your satisfaction." The assassin melted back into the deeper shadows, gone as silently as a breath.
Ainsworth allowed himself a small, cold smile, wider this time. Soon. Very soon, the kingdom would be his. The thought sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure down his spine.
Inside her study, Valerie, true to her word to herself, had returned to her desk. The soft glow of an oil lamp illuminated the parchments. She'd changed into a simpler night robe, her hair unbound and falling around her shoulders. A yawn escaped her. Perhaps Sylvia and Clara were right. She was pushing herself too hard.
She had been focused on her work, the silence of her study broken only by the rustle of parchment. Then, shattering the late-night stillness, a sudden cacophony erupted from the direction of the servants' quarters and kitchens – shouts, the crash of breaking pottery, a woman's scream. Then, a panicked cry of "Fire! Fire in the west kitchens!"
Valerie frowned, rising. Another incident? The castle staff had been on edge all day with the festivities.
The noise grew, a deliberate chaos. Guards who should have been patrolling her corridor could be heard thundering down the hallways, their voices calling out as they rushed towards the supposed emergency. Maids, usually discreet, scurried past her wing, their faces pale with alarm. Ainsworth's masterstroke: a staged brawl escalating into a false fire alarm, designed to draw every pair of eyes and every available hand away from the Queen's chambers.
Valerie rose from her desk, her frown deepening, and took a few steps towards her study door, intending to call out or see if a senior guard remained. It was then that a faint scrape from one of the tall arched windows startled her – a sound like metal on stone, quickly muffled. The windows, usually latched securely from within, overlooked the darkened west gardens. She turned from her path to the door, her head tilting, a sudden, sharp flicker of unease piercing her weariness.
Before she could speak or react, a dark figure vaulted with terrifying agility through the now-open window, landing silently on the rug inside. Fast. Silent.
A glint of steel in the lamplight.
Valerie gasped, her hand flying to her chest, but it was too late. A searing, unimaginable pain ripped through her side. Her breath hitched. She stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief, staring at the dark-robed assassin who was already retreating, launching himself back out the open window with the same preternatural silence as he'd come.
The world began to tilt. The lamplight swam, blurring into streaks of gold. The pain was a monstrous, consuming fire. She pressed a hand to her side, feeling the warm, sticky wetness of her own blood. Her knees buckled.
"Guards…" she tried to call, but it was a mere whisper, lost in the ringing in her ears. She saw the intricate patterns of the rug rushing up to meet her. Darkness clawed at the edges of her vision.
A young maid, Lena, who had been tasked with bringing the Queen a final cup of calming tea and had bravely decided to ignore the distant commotion to fulfill her duty, pushed open the study door. "Your Majesty, I brought your…"
The tray clattered to the floor, porcelain shattering. Lena's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes saucers of pure horror. "Your Majesty! Oh, no!"
She rushed to Valerie's side, dropping to her knees. "Queen Valerie! Speak to me!"
Valerie's eyelids fluttered. She tried to focus on Lena's terrified face, but it was like looking through water.
"Help!" Lena shrieked, her voice cracking. "GUARDS! PHYSICIAN! HELP THE QUEEN!"
She fumbled with the fabric of Valerie's robe, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was too much, too fast.
The alarm, already partially raised by the false fire, now took on a new, frantic urgency. Lena's screams, raw and piercing, ripped through the air.
"Help! Help her! The Queen! The Queen is attacked! She's bleeding! Someone, please! GUARDS! PHYSICIAN! HELP THE QUEEN! She's dying! Hurry!"
Her cries echoed down the suddenly less-empty corridors as a few guards, realizing the earlier commotion might have been a ruse, began to return, their boots pounding on the stone.
Sylvia had been nearing the castle's outer gates, the moonstone locket a heavy weight in her pocket and her thoughts, when the first shouts of "Fire!" from the initial diversion reached her. Her heart lurched; concern for Valerie immediately overriding her intention to seek solace in the city. She turned back, her pace quickening towards the royal wing.
Meanwhile, Clara, in her tower chambers, had felt a sudden, sickening lurch in the magical currents, a premonition so dark it chilled her to the bone, coinciding with the eruption of chaos. Abandoning her nightly observations, she too had begun to make her way back towards the Queen's chambers, an unnamed dread propelling her forward.
The Royal Physician, a portly, balding man named Alaric, arrived moments later, breathless, his bag thumping against his leg. He took one look at the Queen, the paleness of her skin, the shallow breaths, the spreading crimson stain, and his face went grim.
"Clear the room!" he barked at the gathering guards and servants. "Give her air! Someone fetch my emergency satchel, now!"
He knelt, his experienced hands probing gently. "The dagger was poisoned," he muttered, more to himself, seeing the faint, unnatural discoloration around the wound. "A fast-acting toxin."
Sylvia and Clara burst into the room then, their faces etched with terror, having heard Lena's specific, horrifying cries.
"Valerie!" Sylvia cried, pushing past a guard.
Clara was already at Valerie's other side, her hand instinctively going to the Queen's forehead, her own magic flaring uselessly against such a physical, venomous assault.
"What happened?" Sylvia demanded, her voice shaking as she stared at the physician.
Physician Alaric looked up, his eyes filled with a grim certainty that struck a cold dread into their hearts. "The wound itself is grievous, Duchess. But the poison… it is too advanced. She breathes, but… it is a matter of hours, perhaps less."
Sylvia swayed, her hand flying to her mouth, a choked sob escaping. "No… No, it cannot end like this. There has to be a way."