The torchlight of the dungeon stretched Alfred's shadow into a twisted crucifix.
Isabella traced the Greek letters etched into the Byzantine coin, even as the stone ceiling echoed with the sound of something heavy being dragged above.
"You always knew Elena was a spy," she said into the darkness.
The silver mask gleamed outside the bars.
"Just as you knew Lily was a Templar agent."
"Then why—"
"Why let Elena try to poison me?"
Alfred tore off the mask. His burned face caught the firelight, warped and waxen.
"Three years ago, the first to discover the iris's toxicity… was your father, the Duke of Winston."
The coin in her hand burned suddenly hot.
Greek letters flickered in firelight and cast shadows across the wall—Προδότης. Traitor.
Exactly the word her Cambridge senior had written in her palm… in blood… the night of the library fire.
The scraping grew louder.
Richard appeared, his cloak scorched, a torn French banner hanging from his scabbard.
"Sire. We found this in Lady Elena's prayer book."
He unrolled the parchment.
Iris poison ink, thorned crest—an exact match for the emblem on Isabella's coin.
Alfred's voice came low, hoarse.
"So… the 'dowry' your father gave every queen… was death in disguise."