The walk from the Imperial bedchamber to the Royal Apothecary was not a walk of state; it was a tense, silent march against the clock and againstt the abyss of suspicion. The labyrinthine hallways of the palace, usually teeming with bowing courtiers and hushed intrigue, were unnaturally empty, secured by Kaelen's order. Seraphina moved swiftly, though the satin nightgown was an absurd hindrance and her inherited body was heavy with shock.
Kaelen followed so closely that Seraphina could feel the warmth radiating from his body, a paradox against the glacial coldness of his demeanor. His presence was a palpable physical threat—a lethal shadow less than a foot behind her. She kept her composure rigorously controlled, every step measured, though the [DEATH TIMER: T-minus 00:52:00] flashing in the upper corner of her vision screamed at her to break into a panicked, frantic sprint.
The moment they reached the Apothecary wing, Seraphina inhaled deeply, recognizing the subtle, complex blend of scents: dried herbs, ionized metals, and the distinct, earthy smell of preserved organic matter. It was the scent of a working laboratory, and despite the archaic setting, it brought a profound sense of familiarity and and focus.
She pushed open the heavy mahogany door. The room was a dizzying array of clinical chaos: shelves stacked impossibly high with glass jars containing powders of every color, mysterious dried roots, and strange, luminous plants sealed in specialized crystalline containers.
"The Moonpetal," she muttered, the professional jargon replacing the courtly tone as she scanned the highest, most secured shelves. "It's a neuro-regulator; they'll keep it with the most volatile compounds."
She moved past jars of common curatives and well-known pain relievers, her eyes tracking the labels only she could read based on the novel's descriptions of arcane botany. Finally, tucked into a niche protected by a minor heat-retention spell, she found the jar: a single, exquisite, luminescent blue flower, pulsating with faint, internal light.
Kaelen watched her every move, his posture rigid, his sapphire eyes darting between her hands and the surrounding environment. His own breathing was becoming noticeably shallow, a small, audible rasp that signaled the onset of respiratory distress. His hand never once left the sword pommel, a silent, silver-tipped promise of swift execution.
"You seem quite unnaturally familiar with this room, Seraphina," he commented, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. "A woman who spends her time at balls and dress fittings should not be able to navigate the Imperial Arcanum's deepest reserves with the speed of a Master Apothecary."
Seraphina carefully retrieved the jar, her focus absolute. "I read a great deal, Your Highness. Particularly about poisons and their countermeasures, as I knew my political accusers would naturally assume my expertise lay in that area," she retorted, not looking away from her task. It was a half-truth—the original Seraphina was fascinated by toxic compounds—and one that was strategically useful, positioning her as knowledgeable rather than magical.
She located a specialized onyx mortar and crystalline pestle, specifically designed for grinding magically potent herbs without dissipating their essence. With practiced, economical movements, she extracted the single Moonpetal, its light dimming slightly as it left its protective containerr, and began the delicate, rhythmic process of grinding it into a fine, iridescent dust.
"Now, the second component," Seraphina said, her voice taut with concentration. "The Cave Viper venom. It's classified as a military-grade counter-agent, so it will be in the highly controlled, sealed, stone cabinet." She moved toward a massive, heavy-set cabinet carved from black granite, sealed not only with a heavy iron lock but also with a faint, shimmering arcane ward.
Kaelen's movement was swift and powerful despite his collapsing physique. He stopped her with a restraining hand clamped firmly on her shoulder—a touch that felt less like a grasp and more like a brand of ice and iron. The pain from his touch was sharper than the dull ache of her headache.
"How did you know the combination lock to that cabinet?" Kaelen's voice was strained, a low snarl of profound distrust. "That seal is changed weekly. Only my father, my mother's former physician, and I know the code."
Seraphina froze beneath his grasp. The original Seraphina had probably used arcane trickery or blackmail to learn the code. Eleanor had simply remembered the obscure piece of trivia from the novel's exposition. Revealing her knowledge now was the ultimate risk: it would prove her intelligence and access, but confirm she was hiding a profound, dangerous secret.
Seraphina did not flinch, but she stared pointedly at Kaelen's hand on her shoulder, forcing him to acknowledge the violation of her space.
"The number is 7-4-1, Your Highness," Seraphina stated, the numbers themselves ringing with a chilling finality. She paused, letting the numbers sink in, before delivering the killing blow to his suspicion. "It is the date—the day and month—of your mother's death. The late Empress's passing."
Her voice was surprisingly soft, devoid of triumph or malice, laced instead with a subtle, unexpected thread of human empathy. "It was the one thing your father, the late Emperor, truly locked away in this Apothecary. He did not want to touch that grief again, even for medicine, and he made the code a direct, painful reminder of the ultimate loss. It is a lock, not against thieves, but against the weakness of sentimentality."
Kaelen's eyes widened fractionally, a minuscule but monumental crack in his mask of contempt. That was the correct code. No one outside the innermost circle of the Imperial family was supposed to know that, and certainly not the flighty, ambitious fiancé he despised. His paranoia suggested black magic; his political mind suggested deep-seated espionage. But his heart, touched by the sudden, painful recognition of his father's hidden grief, simply felt exposed. She had correctly identified the emotional core of his most private defense. She is using emotional manipulation, a detached part of his mind screamed. But the code is correct.
He snatched his hand back as if burned, the warmth of his hand replaced by an icy, self-imposed distance. "Open it," he commanded, his voice raw.
Seraphina turned and, with steady hands, pressed the sequence 7-4-1 into the ornate mechanism. The arcane ward dissolved with a faint whisper of displaced air, and the lock clicked open.
Inside, protected by layers of velvet and crystalline insulation, was a small, sealed vial of clear, viscous liquid. She quickly extracted the vial, placing it on a clean, steel mixing plate she had prepared. With precise, deliberate movements, she used a pipette to draw exactly two droplets of the highly potent venom onto the plate.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, she added the finely ground Moonpetal paste, mixing the concoction with the pestle. She worked with the quiet, intense concentration of a surgeon suturing a major artery, focusing entirely on the ratio and emulsification of the two potent agents. The final product was a thin, iridescent purple paste, slightly thicker than ink. She spread it thinly onto a small piece of plain, rough-hewn bread—the only ingestible item on the nearby sample table.
She turned, holding the bread out to him.
"Eat this," she said, her voice devoid of inflection.
Kaelen looked at the small piece of bread, then at the iridescent paste, then back at Seraphina. The suspicion was so thick now it was almost tangible, a choking presence in the chamber. He was a man who lived and breathed in a world of treachery, and she was asking him to accept death on a piece of stolen bread.
"You expect me to ingest a paste made with viper venom, mixed by the woman who less than twenty-four hours ago was revealed as my poisoner?" he scoffed, his jaw clenching.
"You will die in forty-five minutes if you don't," Seraphina stated simply, her eyes boring into his. She made no attempt to defend herself with words, only with action.
She pulled a small, ceremonial letter opener—the only sharp object available—from the table and sliced a tiny sliver of the bread, smaller than her pinkie nail. She lifted it to her own lips without hesitation and swallowed it in a single, rough gulp.
She held out her empty hands. "There. The poison you have is slow-acting, affecting the neuro-system. This counter-agent is fast-acting. If this is a secondary poison, the reaction will be immediate and catastrophic. I have already been partially poisoned by the residual silver-fungus complex in the air. Whatever happens to me will happen to you, Your Highness, only I will have a slightly delayed, but guaranteed, reaction to my own demise."
Kaelen hesitated for only a second more. But the room was beginning to spin in earnest, the precise crystalline edges of the Apothecary blurring into an indistinct haze. His throat felt tight, a classic sign of the impending seizure. He could feel the cold, clammy onset of death.
He snatched the bread from her hand, the movement quick and desperate, and swallowed it in one sharp, agonizing gulp, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for the betrayal that was supposed to follow.