“He is responsible for my father’s condition,” Theron said flatly. “Zander poisoned him. And he planned to kill me as well.”
Gasps erupted around the circle.
“Zander covets the throne,” he added, voice rising, his words honed like blades. “But you know this. He had help from the Order.”
My blood ran cold.
The crowd splintered again. Not with swords this time, but with questions.
With doubt.
And in my arms, Elara trembled, whispering into my collar.
“He wouldn’t,” she said, so soft only I could hear.
I know,I thought, and held her tighter.
Because no matter what Theron had just said?—
Zander wasn’t the traitor.
But someone close to him was.
Theron stood taller now, feeding off the attention like a man reclaiming his stage. The glint of unease in his eyes was gone, replaced by something colder and controlled. Calculated. As if this had been his true goal all along.
“To those of you who demand proof,” he said, voice echoing across the now-silent Ascension Grounds, “I come prepared.”
From his pocket, he drew a small glass vial, no longer than his finger. The liquid inside wasn’t a color so much as a sickness. A dark, writhing substance that shimmered like oil and pulsed with an unnatural heartbeat.
The vial glowed faintly as he held it aloft.
“This,” Theron said, “was found hidden in a lockbox under Prince Zander’s own bed. A gift, no doubt, from his allies in the shadows.”
He turned deliberately, letting the crowd drink in every word.
“Cyran is the Order leader here in Warriath. You all know of his name, his games. He is Zander’s former confidant. We intercepted secret correspondence between them, hidden in coded script.”
He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his belt, black ink etched in fine, neat strokes, the seal of House Rayne still clinging to the wax like a wound.
“In these letters, Zander requests aid. Not from the crown. Not from the council. But from Cyran. And not just to escape court politics, but to secure military strength.”
The crowd shifted again. Whispers. Tension.
“He also brokered a pact with the Blood Fae.”
A collective gasp rippled through the field.
“He met with them. Accepted their magic. Their blood. And this—” Theron lifted the vial again “—is what remains of their gift. A poison derived from dark magic, designed to slow the heart, dull the mind, and erode the will. It causes hallucinations, paranoia, memory decay. It is meant to turn my father mad.”
His voice dropped to a venomous hush. “And it is coursing through my father’s body as we speak.”
The Ascension Grounds fell deathly still.
Not even the dragons above stirred.
My stomach twisted, cold sweeping through me like shadow. This wasn’t just a political move. This was warfare dressed in the illusion of justice.
In my arms, Elara clutched me tighter, burying her face into my chest as she trembled. “He wouldn’t,” she whispered again, barely audible. “Zander wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t hurt Father.”
