“However,” he says, his tone sharpening, “with every competition comes challenges…and betrayals. It has become clear that not everyone holds the tradition of the trials in the high regard it deserves.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words linger in the air. His piercing gaze sweeps over the competitors before finally locking on to me. My heart pounds, each beat pressing against my ribs like a warning.
“As you all know, Princess Aella nearly succumbed to poison during the second trial,” he says, his voice calm yet cutting. A wave of gasps and murmurs ripples through the crowd at the confirmation. He waits for the whispers to die before continuing, “But let me make one thing perfectly clear—this was not a test. This was not part of my design. This was someone else attempting to twist the odds in their own favor.”
The room stiffens with tension, breaths held in anticipation.
“Fortunately, there are still those among the competitors who possess honor, who respect the will of their prince.” Keres delivers his next words with finality, each syllable falling like a hammer. “These are my trials. I alone will decide who lives and who dies.”
A hush blankets the hall, the air thick with dread and unspoken tension, every creak and whisper amplified in the silence. Even the flickering auras seem hesitant to disturb the moment. Across from me, Helen’s vacant gaze is on her plate, her hands clutching the edge of the table as if it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. My eyes narrow as Lydia smirks, her lips curling ever so slightly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as if she’s savoring a private victory.
“Lady Helen of Pyrene,” Prince Keres commands, “stand.”
Helen’s head snaps up, shock and fear painted across her face. She rises from her seat, her legs trembling as she faces the prince.
“You were witnessed committing treason against two crowns,” he states, his voice cold and unyielding. “And for that, I have a fitting punishment.”
Helen’s eyes dart around the room, desperate for a glimmer ofsupport or even the faintest trace of sympathy. But the crowd remains silent, their gazes fixed on her with a mix of morbid curiosity and cold detachment, as though watching a tragedy unfold in real time.
From the shadows, a servant moves forward. In his hands, he carries a cup, holding it at a careful distance from his body as though it contains something dangerous. He halts in front of her and offers the cup, his expression unreadable and eyes downcast.
Helen’s gaze drops to the vessel, dread twisting her features. She looks back to Keres, her voice trembling with raw desperation. “Please, my prince,” she pleads, “it wasn’t—”
“Drink,” Keres commands, his voice sharp and unyielding, slicing through her protest like a blade.
My stomach twists with the weight of realization.
A cruel, poetic punishment—nightshade.
I can’t tell if this spectacle is supposed to make me feel a sense of justice, but as Helen’s desperate pleas fill the air, all I feel is revulsion.
“Drink.”
Tears streaming down her face, Helen reaches for the cup and obeys.
A drop of dark purple liquid trails down her face, and I thank the Gods that the dose of poison is potent enough for a swift ending. But, as the seconds stretch on and Helen remains standing, it’s clear that is far from true.
Did they give her a diluted dose? Or is this yet another form of cruelty—a slow, agonizing death, sip by sip, until the poison takes hold?
I watch in growing dread as Helen’s body convulses, her eyes rolling back as she collapses to the floor. Gasps ripple through the crowd; some avert their eyes, unable to stomach the horrific scene.
Revulsion churns deep within my gut, threatening to overwhelm the mask of calm I’ve fought to maintain. Helen is not innocent, but this…this is brutal.
They didn’t give her a chance. No defense.
No mercy.
Still, it isn’t sympathy for Helen that roots me in icy stillness—it’s calculation. Having her punished so publicly is a deliberate message, adeclaration of Prince Keres’s control over this twisted game and a warning to us all. The spectators may murmur shock and horror, but the message isn’t meant for them.
No, it’s meant forus.The competitors.
The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a jagged shudder as Helen’s convulsions are silenced by death’s final grip. Dozens of eyes turn to Keres, their expressions a wash of shock, blank indifference, or veiled glee at his display of control. None of it matches the burning ache in my chest, the weight pressing against my ribs, reducing my breaths to shallow gasps.
I want to slink into the shadows and bow my head, but Nyssa lingers behind me, and I can feel the heat of her presence tethering me to reality. No one else shudders at the stink of death lingering on the air. No one else feels the terror seeping in through the marble floor.
Perhaps it should’ve been more sinister—more righteous—my feelings toward Helen. After all, she poisoned me, deceived me. But as I glance at her slackened face, her trembling form now utterly still, I realize how thin the line between predator and prey truly is in this court.
Keres is not a prince. He is a monster tamed only by his own whims. And the rest of us are merely scrabbling for scraps of his approval, hoping his gaze will pass over without that twisted gleam of sadistic amusement.
