Sabine’s mark went cold beneath her sleeve.
“Brinna drank a temple cordial,” she said.
“Allegedly intended for you.”
“You think I drugged another bride and forged my own escape letter?”
“I think instability frequently takes forms the unstable do not recognize in themselves.”
Lysa made a small sound from behind the guard.
Sabine did not turn.
She kept her eyes on Maelor.
“You are very eager to diagnose me before Physician Tal names what was in that cup.”
“I am eager to preserve the rite.”
“No,” Sabine said. “You are eager to preserve your version of it.”
The room went still.
Maelor smiled.
Not widely.
Just enough to show her he had heard the accusation beneath the words.
Corvek stepped between them with the weary authority of a man who hated disorder more than injustice.
“Until review is complete, Lady Sabine will remain under secured bride wing custody.”
“No,” said Lucien from the doorway.
He had arrived without noise.
No dramatic entrance. No raised voice.
One moment Maelor held the room, and the next Lucien stood in the threshold with two royal guards behind him and a face so cold the chamber seemed to lose heat.
He looked first at the broken cup.
Then at the forged page in Heskar’s hand.
Then at Sabine.
His eyes did not soften.
That frightened her more than tenderness would have.
“Who authorized the seal?” he asked.
Heskar straightened. “I did, Your Highness, under emergency trial authority.”
“Who prepared the cordial?”
“Kitchen staff, delivered through bride wing service.”
