[The Central Prison, Cell 204]
The cell door opened with a metallic groan.
A young guard leaned against the frame, his bangs falling into his eyes. He pinched his nose immediately; the air was heavy, clinging to the back of the throat with the scent of stale sweat and wet metal.
"Logan Valecrest?" the guard asked.
Logan’s mouth opened, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He managed a jerky nod.
"Get up. You're done here."
Logan braced his hands against the floor. He pushed, his arms trembling under his own weight. His knees buckled once against the grit before he finally stood.
Watching him struggle, the guard, Garrett, cleared his throat. "We need to head to His Highness's chambers."
A pause.
Logan, clutching the wall to stay upright, took a deep breath. He nodded to himself once. "I… I see." His lips moved silently. "R… right now?"
"You can take your time," Garrett said, his tone patient. "I am merely here to escort you. Those were the orders."
"Alright... Understood," Logan stammered, looking down at his shackles and wringing his hands until the knuckles turned white. "I... I won't keep him waiting."
Garrett glanced at a paper before turning his attention back to the prisoner. "You must be proud, Disciple Logan. Your testimony helped the Prince greatly in court."
He lowered the paper, shaking his head with a wistful sigh. "Is he giving you a reward? A position in his inner circle? Gods... I’m envious."
Logan's breath hitched. He turned his gaze toward the exit, refusing to meet the guard's eyes. He touched his throat, ghosting over the skin where the Prince had strangled him in court. A flush crept up his collar.
Garrett narrowed his eyes. The keys on his belt ceased jingling as he stopped moving. He tilted his head. "Disciple Logan?"
Logan remained silent, his fingers tracing the contours of his jawline.
"Disciple? What's going on? Are you alright?"
"Ye... yes... I’m fine... I’ll do my best." Logan squeezed his eyes shut. "To serve the Prince properly... in his bedchamber."
Garrett blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open. "What?"
Logan turned his face away entirely.
"Serve him?" Garrett repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. He squinted at the seal on the paper, then back at Logan. He looked completely baffled.
Then, he saw the flush on Logan's neck. He looked at the slender wrists.
'Oh.'
He laughed—a short, sharp bark. He looked from the paper to the prisoner and back again, his eyes widening. "Oh, dear Veyrn... oh gods. I never would have thought."
He hastily closed his mouth, glancing left and right. He lowered his voice, whispering to Logan. "Listen... Sire! You must never say these things aloud. A Prince's secret must be taken to your grave. Understood?"
Logan nodded hastily, his breath hitching audibly.
As the shock faded, it was replaced by something else. Garrett pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle a sound that was half-cough, half-snicker. He leaned in until his breath fogged the air between them. "If that's what the Prince wants..."
He circled Logan. He wasn't looking at a Disciple anymore; he examined him from his bruised knees to his trembling hands.
"I need to clean him up thoroughly," Garrett said, talking more to himself now. "Especially his hands and feet. The Prince deserves perfection."
Garrett’s posture loosened. He hooked a thumb in his belt, a new, heavy amusement settling in his eyes.
"That’s why…" Garrett wheezed, wiping his mouth to hide a grin. "Of course... so, this is what the Prince liked…"
Gesturing for Logan to follow, he turned and began walking. They traveled by carriage to Emerald Castle, then took a side corridor to the Palace guards’ bathing quarters—a simple stone room equipped with wooden tubs and a pump.
Garrett strolled into the room, dipping a hand into the water to gauge the temperature. "Disciple Logan, scrub the filth off your body. Yes, Lord?"
He pointed to the door, his expression calm but his eyes mocking. "I’ll be outside. Once you’re done, I’ll take you to the Prince. You know what to do, right?"
Logan wrapped his arms around his chest, digging his chin into his collarbone. He stared at the grout between the stones, refusing to blink.
"I..." Logan swallowed hard. "I see. In truth... I haven't the faintest clue."
"What did you say?" Garrett's eyes widened again. "No, this won't do..."
He stepped back toward the door, grinning openly now. "First, Sire, wash up. Then, you need to study before I take you to the Prince."
The door closed.
The water was too warm, steam rising in thick plumes, but Logan didn't flinch as he stepped in. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw and pink, watching the gray water swirl down the drain.
'You shall be mine.'
The Prince's words echoed in his mind. Logan sank into the tub until the water covered his chin.
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[Emerald Castle, Crown Prince's Study]
The warm glow of the early morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a gentle light across the room.
"Come in."
The voice, muffled by the heavy mahogany, was distinct enough to make Kaelen pause.
Limon glanced at her once before whispering, "Lady, the Prince is waiting for you." He opened the door for her and stopped at the threshold.
Taking a deep breath, Kaelen stepped inside, her veil brushing softly against her cheeks.
Inside the study, the comforting aroma of aged paper and beeswax filled the air. She spotted a figure standing by the tall window.
A young man, perhaps on the cusp of manhood, stood with his back to them. Tall and still, his coat accentuated broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist.
"Your Highness. Lady Kaelen of the Green Spire," Limon announced, bowing low.
"Thank you, Limon. You are dismissed."
Limon’s hand lingered on the brass knob. He cast a sharp, warning look at Kaelen’s veiled profile before turning his gaze to the Prince’s vulnerable back. He swallowed hard, as if fighting the urge to protest, before finally bowing. "Yes, Your Highness. Please excuse me."
Kaelen’s lips twitched as Limon repeatedly glanced back before shutting the door.
The door closed, sealing her inside. The smirk that had graced her lips vanished, replaced by a look of clinical curiosity. Her eyes turned to the Prince, who was still staring out the window.
Finally, the Prince turned.
Her hand tightened on her dress.
He had a chiseled marble face, standing with a stillness that belonged to a statue, not a seventeen-year-old boy.
But his eyes were the worst. They didn't scan her dress or her figure; they locked onto her pupils and refused to let go.
She bowed. "Greetings, Your Highness."
"Lady Kaelen," Alden said, remaining where he stood. "I hope you had a pleasant stay."
The sound of her name felt oddly intimate. It wasn't loud, but it commandeered the space, vibrating in the hollow of her chest.
Her breath caught, and the playful critique she had been about to utter died in her throat.
She smiled, her eyes curving as she spoke. "The bed here was comfortable enough, Your Highness."
Alden gestured to the high-backed leather chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit."
Kaelen approached the seat and sat down, her gaze returning to the Prince. Alden moved quietly around the desk and took his seat, speaking in a polite tone.
"I appreciate you coming so quickly, Veiled Poison," he began. "The fact that the Green Spire responded to the crown's inquiry with an immediate report is also noted."
With a playful lift of her chin, Kaelen’s words tumbled out.
“It is my honor to serve the Imperial Family," she replied. "However..."
Kaelen hesitated. She rifled through her mental archive—targets, clients, courtiers—seeking a match for those eyes. Nothing. Yet, he looked at her with the weary familiarity of a man who had already had this conversation a dozen times. "Have we met before?" she asked.
Alden paused but didn't reply. With a polite smile, he opened a drawer and picked up a sheaf of papers—the report compiled by Tower Master Torvenn. With a dull thud, he dropped the heavy document onto the desk.
His gaze drifted back to the window. "Tell me, Lady Kaelen. In your professional opinion, if one wanted to induce a state of paralysis that mimics a natural decline in health—gradual, untraceable, and ultimately fatal—would you use any of the forty-two poisons listed in this report?"
Kaelen silently picked up the papers, flipping through the pages before calmly stating, "Please. These are pedestrian toxins. Amateur work," she murmured, smiling gently.
As she flipped to the last page, she finally noticed two green coiling serpents seal—and beneath it, the name Torvenn was inscribed. Her gaze sharpened, and a playful sneer spread across her face.
"This report was handed to you by Torvenn… Why didn’t you ask him directly, Your Highness?" she inquired, leaning back in her chair. "Or was I merely a substitute in whatever game you’re playing?"
Alden didn't reply to her pointed remark. Instead, he met her gaze head-on. "Then what would you use, Veiled Poison?"
Kaelen let out a snort but answered the question. "For what you describe, one would require the Pale-Wind Orchid." Kaelen adjusted her veil. "To find that specific plant, you’d have to cross the border, deep into the sunless crevices of Ravencliff."
Alden began tapping on his desk, his eyes closed. "Ravencliff, you say?"
Kaelen swirled a lock of hair around her finger. "A nasty little parasite. It roots in the wind-tunnels. It doesn't just grow, Highness; it hunts the air."
Alden smiled and tapped the table rhythmically. “In that case, who could have it here?”
Kaelen smirked. "Fresh Orchid wilts in human lands," she noted, tapping her veiled cheek. "So it must be refined at the harvest site—cured, concentrated, and shipped. A vintage that binds to the nerves like rust to iron... To a physician, it looks like an unknown sickness."
Alden nodded. "Is it painful?"
"Anything made of Pale-Wind Orchid would be agony for the victim, not just poison." Kaelen’s voice trailed off. Her gaze snagged on the black silk band pinned to his left sleeve—mourning garb. The symptoms she had just described—the gradual decline, the “unknown sickness”—"The Empress..." she whispered, the words barely audible. "About Her Late Majesty... my condolences."
"Thank you." Alden stopped tapping. "Have you ever made this poison?"
Kaelen paused, her eyes widening. The silk of her veil, once a comfort, suddenly felt like a damp shroud. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. "Your Highness. When would I ever have gone to Ravencliff?"
Alden smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his eyes. "Is that so?"
Feeling the shift in the air, Kaelen sat rigidly on the edge of the cushion.
"Of... of course, Your Highness." Her voice sounded muffled, the words tumbling out like pebbles. Her muscles tensed, her gaze darting to the closed door.
Alden leaned back in his chair. "Good." His lips curved in something resembling a smile, but his eyes were cold as frost.
A stray lock of hair fell over his brow, softening the marble hardness of his face. The sunlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, and for a terrifying second, Kaelen forgot the danger, struck only by the perfect symmetry of his features.
She adjusted her posture, letting the heavy fabric of her dress slip just an inch off her shoulder. She leaned forward, invading his personal space, her voice dropping. "You went to great lengths to bring me here, Prince Alden. A private study? Dismissing your aide?" She fluttered her lashes. "If you needed a consort so badly, you only had to ask."
"You mistake me, Lady Kaelen. I have no need for a consort. I have need of the Veiled Poison. But currently, you are not being very honest with me, are you?"
Kaelen averted her gaze, her weight shifting toward her heels, her body already calculating the distance to the door.
Alden turned back to the window. "Or perhaps you simply can't answer me."
Kaelen’s eyes widened as she realized she was standing on a ledge. She needed to step back swiftly to avoid falling. "Your Highness, I feel quite parched. Wouldn't you serve a cup of tea to your guest?"
Without turning, Alden rang a silver bell. A servant immediately brought tea and left after serving.
The scent hit her first—malty, rich, and unmistakably a high-mountain black tea. Kaelen stiffened. It wasn't just tea; it was a message. She stared at the steaming cup, her smile faltering beneath the silk. "You’ve been thorough," she murmured, her hand hovering over the cup. "I haven't bought this blend since I left my last house."
Leaning closer to the desk, her demeanor shifted. Kaelen ceased her fidgeting. The nervous tremor in her hands vanished instantly. She rested her chin on her interlaced fingers, the submissive act replaced by a predator inspecting her meal.
"We are alone, Your Highness. Your little aide, Limon, is gone," Kaelen purred after finishing her tea. She stood up, the porcelain clinking softly as she placed the cup down.
Alden turned to her, his gaze serene. He simply watched the slow, mocking curve of her lips before ringing the silver bell on his desk once more. Almost immediately, Elara entered.
With her chin tucked to her chest, Elara cleared the porcelain. A gentle smile graced her face as she wiped away a stray droplet of tea from the preparation area.
As she was about to leave, Alden ordered, "Elara, have the hallway cleared."
Elara’s eyes flickered to Kaelen—a brief, knowing glint passing between them—and she whispered, "Yes, Your Highness, I will make sure that no sounds inside can leak."
With a warm, grandmotherly smile, she added, “Have a wonderful time, Your Highness. And my lady.”
The elderly woman departed, giving Alden a final nod before the heavy doors clicked shut behind her.
