POISON IN THE RICE
450 Words
The first assassination attempt came quietly.
There were no masked intruders scaling palace walls. No clashing steel in the corridors. No dramatic warnings shouted across courtyards.
Just a bowl of rice.
It was placed before the king with practiced precision, steam rising gently into the air. The grains were perfectly shaped, glistening faintly beneath the lantern light. To anyone else, it looked ordinary. Ritualistic. Harmless.
But Ara had learned to trust more than sight.
She had learned to trust scent.
As the bowl was set down, something pricked at her senses. A note too sharp beneath the warmth of freshly steamed rice. Too sweet. Too bitter. Subtle enough to evade suspicion, but wrong.
Her body reacted before her thoughts did.
Just as the king lifted his spoon, her hand shot forward.
The bowl flew from his grip.
Porcelain struck stone with a violent c***k, shards scattering across the polished floor. The rice spread in a pale ruin, steam dissipating into cold air.
For a single suspended second, no one moved.
Then chaos erupted.
Guards drew their swords in unison, steel flashing. Servants dropped to their knees. Ministers shouted accusations, eyes scanning for invisible enemies.
The king rose slowly from his seat, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding instant silence.
The chamber was cleared within moments.
When the doors finally slid shut, the echo of panic lingered like smoke.
He turned to her.
You risked your life, he said quietly.
There was no anger in his tone. Only realization.
Ara’s hands trembled now that the danger had passed.
I tasted almonds, she whispered. Not from the kitchen.
It was faint. Almost hidden. But she had studied every ingredient that passed through the royal stores. Bitter almond did not belong in plain rice.
Understanding settled into his features.
Poison.
Not enough to be obvious. Enough to weaken. To sicken slowly. To make his decline appear natural.
He stepped toward her and cupped her face in his hands. Not gently. Not delicately. His grip was firm, grounding, fierce with restrained emotion.
Do you understand, he asked, voice rougher than she had ever heard it. They will not stop.
The court had crossed a line. This was no longer whispers or scandal. It was an open attempt on the throne.
She lifted her chin and held his gaze without flinching.
Neither will I.
The silence between them shifted.
This was no longer simply about love.
It was about survival.
And from that night forward, every meal became a battleground, every corridor a calculated risk. But she did not step back.
If they intended to starve the king into silence again, they would have to face the woman who had restored his hunger first.
- Writer
