HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 9: The Bell Toss For The Living

By the fourth hour, the desperate, wet rattling from inside the Crown Prince's chambers finally stopped.

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute, puncturing the freezing gloom of the corridor like a knife. Prince Julian stood just outside the threshold, his fingers twitching against the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He had kept vigil in the adjacent gallery, counting the minutes as the winter storm slammed against the castle walls.

"The music has ended," Julian murmured, turning his gaze toward the Dowager Duchess, who stood beside him like a monument of dark velvet and unyielding ambition.

"Then it is time to raise the curtain on our final act," the Duchess replied, her voice cold and hollow. She gestured sharply to the four heavily armed personal guards standing at the end of the hall. "Summon the Captain of the Guard and the Grand Chancellor. Let the court see the true face of Oakhaven's treachery."

Within minutes, the corridor was alive with the tense, hurried footsteps of the high officials. Grand Chancellor Sterling, an old man wrapped in heavy furs, hurried forward, his face pale with anxiety. "My Prince, Your Grace, what is the meaning of this urgent summons? The storm—"

"The storm is the least of our concerns, Chancellor," Julian interrupted, his voice dropping into a perfectly rehearsed tone of profound grief and boiling rage. "We have just intercepted a terrifying report from the prince’s wing. My brother... Alistair... has taken his final breath."

A collective gasp rippled through the small gathering of lords.

"But that is not all," Julian continued, his eyes darkening dramatically. "We have reason to believe this was no natural end to his illness. The Oakhaven bastard, the girl sent under the guise of a peace treaty, has acted as an assassin. She has poisoned the Crown Prince to fracture our kingdom from within."

"Treason!" one of the lords shouted.

"We must verify this immediately," Chancellor Sterling breathed, his hands trembling.

Julian nodded righteously. "Slide the bolt," he commanded the guard.

The heavy iron bar groaned as it was thrown back. Julian took a deep breath, steeling his expression into one of shattered heartbreak, and threw the massive oak door wide open.

The chamber was freezing, the hearth reduced to a pile of gray, lifeless ash. The rancid smell of vinegar and old copper hung thick in the air.

In the center of the dark room, Evadne was slumped over the edge of the bed. Her dark hair was a tangled veil over her face, her shoulders trembling with silent, exhausted sobs. Her hands were stained with a dark, thick fluid that smeared the white linen sheets.

And there, in the center of the four-poster bed, lay Alistair. His body was completely limp, his head thrown back at an unnatural angle. His skin was the color of winter frost, his eyes tightly closed, and a grotesque streak of blackish liquid was dried across his jaw. He looked entirely devoid of a soul—a hollow shell beaten by a cruel world.

"Step away from the body, assassin!" Julian roared, drawing his broadsword with a resounding metallic ring. He strode into the room, pointing the blade directly at Evadne’s throat.

Evadne gasped, flinching backward into the shadows of the bedpost. She lifted her face, letting the Chancellor and the lords see her red, tear-streaked cheeks and the look of pure, unadulterated terror in her eyes. "I... I didn't do anything! He just... he stopped breathing! The wine... the oatmeal..."

"Silence, southern rat!" the Duchess sneered, stepping into the room alongside the Grand Chancellor. She turned to the Captain of the Guard. "Search her belongings. Search every inch of this wretched cell. Find the weapon she used to murder our prince!"

Two guards immediately descended upon the small, tattered bundle of clothes Evadne had brought from Oakhaven. They ripped the cloth apart, scattering her meager belongings across the stone floor.

With a deliberate, theatrical movement, one of the guards reached into the lining of her spare tunic and pulled out a object wrapped in dark silk. He unrolled it, revealing a tiny, empty glass vial.

"My Lord!" the guard cried out, holding it up for the room to see. "An empty vial of weeping nightshade. The southern poison!"

A roar of condemnation erupted from the lords at the doorway. Chancellor Sterling looked at the vial, then at Evadne, his eyes filled with profound disgust. "A bastard spy indeed. To kill a dying man in his bed... there is no honor in Oakhaven."

Julian stepped closer to Evadne, the tip of his sword hovering inches from her collarbone. The mask of grief on his face shifted for a fraction of a second, letting her see the smug, victorious grin beneath it.

"The evidence is absolute," Julian decreed, his voice booming triumphantly through the frozen chamber. "Evadne of Oakhaven, by the authority of the Regent and the Council of Mournvale, I sentence you to death for the murder of the Crown Prince. Guards, chain her and drag her to the North Tower!"

Evadne lowered her head, her shoulders shaking. To the lords, she looked like a broken girl accepting her demise.

But beneath the shadow of her dark curls, the tears on Evadne’s face had instantly dried. Her lips curved into a cold, lethal, and entirely silent smile.

The vipers had walked right into the center of the web.