HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 7: The Poisoned Feast

The dark, twisting corridors of Castle Blackthorn felt longer to Martha when she carried the weight of death in her hands.

The silver tray she held was heavy, but the tiny, empty glass vial burning a hole in her apron pocket felt heavier. The weeping nightshade had dissolved beautifully into the spiced mulled wine, leaving nothing but an oily, invisible sheen on the surface, and the thick, honey-sweetened oatmeal masked any lingering bitterness.

She stopped before the massive iron-bound door of the Crown Prince’s chambers. The two guards standing watch looked at her with indifferent eyes. No one cared about the food going into this room; they only cared about the corpse that would eventually come out.

Martha took a deep, steadying breath, nodding to the guard who slid the heavy iron bolt loose.

When she stepped inside, the chill of the room hit her instantly. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of vinegar and old blood. In the center of the dark room sat the massive four-poster bed, and within it lay Alistair. He looked worse than usual. His skin was translucent, almost gray, and his breathing was a ragged, wet rattle that seemed to vibrate the very dust motes in the air.

By his bedside stood the Oakhaven bastard, Evadne, her dark hair tangled, her fingers raw and red from scrubbing.

"The Duchess expects a report on the prince’s condition by noon, girl," Martha said, her voice sharp, deliberately mask-like to hide her racing heart. She walked to the oak table and set the heavy silver tray down with a loud, clattering thud. "Make sure he eats. Or don't. It matters little to the rest of the keep."

Evadne didn't look up, her shoulders hunched in a posture of complete, defeated submission. "I will try," she whispered.

Martha’s eyes narrowed, tracking Evadne’s movements. She remembered the Duchess’s strict instructions: Ensure the Oakhaven girl watches him consume every last drop. Do not leave the door until the tray is completely empty.

"Do not just try," Martha snapped, crossing her arms and leaning against the cold stone wall. "I am ordered to wait and return the empty dishes. The Duchess will not have the palace waste food on a prince who refuses to feed himself. Feed him. Now."

Evadne flinched, then slowly walked to the tray. Martha watched like a hawk as the bastard girl lifted the wooden spoon, scooping a small portion of the warm oatmeal. Evadne sat on the edge of the bed and gently slipped the spoon past Alistair's pale, blood-stained lips.

Alistair swallowed it with a painful, agonizing groan, his body trembling beneath the heavy furs.

"More," Martha ordered coldly.

One spoonful. Two. Three.

With painful slowness, Alistair consumed the oatmeal. Next came the wine. Evadne lifted the heavy silver chalice, tipping the dark, spiced liquid into his mouth. Alistair drank, coughing violently twice, dark drops of the poisoned wine spilling down his chin. But he finished it. Every single drop.

When the chalice was empty, Alistair collapsed back against the pillows, his chest heaving, his amber eyes fluttering shut as if the simple act of eating had drained the last of his fading spirit.

Evadne quietly gathered the dishes, placing them back onto the silver tray. She walked over and handed it to Martha, her head bowed, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

Martha looked down at the clean, empty bowl and the dry chalice. A thrill of dark, cold satisfaction shot through her veins.

"Very good," Martha murmured, a ghost of a sneer playing on her lips. "I shall inform the Duchess that the Crown Prince has eaten... his final meal of the day."

She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind her. The iron bolt slid back into place with a definitive, ringing click.

Up in the solar of the North Tower, Prince Julian did not look up from his maps when the door opened. But the moment Martha stepped inside, carrying the empty tray, he turned slowly, a hungry, predatory look in his eyes.

"Is it done?" Julian demanded.

"Cleaned to the bone, my Lord," Martha said, bowing low. "The prince consumed every drop of the wine and every spoonful of the grain. The Oakhaven bastard fed him herself."

Julian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. He turned to Duchess Vane, who sat quietly by the window, her lips curving into a slow, chilling smile.

"The weeping nightshade takes only hours," the Duchess murmured, her voice smooth and venomous. "By noon, the fluid will choke his lungs. By sunset, Mournvale will have a new king."

Julian walked over to the window, looking out over the courtyard of Castle Blackthorn. The gray clouds were swirling thicker now, bringing the first heavy flakes of the winter storm.

"Let the ice come," Julian whispered, his hands clenching into fists of victory. "Let the mountain passes close. By the time the world wakes up from the freeze, I will be wearing the crown, and the bastard girl will be swinging from the gallows."