HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 8: The quiet Suffocation

The storm had finally arrived.

Outside the high stone walls of Castle Blackthorn, the wind howled like a wounded beast, throwing thick sheets of snow against the narrow glass windows. Inside the solar, the temperature was dropping, but Prince Julian felt a burning, restless heat beneath his skin.

He could not sit still. He paced the length of the obsidian table, his boots clicking in a manic rhythm that was beginning to grate on his aunt’s nerves.

"Sit down, Julian," Dowager Duchess Vane said, her voice sharp as she pulled a thread tight on her embroidery. "A king does not show his hand through impatience. The poison requires time to settle in the lungs."

"It has been three hours," Julian muttered, stopping at the window to look down at the courtyard. The snow was already blanketing the cobblestones, turning the castle into an isolated fortress. "Martha said he drank every drop of the wine. If the Southern merchant did not lie to me, the fluid should be filling his chest by now. He should be drowning in his own bed."

The Duchess set her needle down. A cold, calculating look crossed her face. "Then let us go and hear the music ourselves. A mother’s heart might break at the sound of her son's dying breath, but Alistair is no son of mine. Come."

Julian smiled, a dark, hungry expression. He adjusted his silver-trimmed doublet and followed his aunt out of the solar, flanked by two of their most loyal personal guards.

The corridors of the castle were quiet, the servants having retreated to the lower kitchens to escape the draft. As they descended deeper into the lower levels toward the Crown Prince’s wing, the air grew increasingly frigid.

When they reached the iron-bound door, Julian gestured for the guards to remain a few paces back. He did not want Alistair’s personal watch to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

Julian stepped up to the massive door. He raised a hand, stopping just before knocking as a sound drifted through the heavy oak.

It was a low, ragged sob.

Julian’s eyes lit up with predatory glee. He leaned his ear closer to the wood.

From inside the chamber came the frantic, desperate weeping of the Oakhaven bastard. "Alistair... please, look at me! Breathe! You have to breathe!" Evadne’s voice was hoarse, thick with a terror that sounded beautifully genuine to Julian’s ears.

And then came the sound Julian had waited three years to hear.

It was a wet, agonizing gasp, followed by a violent, choking rattle. It sounded like a man clawing his way out of deep water, his lungs completely saturated, his throat constricting as he fought for a single pocket of air.

Julian reached for the small, sliding iron grate built into the center of the door. He slid it open quietly, pressing his face to the narrow opening to peer into the dim, freezing chamber.

Through the shadows, illuminated only by the dying orange embers of the hearth, Julian saw the perfect execution of his design.

Alistair was thrashing weakly against the heavy furs of his bed. His head was thrown back, the muscles in his neck straining violently as he gasped for breath. His skin was a ghastly, translucent gray, and a dark, thick fluid—looking exactly like the black blood of the curse—spilled from his parted lips, staining his chin and the white linen sheets.

Evadne was on her knees beside him, her hands frantically pressing against his chest, her dark hair wild and tangled. "Someone help!" she cried out to the empty room, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. "Please, someone open the door!"

Julian slid the iron grate shut with a soft, metallic click. He turned to his aunt, his chest swelling with a sense of absolute, unchallenged power.

"He is drowning," Julian whispered, his face glowing with triumph. "The Oakhaven girl is desperately trying to save him, but he won't survive the hour. The nightshade is suffocating him from the inside out."

Duchess Vane closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting out a slow, satisfied breath. When she opened them, the cold calculation had returned. "Perfect. We do not enter yet. If we go in now, she will beg us for a healer, and we cannot risk anyone attempting to purge the poison. We let him choke. We let the girl weep."

"And when the rattle stops?" Julian asked, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

"When the room goes silent, we call the guards," the Duchess decreed, her voice flat and merciless. "We burst in, find the empty vial in her belongings, and arrest her for the murder of the Crown Prince. By tomorrow morning, the council will have no choice but to kneel to you, Julian."

Julian looked back at the iron door, hearing another wet, desperate gasp from his dying brother.

"Let him rot," Julian murmured, a cold sneer warping his handsome face as he turned back toward the solar. "The throne is finally mine."