The banquet hall glittered with candlelight, gold plates, and false smiles. The king had called it a gesture of diplomacy—a feast to welcome the envoys from the Eastern Isles and remind the court of Halden’s elegance.
Elowen wore a gown of dark amethyst, the sleeves embroidered with silver leaves, and her hair was pinned with the quiet authority of someone who no longer needed to prove her place.
But when she entered the great hall and saw her name etched beside a noble crest she knew too well, her stomach tightened. They had seated her beside Lord Brivan, a vassal of House Veymar, his expression smug beneath a glinting brooch shaped like a lion’s fang.
Elowen offered him a nod—cool, graceful, unshaken. Her smile was the kind that dared you to question her place at the table. Thin as silk. Sharp as glass.
She sat without a rustle, posture perfect, spine straight as a blade. The music swelled, rising above the clink of goblets and murmurs of velvet-coated nobility.
Servants drifted in and out like smoke—silent, watchful, trained to vanish between glances.
A goblet was placed beside her hand—golden, ornate, weightier than her usual one. She lifted it, tilting it slightly. The wine inside shimmered a deeper red, almost syrupy, with a scent that curled too quickly up her nose.
“Spiced,” she murmured under her breath. “And not the kitchen’s usual blend.”
She sipped. It wasn’t unpleasant. But it lingered on her tongue—too sweet. Cloying. Like something trying too hard to charm.
Across the table, Lord Brivan droned on about grain tariffs and trade disruptions in the southern ports. His voice carried all the urgency of a man reading out a laundry list.
“And of course,” he said, swirling his cup, “the coastal lords insist their storm losses should earn them more than pity—absurd, really. The sea’s always eaten ships.”
Elowen offered a polite hum, though her eyes stayed on the rim of her goblet.
She drank again. Slower. Her gaze swept the table. Nothing amiss. No one is watching too closely. But then—something shifted.
A sharp pull in her chest. Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate. Her breath hitched.
She blinked. The edges of the world tilted. The chandelier above—the one she’d seen a hundred times—fractured into light, its crystals spinning into stars. Her throat tightened.
“Elowen?” someone asked, but the voice was stretched, distant, distorted like sound underwater.
She tried to rise. Her chair scraped, but her legs didn’t follow. They buckled beneath her.
“Elowen!”
She sank back, heart pounding in panic. The music twisted, no longer a waltz but a wailing echo. Her fingers curled around the tablecloth as the hum of voices around her blurred into a single, low throb.
“Get the physician!” another voice shouted, sharper this time.
She gasped, her lips parting for air that felt thick as oil. Her goblet toppled, crimson wine spilling across white linen like blood.
And then darkness pressed in at the edges, slow but certain.
She was falling, even while sitting still.
Across the hall, Cillian had been standing by the arched doors, watching with the distant focus of a guard forced to stay still.
But the moment her head dipped, his body moved. He didn’t shout. He crossed the hall in seconds, ignoring the startled looks and half-risen nobles.
Elowen’s chair had just tipped when his arms caught her.
“Elowen,” he said, kneeling beside her, his voice low and urgent. “Look at me. Stay with me.”
But her eyes were wide and unseeing. The hall erupted in chaos.
Chairs scraped back. Ladies screamed. The king stood in a heartbeat, his voice cutting through the room like a sword drawn without sheath.
“Clear the hall,” he ordered. “Now.”
The music died mid-note. Servants froze. The Eastern envoys looked on with unreadable expressions.
But it was King Ronan’s fury that silenced even the whispers. “Bring the steward. Bring everyone who touched the wine.”
Cillian laid Elowen gently on the floor, cradling her head in his hands as he scanned the table.
His mind raced, every instinct sharpened. Her pulse was faint but steady, her lips tinged slightly at the corners. It was the wine—he was sure of it.
He rose without waiting for permission and stormed into the hallway, grabbing the nearest servant by the collar.
“Who poured it?” he demanded. “Her cup. Who touched her wine?”
The servant trembled but pointed to the younger boy beside him, wide-eyed and pale, who clutched a silver tray to his chest like a shield.
When Cillian cornered him, the boy’s hands shook and his words tumbled out. “I—I was told to! He gave me a coin—he said it was a gift, a blend from the Eastern Isles. I didn’t know—please!”
“Who?” Cillian growled.
“Lord Brivan’s man!” the boy stammered. “The bannerman with the scar!”
Within moments, guards had seized the Veymar noble, who protested loudly until he saw the king’s face and went silent.
The bannerman was dragged into the hall, blood already on his lip, and thrown before the king’s feet. King Ronan didn’t blink.
“If she dies,” he said, voice deadly calm, “you will beg to share her fate.”
* * *
In the commotion, Elowen stirred. The noise came back to her first—scattered voices, muffled orders, someone crying. Then warmth, then light, and finally the low, familiar timbre of a voice that steadied the world around her.
When she opened her eyes, Cillian was kneeling at her side once more, his hand cradling hers as if letting go would shatter something too delicate to name.
“You’re alright,” he said softly, though his brow was furrowed and his voice strained. Her lips parted, dry and trembling.
“I thought… I didn’t need you.” He blinked once, as if her words had reached somewhere deeper than her touch. “I was wrong,” she whispered, fingers tightening around his.