The poisoned banquet

The palace messenger left as quickly as he arrived, riding off with the urgency of someone carrying bad news. Seraphina watched from the balcony as Alistair unfolded the sealed letter, his expression tightening with every line he read.

When he finally looked up, his gaze found hers immediately.

“We’re summoned to the capital,” he said.

“We?” she echoed, arching a brow. “How flattering. I didn’t realize we were a matched set.”

“This isn’t a request,” he replied. “The King is hosting a banquet tonight. Your presence is required.”

“Required,” she repeated, tasting the word. “How ominous.”

Alistair didn’t smile. “It’s a political move. They want to see how you behave under scrutiny.”

“Then they’ll be disappointed,” she said lightly. “I behave terribly.”

---

The Journey to the Capital

The carriage ride was tense, though neither of them spoke of it. Seraphina watched the passing countryside, her fingers tapping against the window frame.

Alistair finally broke the silence.

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“Oh, I’m concerned,” she said. “Just not about the banquet.”

“Then what worries you?”

She glanced at him. “You.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“You’re starting to think,” she said. “That’s always dangerous.”

He didn’t rise to the bait this time. “I’m doing my job.”

“No,” she murmured, “you’re starting to doubt the story you were given.”

He didn’t deny it.

---

The Banquet

The palace glittered with gold and candlelight. Nobles in jeweled gowns and embroidered coats filled the grand hall, their whispers swirling like smoke.

Seraphina entered on Alistair’s arm — a calculated move on his part, though she doubted he realized how intimate it looked.

The room fell silent.

Dozens of eyes turned toward her. Some curious. Some fearful. Some hungry.

Seraphina smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that made people step back.

Alistair leaned in slightly. “They’re watching for any misstep.”

“Then let’s give them nothing,” she whispered.

They moved through the crowd, exchanging stiff greetings. Seraphina played her part flawlessly — poised, polite, unreadable. But beneath the surface, she felt the tension coiling tighter.

Something was wrong.

She felt it before she saw it.

A servant approached with a tray of crystal goblets. Alistair reached for one, but Seraphina’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

“Don’t,” she said quietly.

His brows furrowed. “What is it?”

She took a goblet instead, lifting it to her nose. A faint, bitter scent curled upward — subtle, but unmistakable.

“Poison,” she murmured.

Alistair stiffened. “Are you certain?”

She gave him a look. “I’ve survived three assassination attempts. I know poison when I smell it.”

Before he could respond, a noblewoman approached, smiling too brightly.

“Lady Valehart,” she said. “How lovely to see you again.”

Seraphina held the poisoned goblet delicately, like a weapon disguised as glass.