Chapter 31

Moonlight seeped through the high windows of the fortress chamber, spilling pale light across the long banquet table. Silver plates gleamed, untouched. A row of jeweled goblets stood like soldiers awaiting orders, each filled with deep red wine. The air itself was heavy—sweet, spiced, and dangerous.

Serenya Vale stood at the head of the table, her gloved fingers tightening around the edge of the polished oak. She could hear her pulse thudding in her ears. The gathering was meant to be a symbol of unity, an offering of peace between her hidden allies and the noble houses wavering between Thalric Veynor’s rule and rebellion. But all she could see when she looked at the goblets was Maelis Rowan’s prophecy echoing like thunder:

Beware the chalice that offers power, for its sip shall unmake the soul.

“Are we truly going to drink from this?” Lyra Esthaven asked, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She stood with one hand on the hilt of her sword, eyes darting from goblet to goblet as though expecting one to leap at her. Her warrior’s instinct never trusted stillness, especially not this kind.

“Ceremony demands it,” Darian Crestfall replied, his voice as measured as his posture. He stood across from Serenya, dressed in his knight’s ceremonial armor, polished to a dangerous shine. “A toast seals alliances. If we refuse, it will look like fear. Or worse—distrust.”

“It is distrust,” Lyra snapped. “And for once, I think it’s justified.”

Kaelen Draven moved silently along the table, dark cloak brushing the stone floor. He didn’t reach for a goblet. He never did. His sharp eyes studied each vessel, each faint reflection of the flickering torches. Finally, he stopped, his hand hovering above the central chalice—larger, more ornate, gilded with a sunburst pattern.

“This one,” he murmured, more to himself than the others. “This is the poisoned chalice.”

The room stilled. Even the torches seemed to burn quieter. Serenya’s breath caught in her throat.

“Are you certain?” she asked softly.

Kaelen lifted his gaze to hers. Shadows clung to his face, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—burned with absolute conviction. “I’ve seen the way the duke moves his pawns. He always sets the trap in plain sight, believing pride will blind us.”

Serenya’s chest tightened. Thalric Veynor again. The duke’s reach stretched farther than she had imagined, twisting even sacred rituals into weapons.

Eloria Thorne chose that moment to sweep into the hall, her emerald gown trailing like spilled jewels. Her smile was sharp as she glanced at the table. “My, my. Already gathered and fretting, I see.”

Serenya masked her unease. “We were discussing the toast.”

“Ah.” Eloria approached, her every step calculated. “Then allow me.” She plucked up the gilded chalice without hesitation, the one Kaelen had warned against, and raised it high. “To alliances forged in fire and shadow.”

“No!” Serenya moved forward, but Kaelen’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His touch was steady, grounding.

Eloria’s eyes glittered with amusement. “What’s wrong, dear cousin? Afraid of a little wine?”

The word cousin slid through the air like a blade. It was a quiet reminder, one Serenya loathed—her bloodline wasn’t as hidden as she wished.

“Put it down,” Darian ordered, stepping forward, his voice carrying the weight of command.

Eloria only laughed. “Oh, knight. Still so loyal to shadows you don’t even see. Perhaps the poison isn’t in the chalice at all. Perhaps it’s in the company you keep.” Her gaze flicked to Serenya, lingering, mocking.

Before anyone could stop her, she tipped the chalice back and drank deeply.

The hall erupted.

Lyra cursed under her breath, reaching for her sword. Darian strode forward, trying to seize the goblet from Eloria’s hand. Kaelen’s grip on Serenya tightened, as though bracing her for what was to come.

Eloria lowered the chalice, crimson liquid staining her lips. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Her smile widened.

“See?” she purred. “No—”

Her words cut off in a choked gasp. The chalice clattered to the table, spilling what remained of the wine. Eloria staggered, clutching her throat. Her eyes widened, flashing with panic.

“Poison!” Lyra hissed.

Serenya rushed forward, heart pounding. “Isolde!” she cried.

The healer was already moving, robes sweeping as she knelt beside the collapsing princess. Her hands glowed faintly with light as she pressed her palms to Eloria’s chest. “It’s in her blood,” Isolde muttered. “Fast. Too fast.”

Serenya dropped to her knees, panic clawing at her chest. Despite their rivalry, despite Eloria’s barbed words, she couldn’t bear to watch her cousin die here, now, in this hall of shadows.

“Save her,” Serenya begged. “Please.”

Isolde’s brow furrowed, sweat beading her temples as she poured healing energy into Eloria’s body. The princess convulsed, eyes rolling back, before she suddenly went still. The glow beneath Isolde’s palms faltered.

“No,” Serenya whispered, voice breaking.

But then Eloria’s chest rose with a shuddering breath. Color began to creep back into her cheeks. Isolde sagged in relief. “She’ll live. Barely. But the poison was meant to kill within moments.”

Silence fell heavy over the room. All eyes turned to Serenya.

“She wasn’t the target,” Kaelen said quietly. “You were.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Serenya’s mind reeled. Of course. The chalice had been placed for her, the hidden heiress. Eloria had stolen it in arrogance—or perhaps fate had intervened. Either way, the trap had been meant to end her life before she could rise to claim her crown.

“Then we cannot linger here,” Darian said firmly. His voice carried urgency now, stripped of ceremony. “If the duke knows you live, Serenya, he will not stop. Poison is only the beginning.”

Serenya stood slowly, her hands trembling as she looked at the spilled wine, dark as blood against the polished table. Her reflection stared back at her from the surface, fractured by ripples. A chalice meant for her. A fate stolen by another.

She turned to her companions—Kaelen’s steady gaze, Lyra’s fierce protectiveness, Darian’s unshakable loyalty, Isolde’s weary determination.

“We can’t trust the fortress any longer,” she said. Her voice was soft, but every word carried weight. “If the duke’s reach has poisoned even this hall, then we must vanish before dawn. There’s only one place left where his spies cannot follow.”

Kaelen tilted his head. “You mean the hidden fortress.”

Serenya nodded. “The stronghold my mother built in secret before the crown was taken. A place veiled in shadow and starlight. Few know of its existence.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “And you think it’s safe?”

“No,” Serenya admitted. “But it’s ours. And it’s all that remains.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of choice hung between them all.

Finally, Darian sheathed his blade with a sharp click. “Then we ride before the torches burn low. If fate means to poison us, let it find we’ve already vanished.”

Serenya looked once more at Eloria, who lay unconscious but alive, her lips stained crimson. The chalice still glinted where it lay toppled, its sunburst design mocking her.

She turned away. “So be it. We leave tonight.”

And as the torches guttered, shadows danced on the stone walls—shadows that promised both salvation and ruin in the journey to come.