The Daily Poison

The echoing chime of the sundown execution bell slowly faded, leaving behind a cold, heavy silence in the sub-basement armory.

Kira remained on the icy flagstones for several long minutes, her chest heaving as she pulled thin, raspy breaths into her burning lungs. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a captive beast. The phantom heat of Cassian’s presence still clung to the air, thick and suffocating, making her skin prickle with an intense, lingering electricity.

He felt it, she realized, her hands clenching into tight fists against the wet floor. He doesn't know what it is, but his wolf felt the disruption.

She forced herself to stand, her knees cracking in the damp chill of the vault. Every muscle in her body burned with exhaustion, but she couldn't afford to rest. She spent the next two hours scrubbing the remaining iron racks, polishing the heavy broadswords, and sweeping the rusted metal shavings off the floor until her vision swam with exhaustion.

By the time the night guards rotated shift, the armory was immaculate.

Kira dragged her heavy bucket out of the sub-basement and shuffled along the dark, stone corridors toward the lower servant quarters—a bleak, windowless barracks hidden beneath the northern ramparts. The air in the barracks was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp wool, and stale stew. Rows of crude wooden bunks lined the walls, occupied by exhausted, hollow-eyed men and women who didn't even bother to look up as she entered.

In this part of the Iron-Ridge estate, survival was a quiet, solitary affair. Nobody asked for your name, and nobody cared if you didn't wake up in the morning.

Kira found an empty bunk in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, tucked right against the damp stone outer wall. She slouched onto the thin, straw-stuffed mattress, letting her head rest against the cold granite.

Around midnight, the heavy breathing and rhythmic snoring of sleep filled the dark room.

Kira waited, her eyes open, watching the shadows dance on the high ceiling. Her body was beginning to shake uncontrollably—the agonizing warning sign that her morning dose of silver paste was wearing off. The heavy metals were slowly flushing through her system, and deep within her chest, her muted wolf was beginning to stir, its natural aura threatening to seep through her skin.

She couldn't let that happen.

Carefully, without making a sound, Kira reached into the frayed lining of her satchel and pulled out a tiny, crude glass vial wrapped in dirty strips of rag. Inside was a thick, dark, metallic paste—her lifeline and her slow executioner.

Her hands trembled so violently that the glass clicked softly against her teeth as she lifted it to her mouth.

She swallowed a heavy, dark dollop of the compound.

The reaction was instant and brutal.

A searing wave of liquid fire erupted in her throat, rushing down into her stomach like molten lead. Kira gasped, slamming a hand over her mouth to muffle the violent gag that ripped through her frame. Her eyes bulged as her throat constricted, the caustic silver and concentrated wolfsbane burning through her delicate esophagus.

Don't make a sound, she screamed at herself, curling into a tight, shivering ball on the straw mattress.

Tears of pure agony streamed down her cheeks, washing away the grease-makeup on her left eye. Her stomach revolted against the toxicity, churning violently as her body tried to reject the heavy metals. She pulled a scrap of dirty cloth from her pocket, pressing it tightly against her lips as a sharp, painful cough tore through her chest.

She pulled the rag away in the dim light. A thick patch of dark blood, speckled with metallic gray flakes, stained the cloth.

Kira’s breath hitching, she quickly folded the bloody rag and stuffed it deep into her pocket. She would have to burn it in the armory forge tomorrow; if anyone found blood laced with silver in the servant quarters, the guards would drag every person in the room to the execution square.

Breathing heavily, her body drenched in a cold, sickly sweat, Kira closed her eyes and waited for the agonizing cramps to subside. The silver poison slammed the iron doors shut on her wolf once more, forcing the beast into a paralyzed, silent sleep, muting her scent completely back down to sulfur and chemical rot.

She thought she was alone in the dark.

She thought the barracks was entirely asleep.

But across the dim aisle, hidden in the thick shadow of an upper bunk, a pair of sharp, calculating eyes watched Kira’s every movement.

Martha, the head steward, sat silently in the darkness. She had seen the way the new girl twitched in agony; she had seen the tiny glass vial hidden in the satchel, and she had caught the dark, frantic motion of Kira hiding the bloody rag in her pocket.

Martha’s lips slowly curled into a bitter, malicious smile. In a compound where lower servants fought like rats over scraps of food and favor from the guards, secret information was the most valuable currency of all.