The Devouring Queen
“But I have a message for your queen.”
She leaned close, whispered coordinates, dates, warnings. A plan half-formed but sharp enough to cut.
When she finished, she drew a small vial from her sleeve—nightshade and silver nitrate, distilled by her own hand in the solar that morning.
“Drink,” she said. “Quick death. Or slow, screaming, tomorrow when they start cutting.”
He drank without hesitation.
She kissed his forehead—absolution or mockery, she wasn’t sure—and left him to die quietly.