Read Chapter 31: The Doctor's Claim

The old woman’s cottage smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke, but Elara barely registered it. Her body still ached with the remnants of the poison, a dull throb behind her eyes that pulsed with every heartbeat. Alaric sat on the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around a cup of bitter tea, his color better than it had been an hour ago—still pale, but no longer gray.

“You said the frost-blossom saved us,” Elara said, her voice sharper than she intended. She turned to face the old woman, who was quietly grinding something in a stone mortar. “But you also said the poison was slow-acting. That implies someone knew exactly how long they had to get away. And that someone knew what we were drinking.”

The old woman didn’t look up. “The wine was laced with a tincture of nightshade and valerian root—a combination meant to mimic death, not cause it. Whoever did this wanted you both unconscious, not dead. At least, not yet.”

“Then why dose the toast at all?” Alaric asked, his voice rough. He set the cup down with a clatter. “If Mira wanted us dead, why leave us alive to wake?”

“Because she wanted someone else to deliver the final blow,” Elara said slowly. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. “Or she wanted us out of the way while that someone made his move.” She looked at the old woman. “You knew what was in that wine. How?”

The old woman finally met her gaze. Her eyes were pale, the color of winter ice. “Because I was a healer in the Valdris court forty years ago. Before your father took the throne. I know the poisons of your homeland better than I know my own name.”

Elara’s blood chilled. “You served my father?”

“I served the crown,” the old woman corrected. “And when your father poisoned his brother, I chose not to serve him any longer.” She set down the mortar. “The herb they used is rare—the root of the dusknettle, which grows only in the high valleys of Valdris. It is nearly untraceable in wine unless you know its scent.” She gestured to the empty bottle still on the table. “That bottle has it. Faint, but there.”

Alaric rose, swaying slightly, and crossed to the bottle. He lifted it, sniffed, then recoiled. “It smells like nothing.”

“Exactly,” the old woman said. “That is the mark of a master. The dusknettle has almost no aroma. Only someone trained in Valdris court poisons would know to use it. Or someone who was given it by such a person.”

Elara’s mind raced. Lady Mira was Caldoran through and through—she had no ties to Valdris, no reason to carry a rare herb from her enemy’s homeland. But Mira’s toast had come after Elara had shared news of their wedding. Who had Mira spoken to in the days before? Who had given her the poison?

Her uncle. Roland.

The thought hit her like a blow. She had confronted him earlier, accused him of conspiracy, but he had denied everything with blank, innocent eyes. She had believed him—or at least, she had wanted to. He was her father’s brother, the only family she had left on the throne. But the journal had proved he was capable of betrayal. And now this.

“I need to see my uncle,” she said, already moving toward the door.

Alaric caught her arm. His grip was weak, but steady. “You can’t just walk into court. We’re fugitives, remember? Lady Mira believes you’re dead, but if you show up alive, she’ll know her plot failed. She’ll have already spun a story.”

“Then I’ll spin a better one,” Elara said. “I’m still a princess. I was kidnapped, held captive, and escaped. I have proof of Mira’s attempt on my life—the witnesses to our wedding, the poison bottle, the old woman’s testimony.” She looked at the healer. “Will you testify?”

The old woman smiled, a thin, knowing curve. “I will. But you will not find your uncle in the throne room.”

“Where is he?”

“He has been confined to his chambers,” the old woman said. “Word reached the court this morning that he attempted to take his own life. He is being watched by guards, but not by anyone loyal to you.”

Elara froze. “Attempted?”

“The physician was called. He lives, but barely.” The old woman’s eyes were pitying. “You should go to him now, while he still has the strength to speak. If you wait, you may never get answers.”

The ride back to the castle was brutal. Elara pushed the horses through the forest paths, Alaric grim and silent behind her, his hand pressed to his side where the poison had settled deepest. They left the horses at a stable outside the city walls and went in on foot, cloaked and hooded, slipping through the narrow streets like ghosts.

The castle guards recognized her immediately, but her story—brief, hurried, backed by the seal of her house—was enough to gain entry. She made straight for Roland’s chambers, Alaric at her side, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed them.

The door was guarded by two men in plain steel. They didn’t move to stop her. That was wrong. Someone had ordered them to let anyone through who bore the princess’s seal. That meant someone wanted her to see what was inside.

She pushed open the door.

Roland lay on the bed, his face gray, his hands folded over his chest as if someone had arranged him for burial. His eyes were closed. The room smelled of blood and herbs. A cup sat on the nightstand, half-empty.

On the table beside him, pinned under a candlestick, was a note.

Elara picked it up with trembling fingers.

*The debt is paid. I could not carry it further.*

Her hands went cold. She read it again, then again, trying to make the words mean something else. But they didn’t.

She knew that phrase. She had heard it a hundred times as a child, whispered in the corridors of her father’s court. *The debt is paid.* It was the words her father used when he settled accounts with Lord Veyron, his envoy, his most trusted spy. Veyron had been the one to carry messages between the courts, to broker peace, to negotiate the treaties that had ended the war between Valdris and Caldoran.

And he had been the one in the room when her father died.

“Elara,” Alaric said softly. “Look.”

He was standing over the body, his fingers pressed to Roland’s throat. He looked up at her with dark, knowing eyes. “He’s still warm. This wasn’t hours ago. This was minutes. Someone was in here before you.”

“The guards let us through without a word,” Elara said. “They wanted me to see this.”

“Or they wanted you to find the note and think you’d solved it.” Alaric picked up the cup, sniffed it, and set it down. “That’s not poison. That’s the same dusknettle mixture from the wedding. Whoever gave this to your uncle knew he would take it. They used his guilt.”

Elara’s jaw tightened. The pieces snapped into place like a lock turning. The dusknettle. The note. The debt. Her uncle had not been the mastermind—he had been a pawn, a guilty man with easy access to the court. The real hand behind the conspiracy had been Veyron’s, her father’s envoy, the man who had known every secret of Valdris for thirty years.

She looked around the room, searching for anything else, and her gaze fell on the candlestick. Beneath it, half-hidden by the note, was a small, wax-sealed envelope. She pulled it free. The seal was broken. Inside was a single line in Veyron’s hand:

*The flower is yours, if you can reach it before the first thaw.*

Elara’s blood turned to ice. She looked at the window. Outside, the last of the autumn frost was still clinging to the glass.

But the first thaw was coming.