"Is there a reason you can’t drink?"
"No, uh..."
Victor stamred.
"Drink."
With shaky hands, he brought the glass of wine to his lips.
’Shit. Shit!’
He hadn’t expected this. It was the kind of trick that had killed nobles before, an ingenious thod where the host poured the gifted wine into special, poison-laced cups.
If he died, they’d bla the vintage, and the family of the victims would be the ones to face the political backlash.
A sinister move, subtle and cruel, the kind often employed by those of high birth.
He didn’t have to look to know that her icy gaze was fixed on him. Victor already knew what was coming.
Goddammit...
It was all or nothing.
He took a small sip, waiting for the poison to work its way through his veins. Maybe he could slow it down with healing arts, escape to his family before it took full effect.
He waited.
Eyes closed.
And waited.
Nothing.
Huh?
He opened one eye and peeked at the crystalline glass before taking another sip. Still nothing.
Isolde eyed him strangely with a mix of suspicion, amusent and caution. She raised her own glass to her red lips.
But just then—a faint tremor rippled through the ground.
She paused.
A servant sprinted through the gardens, skirt flaring behind her as she ran. She was panting heavily when she reached the gazebo.
"The kitchen is on fire!"
Isolde’s expression didn’t change, if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. Commands were issued calmly.
"Tighten security around my daughters. No one enters or leaves the dungeons."
"Yes, ma’am."
The two maids that were constantly behind her vanished like smoke in the breeze.
Isolde recalled Lugh’s words.
"The kitchen is their point of entry, but don’t neglect the other areas."
She had assud it ant they would attempt to poison food. But now... she wasn’t so sure.
She gave another order.
Half her guards dispersed, racing toward the kitchens and to increase the protection on Edrin—the most likely target if this was an assassination.
Isolde considered going herself. But her eyes shifted to the man sitting opposite her.
An incident like this, on his first visit ...It definitely couldn’t be coincidence.
Victor shifted uneasily, sweat clinging to his brow.
"Lady Isolde, what is happening?"
"That is none of your business."
Her tone was cold, her frown cutting. She didn’t bother with sugar-coated words.
Silence fell on them, heavy and tense. Isolde broke it, swirling the wine in her glass.
"As for your marriage proposal"
She began,
"My daughters will only marry whover they choose."
Victor stared.
"What?!"
This was the first he’d heard of such a declaration. How could anyone throw away such valuable bargaining chips?
The hands of the beautiful Von Heim daughters were highly coveted in the noble courts.
Even their mother was considered fair ga for anyone brave enough to try. A widow of great power. A prodigy of magic.
One who still retained her youth despite having her first child at nineteen.
And yet he didnt expect her to be... so naïve!
No matter, now that the negotiations had failed. There was little left to say.
Still, he had to respect her. Four children in seven years? Perhaps the Von Heims had a fertility spell. He knew a friend who would pay good coin for sothing like that.
Victor stood.
"In that case, your audience has been an honor. I’ll be taking my leave now."
"Sit."
"W—"
"Sit."
He sat.
"You’re not leaving until this problem is resolved."
"You an your burning kitchen? How on earth is that related to ?"
Isolde leaned back in her chair.
"Now that’s a question only you can answer."
She raised the glass to her lips.
Just then—a blur from the garden.
A sparrow dive-bombed, streaking through the damp air like a loose arrow. It collided with her cup. Red wine splattered across her dress and the white stone table. The glass shattered.
Isolde shot to her feet, staring at the trembling bird on the ground.
"W-what the...?"
Her voice was soft, confused.
At that mont, Victor’s guards simultaneously took a heavy step back, their movents smooth and practiced.
The four of them drew their swords, the gleaming tips catching sunlight, aid directly at Isolde.
Panic rippled through the surrounding servants. Victor paled, knocking over his chair in his haste.
"What are you doing?!"
He yelled, voice cracking.
The guards didn’t answer. Instead, they released their auras. Magic surged outward in crashing waves.
Victor Aelhurst felt his heart seize. Sweat soaked his brown hair. He, a burly man of five foot ten with a portly belly, suddenly felt very small.
Four guards.
Three at the realm of Surge.
One at Anchor.
This is bad. Very bad.
Isolde’s gaze was like frost on glass. She gave a single command.
"Everyone leave this place."
The servants, hers and Victor’s alike, fled in a rush. Only Victor remained, trembling, along with the four aggressors, Isolde, and two of her own guards.
They were mundane, untrained in the arcane, but loyal enough to stay, even with shaking hands.
Isolde’s mind raced. Her elite shadows were not present, stretched thin by recent deploynts.
Only two remained by her side, and now they were no longer there.
Was the fire just a diversion?
She sighed.
"What do you think you’re doing?"
Her voice was level.
"Why are you here?"
The lead attacker gave an elegant bow, his tone professional.
"We’re here to kill you Mada"
Not Edrin,
she noted.
.
Then she chuckled, softly at first.
"Kill ? I’m sorry for you."
Her tone sharpened. Her hair rose, as though charged with static. Power rippled outward. The stone table flipped violently.
The intruders stiffened.
"A... crown"
One of them muttered in disbelief.
Isolde’s voice cracked like ice.
"You still think you can kill ?"
The man didn’t hesitate.
"I like our chances."
And then—
A blade burst through her abdon. A clean impalent from back to front. Her body arched.
Blood welled at her lips.
Her pupils rolled to the edge of her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the assailants.
They were the two loyal guards. Still mundane, but their hands no longer trembled.
I see...
She thought, as the blade withdrew. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the blood-slick stone.
Vision hazy, heartbeat slowing, she lay still in a growing pool of crimson.
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