It was meant to be a night like any other—a royal feast held in honor of the visiting foreign dignitaries to the kingdom. Charlotte had been in good humor, her playful nature easing the tension in the room as she teased Elias about his stoic attitude and Eldian about his constant tendency to brag. The banquet itself was unassuming, a simple gathering meant to unite the court—an opportunity for the kingdom's leaders to socialize, form alliances, and toast to the tenuous peace that had held thus far.
But something shifted.
It began quietly, a subtle pressure in Charlotte's chest. She laughed—her usual boisterous laugh—but the sound seemed brittle, colder than it had moments before. The room began to blur, the golden chandeliers' light swirling like liquid gold in her vision. She lifted her goblet, sipped the wine—nothing extraordinary, she'd had it before. It wasn't even her favorite vintage. But as the liquid trickled down her throat, an icy chill spread through her chest, creeping steadily to her limbs.
She set the glass down, carefully, knowing something was wrong, though she couldn't place it. The conversations around her continued, but they felt distant, muffled—as if she were underwater. Her fingers, usually steady, trembled as she reached for a napkin, the motion slow and detached. The room itself seemed to shift, as if the walls and ceiling were rotating around her.
Elias saw it first, his instincts sharp from years of service. His arm shot out just as Charlotte faltered, her face growing pale. Before she had time to react, she collapsed into him, her breath shallow and strained. A startled gasp rippled through the room.
The royal doctors arrived within minutes, their normally composed faces now etched with panic. Poison, they said, but one they could not name. A slow-acting toxin, they surmised—something insidious that disguised itself as a fever before attacking the body from within.
Charlotte's pulse was weak, barely a flutter. The toxin was cunning—killing in phases, attacking in ways that no antidote could quickly undo. The healers worked feverishly, their faces grim as they searched for a cure, while Mira, ever loyal, stood vigil by Charlotte's bedside, her eyes darting between her still form and the frantic activity of the healers. Elias remained close, his usual stoic expression betraying nothing but the clenched fists at his sides, a silent fury burning within him.
Time passed, though in the quiet of her chambers, it seemed irrelevant. When Charlotte finally awoke from the feverish haze, her body felt foreign—light, fragile, as though she were no longer the girl she once was.
Her first words came in a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "Mira… what happened?"
Mira's face was pale, drawn with exhaustion, but her touch was firm and reassuring as she squeezed Charlotte's hand. "You were poisoned. But you've survived."
The words should have been a comfort, but Charlotte could feel the change in her body—the weakness, the fragility. Her breath was shallow, her legs too weak to support her properly, and her strength—her sharp mind and unyielding will—felt dulled, as if something had been taken from her. And yet, despite surviving the poison, a gnawing unease lingered in her chest. There was no cure for the lingering aftereffects, no antidote for the slow, subtle degeneration that had taken root in her body.
The healers had called it a "miracle" that she was still alive, but they were candid in their uncertainty. Her recovery would be slow and unpredictable. Her strength would return in fits and starts, only to fade again.
And yet, Charlotte's mind never stopped its calculations. She observed, listened, and waited. The whispers of the court—about her vulnerability, about the attempt on her life—told her that her enemies had found a new weapon. A weapon that would target her from the inside out, that would strike when she least expected it.
Following the Poisoning
As days bled into weeks, Charlotte's health became the kingdom's favorite topic of gossip. Publicly, she smiled and greeted courtiers with her usual charm, though there was a weariness behind her eyes—a hollowness that had never been there before.
In private moments, when the palace faded into quiet shadows, Charlotte could feel the weight of her mortality. Her fingers would tremble ever so slightly when she took up a quill to sign a decree, or when she painted visions of a future she no longer knew if she would live to see. The poison had taken something from her—not just her health, but her very vigor. And she despised it.
She couldn't let them see it. She couldn't let anyone glimpse the cracks that were beginning to show in her unshakable resolve.
Mira and Elias were her constant shadows now—watchful, protective—but Charlotte pushed them away as best she could. Their concern was palpable, but she felt the prophecy loom over her more heavily than ever. The idea of the firstborn—a second heir, born beneath a blood moon—hung like a storm cloud in the back of her mind.
At night, when the palace was still and the silence pressed in around her, Charlotte would look out the window at the starless sky. She would remember the red silk that had bound the firstborn's fate, and the prophecy of two heirs—sunlight and shadow—and what it meant for her and the throne.
"I won't be silenced," she would whisper to the emptiness.
But deep in her heart, she couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows had already begun to creep in.
A Quiet Bonding
The firstborn, the mysterious sister, visited her often, their time together shadowed by the uncertainty of what was to come. The firstborn, with her quiet wisdom and stillness, had become Charlotte's most steadfast confidante—the one person who saw the battle between survival and duty raging in Charlotte's heart.
One night, while they sat together in the royal garden, Charlotte glanced over at her sister, her heart heavy with unsaid words.
"You know," Charlotte said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of a flower's petal, "I never imagined I would need someone like you. Never thought I'd need anyone at all."
The firstborn looked into her eyes, understanding reflected in her own gaze. "But now you do."
Charlotte nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "I need you. The kingdom needs both of us. I've fought so hard to keep this place standing, but I'm not sure I can do it alone. Not with this"—she gestured at her frail body—"not with what's ahead."
The firstborn didn't respond immediately. She sat beside Charlotte, silent and unwavering, the weight of their shared burden settling between them.
The storm was coming. Charlotte could feel it in her bones, as if the very earth beneath her feet was trembling with anticipation. There was no avoiding the fate that had been foretold, no ignoring the tension mounting in the kingdom.
But for a fleeting moment, in the stillness of the garden, Charlotte allowed herself to feel something she hadn't in a long time—peace. She could be weak. She could trust.
"I won't let them take the throne from you, Charlotte," the firstborn vowed, her voice steady but soft.
Charlotte smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the firstborn's hand. "We'll decide our own future. Together."