When the senior maid told me I'd be assigned to Prince Zhen's quarters for the afternoon, I didn't ask why. Servants don't get reasons. Just orders.
The private wing was quieter than I expected. No guards hovering. No shouting. Only the low sound of a zither from behind closed doors and the faintest scent of sandalwood burned too long.
A steward beckoned me inside. "Don't speak. Just assist the physicians."
I nodded.
The prince lay on a daybed, half-awake, pale. A trio of white-robed physicians hovered around him, muttering over pulse charts and herbal doses.
"Fever and stomach disturbance," one said. "Likely seasonal fatigue."
I stepped back. Stayed small. Watched.
But the table beside him told me everything.
A porcelain bowl with unfinished congee. A teacup, still warm. A small plate of candied orange peels half-eaten.
And beside that a cracked lacquer box used for holding spices.
Not cracked from age. Cracked recently. Fresh. The split still smelled faintly of citrus oil and… something sharper.
A toxin that smells faintly bitter only when heated. It bonds to sugars. Masks as flavoring.
No wonder the physicians missed it.
My fingers twitched.
"Is something wrong?" asked the steward.
I bowed low. "Nothing, sir."
But I lingered as they left.
And once I was alone, I slipped the remaining peels into my sleeve.
That night, I ran the simplest test I knew using vinegar and a dried rice grain. Something my old apothecary mentor once taught me in the slums.
The grain turned gray.
Poison. Subtle. Slow-acting. Designed not to kill but to weaken.
Someone didn't want Prince Zhen dead.
Just dull. Tired. Easier to control.
I looked out my window toward his tower.
And for the first time, I wondered,
Who benefits when a prince forgets to ask questions?