Death came quietly at first.
The court, already raw from Ashenya's death and the Poison Court's intrusion, tried to pretend at normalcy. Feasts were held, audiences resumed, torches were lit each night as if ritual could keep the shadows at bay. But beneath the gilded surface, something unseen was seeping through the cracks.
It began with a cup of wine.
Lord Aric of the western houses — loud, brash, and one of the first to accuse Lyra of being "tainted" — collapsed at the high table during council. One moment, he was boasting of his soldiers; the next, his goblet slipped from his hand, crimson spilling across the stone like blood. His body convulsed, eyes rolling white, and then black veins crawled across his skin like ink poured beneath the flesh.
The healers tried everything — herbs, bloodletting, fire-rituals. Nothing slowed the spread. Within an hour, Aric was dead.
The whispers began before his body was cold.
He doubted her.
He spoke against the vessel.
