The palace always smelled faintly of smoke.
But today, it smelled of rot.
Lyra knew it the moment she stepped into the great hall. The air carried something bitter — sharp as iron, cloying as spoiled wine. The courtiers' faces told her before her eyes did: something had gone terribly wrong.
On the dais, just below the Flame Throne, lay the body of Lord Serrin. His lips were black, his veins traced like ink across his pale skin, and his goblet had toppled, spilling darkened wine into the cracks of the marble. His fingers were stiff, still clawing as though he had tried to tear the poison from his throat.
And there, beside him, lay the proof.
A vial — small, delicate, stoppered in wax — rolled near his hand. The seal bore a mark Lyra recognized too well. Her stomach lurched.
It was her own.
The Accusation
The nobles erupted before Kael could speak.
"She killed him!"
"The vessel strikes again—"
"Moonblood sorcery!"
