The sun was high when Eva slipped free of the salle, her whites damp and clinging, her throat still raw from the morning's exertion. The air outside was mercifully cooler, touched by the faint breeze that combed the gardens. She welcomed it, letting the stillness settle over her chest, though her wrists ached from the strain of Lucarion's blade.
She slowed her steps among the rows of greenery, fingers trailing absently over trimmed hedges and the tall stalks of foxglove swaying gently in the breeze. Their purple bells trembled, delicate, almost coy in their beauty. She knew better.
Foxglove was no gentle bloom. Its beauty hid precision—the kind of poison that punished carelessness.
Eva lingered, feigning idle curiosity as a gardener passed.
"They're beautiful," she murmured, voice careful, even soft. "Do you use them in teas?"
The man hesitated, startled by her interest. "Ah—no, my lady. Too strong for that. These are kept for tinctures… medicinal uses only."
"Naturally." She smiled faintly, as though the question had been nothing more than innocent musing, then moved on, her gaze catching on another bed—pale blossoms of belladonna, white-veined leaves stretching like a warning. Not far beyond, the sharp leaves of wolfsbane stood in disciplined rows.
Poison dressed as remedy. Death tucked neatly beside beauty.
By the time she returned to her chambers, the thought had taken root.
That evening, she slipped into the library. The scent of dust and parchment clung heavy in the air, the rows of tomes stretching high, forbidding and silent. She combed the shelves until her fingers found them: heavy books with cracked leather spines, titles etched in faded ink.
On the Nature of Blood and Shadow.
Notes on the Spawned Condition.
A Treatise on Nocturnal Physiology.
Eva drew them close, candlelight staining the pages gold as she read. The words were dense, clinical—records of hunters, physicians, scholars who had dissected what they could.
True-born vampires, the text noted, were resilient but not invulnerable. Their organs were strengthened by blood, their humors balanced by it. Certain herbs and tinctures were recorded as treatments for fever, delirium, or blood sickness: belladonna to still the racing heart, wolfsbane to steady the breath, foxglove to calm the pulse.
Her mother had taught her the same names by another tongue. Medicine to the physicians. Poison to a Spear. The difference was only in the dose.
If vampires reacted even to medicinal measures, then a concentrated draught could not fail to do more. She pictured it—the stilling of his movements, the first slackness in that perfect composure.
The trick would be hiding it. Foxglove was acrid, wolfsbane left a sharp sting on the tongue. Belladonna carried a sweetness almost cloying. She would need to balance them carefully, blend them into flavors he would expect. Cloak the death in richness, let the bitterness dissolve beneath spice and wine.
The next days she played the part of convalescent bride, requesting herbs for teas to ease her throat and strengthen her recovery. The servants obliged readily, never questioning her careful choice of foxglove, of nightshade, of aconite. She crushed leaves with a steady hand, measured powders with a scholar's precision, noting effects in a small ledger tucked between innocuous prayer pages.
As her fingers pressed the crushed leaves into a fine dust, a memory flickered. Her mother's voice, calm and unflinching, filled her mind:
"Why must I know so many ways to kill?" Her child-self had once asked.
"It is expected," her mother had said, eyes hard. "A Spear is an instrument of fate. You must defend yourself and carry out the will of the God of War."
The words anchored her now, steadying her hand as she worked.
One evening, the brew scorched bitter down her own throat. Her pulse spiked. The world tilted, vision blotting black at the edges. Her hand trembled—but she steadied it, recording the time, the symptoms, the recovery. Knowledge was worth the risk.
Each trial brought her closer. Each calculation sharpened her resolve. She learned to sweeten the bitterness with honey, to bury the sharpness beneath clove and cinnamon, to let the wine's body carry the poison as though it were no more than spice.
Until at last, the mixture was ready.
—
The great hall blazed with candlelight, silver dishes gleaming, goblets catching the flame. Eva sat opposite him across the long table, her heartbeat held steady despite the faint bitterness lingering on her tongue from the antidote she had swallowed earlier. The weight of the makeshift stake, concealed against her breastbone, was a quiet reminder: if the poison failed, she was ready to finish the work herself.
The wine had been laced hours ago, in the hush of the kitchen when the servants' backs were turned. Not so much that the flavor would betray her—but enough, by her calculation, to cripple. She had even imagined the moment: the falter of his breath, the goblet slipping from his fingers.
Lucarion reached for his goblet without pause, pale fingers elegant against the stem. The motion was unhurried, almost languid. He raised it, drank deep.
Eva did not look away. Every nerve in her body strained for the smallest change—the tremor of a hand, the catch of his breath, the slightest falter in his poise. A strange, prickling awareness tugged at her chest.
For a moment—nothing.
Then another.
His eyes lifted to hers—already waiting. Slow. Deliberate. As though he had been watching her longer than she'd realized.
Her pulse stuttered—momentarily, absurdly—the heat of the hall rising.
He set the goblet down with care, fingers brushing the rim in a deliberate motion, the faintest curl of his lips touching it. Eva's gaze faltered for the briefest instant, her hands tightening on the cutlery.
"Leave us." His baritone cut through the candlelight.
Eva's stomach dropped.
When the last of the servants had gone, he began.
"Those tomes you buried yourself in," he murmured, pitched for her alone though his voice carried easily in the hall, "they speak of common vampires. Lesser creatures. Their blood is weak, their bodies prone to break."
Her breath caught sharp in her chest, but she did not look away. Her fingers tightened around the silver, the crescents of her nails biting until the sting steadied her.
His hand lingered on the rim of the cup, idly tracing. "But I am not common, Eva. I am royal—another breed. Poison does not touch me."
The words slid through her ribs like ice. She held his gaze, too sharp, too long, until the tight lock of her jaw threatened to betray her. A subtle tension coiled low in her belly: the wine, the candles, the weight of the moment.
Her mind raced. Prosecution—inevitable. No plea could save her. The thought should have sparked fear; instead, it sharpened her, drew every nerve taut to survive.
His smile deepened, deliberate. "I do appreciate how you managed to harmonize the flavors—it tastes exquisite."
He tilted the goblet, letting the dark liquid catch the candlelight as though admiring it—or her effort. Eva stiffened, every muscle attuned. She scanned the hall, calculating possible routes, exits, any chance to flee the instant he gave the order.
"I doubt you are aware of how your blood smells," he added, almost idly, "but it is very similar to the final product of this work of yours."
Her tongue pressed against her teeth—no sound.
Cold sank through her chest, the weight of failure mingling with the antidote and laced wine, settling like lead in her stomach.
This would not be settled in council or trial. There would be no judgment, no sentence. Only appetite.
She would not be punished—she would be devoured.
The realization settled in her chest like stone.
Lucarion's smile lingered, faint as a scar. He lifted his goblet once more, finishing the last swallow of wine without breaking her stare. He set it down with deliberate care, then returned to his meal, as though nothing at all had transpired.
Eva sat rigid, forcing herself to chew, to swallow, though each bite turned to ash on her tongue. Her pulse thundered steady and hard against her throat, her palms aching with the crescents of her nails. She could feel him watching, every flick of his gaze prickling at her awareness like static electricity. Perhaps he would toy with her as cats do their prey. She would pretend to yield, a still insect, feigning defeat until the hunter lost interest and moved on.
At length, Lucarion rose. The scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoed too loud in the silence. Eva pushed herself to her feet as well, relief flickering quick as breath at the thought of his departure. The contingency might have worked—she had earned herself a reprieve.
But in the space of a blink, he was there—sudden, crowding her, cool fingers catching her chin.
His nearness struck first—the cool scent of him, that faint, impossible trace of neroli and amber, bright and warm at once, the kind of fragrance that invited breath before it stole it. The air between them stilled.
Then she looked up. Half-lidded amethyst eyes gleamed down at her—bright, a shade too intent, anciently patient, as if studying the taste of her defiance.
A shiver ran down her spine.
"Tell the servants not to waste this wine," he murmured, low enough for her alone. "It is mine. No one else will touch it."
"Do you understand?" His thumb traced her jaw, almost tender, though the touch was nothing but assertion of dominance.
Her throat tightened. She gave the smallest nod, considering whether she would be fast enough to use her concealed stake now.
Lucarion lingered a breath longer, his smile flickering faint, caught between amusement and something sharper, something Eva couldn't name. "Do not trouble yourself with what the king would think of this little effort. I won't say anything—for now." His thumb pressed lightly against her chin, almost thoughtful. "It's unorthodox, yes… but I find myself curious."
His gaze sharpened, gleaming with quiet hunger. The weight of it pressed into her awareness; she saw the authority behind it. "I want to see how far you'll dare to go."
Satisfied, Lucarion released her and turned, leaving the hall with the same languid ease as if he had never paused at all.
Eva stood frozen long after his footsteps had faded, her chin still burning where his fingers had pressed. Every instinct whispered that she had survived—not because he hadn't noticed her, but because he had chosen to let her.