The echo of Damian's gaze haunted Selene through the long hours that followed her escape from the throne room, clinging to her thoughts like cobwebs that refused to be brushed away.
She told herself it had been nothing more than coincidence—a chance glance from a king whose eyes naturally swept the assembled crowd. Royal attention was like sunlight, falling where it would without meaning or intent. The fact that his gaze had lingered on her for those few heartbeats meant nothing. It could not mean anything, because her entire plan depended on remaining invisible, just another servant girl lost in the crowd of castle staff.
Yet the memory persisted, pricking at her consciousness whenever she tried to focus on other things. She could still feel the weight of those dark green eyes, the way they had seemed to look through her carefully constructed facade and see something deeper beneath. It was unsettling in ways she couldn't quite articulate, like discovering someone had been watching her sleep.
It didn't matter, she reminded herself firmly as she went about her duties that day. His notice changed nothing about her purpose or her plans. Her oath remained the same, carved into her soul with letters of fire and blood. She had come here to kill a king, and one moment of unwelcome attention would not deter her from that sacred mission.
Besides, she now had something far more immediate to focus on—the opportunity she had been waiting months to create.
That evening brought another feast to the great hall, though this one was smaller than the grand affairs that marked special occasions. The chamber blazed with the warm light of beeswax candles mounted in silver sconces, their flames dancing across tapestries that depicted scenes of royal hunts and legendary battles. Long tables of polished oak groaned beneath the weight of roasted venison and glazed fowl, while nobles in their finest silks and velvets gathered to feast and gossip in equal measure.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of rich food and expensive perfumes, undercut by the sharper notes of spiced wine and the smoke from the great hearth. Musicians played softly in one corner, their lutes and pipes providing a melodic backdrop to the constant hum of conversation and laughter that filled the vast space.
Selene moved among the other servants like a ghost, her steps silent on the rush-covered floors, carrying a polished silver tray that reflected the candlelight in dancing patterns. She had chosen this particular serving piece with care—its surface was smooth enough to catch the light and blind observing eyes, while its weight was perfectly balanced for steady hands.
Beneath the long sleeve of her servant's gown, pressed against her wrist where the pulse beat steadiest, a tiny glass vial waited. The container was no larger than her thumb, crafted from clear crystal so thin it seemed to barely exist. The liquid inside was darker than wine, thicker than water, with an oily consistency that spoke of concentrated death.
She had stolen it with careful patience from the castle's apothecary stores three days ago, waiting for the chaos of inventory taking to mask her brief intrusion. The poison itself was extracted from the purple flowers that grew wild in the eastern marshes—beautiful to look at, sweet-smelling, and absolutely lethal in even the smallest doses. A single drop would be enough to stop a man's heart within minutes.
Her pulse hammered against her wrists as she approached the high table where the royal party dined. King Damian sat at its center, his presence commanding attention even in the casual setting of an informal feast. His crown tonight was simpler than the elaborate circlet he wore for court ceremonies—a band of white gold set with a single sapphire that caught the candlelight and threw it back in blue fire.
He had set his wine goblet down to lean close to a visiting lord from the northern provinces, their heads bent together in quiet conversation about grain shipments and border patrols. The goblet itself was a work of art—hammered silver inlaid with gold, its surface decorated with the intertwining roses and thorns that served as his personal symbol.
Laughter erupted from a nearby table where young knights regaled each other with increasingly improbable tales of their prowess in the practice yards. The sound provided perfect cover for what she needed to do, drowning out any small noises her movements might make.
Selene's breathing slowed to the measured rhythm she had learned during her years of survival training. Every sense heightened to crystal clarity as she slipped her fingers beneath her sleeve to find the vial. The glass was warm from her body heat, slick with nervous sweat, but her grip remained steady as she palmed it with the practiced ease of a street thief.
She moved closer to the table, using the pretense of refilling empty platters to position herself within arm's reach of the king's goblet. The wine inside was deep red, almost black in the candlelight—the perfect medium to hide a few drops of darker liquid.
With movements so subtle they barely registered as motion, she tilted her hand over the goblet's rim. The vial's cork, loosened earlier with trembling fingers, slipped free. A single drop of poison fell like a dark tear into the wine, disappearing instantly without so much as a ripple to mark its passage.
Her pulse roared in her ears, so loud she was certain everyone in the hall must be able to hear it. But the nobles continued their conversations, the musicians played their gentle melodies, and the servants moved through their familiar routines as if nothing had changed.
She had done it. After years of planning and months of careful positioning, she had finally struck the first blow in her war of vengeance.
"Girl!" The sharp bark of the head steward cut through her moment of triumph like a blade.
Selene's blood turned to ice water. The tray wobbled dangerously in her suddenly nerveless fingers, silver platters threatening to cascade to the floor in a crash that would bring every eye in the hall upon her. She caught it at the last moment, steadying the load with hands that trembled only slightly.
The steward was a thin, sharp-faced man whose pale eyes missed nothing that occurred within his domain. He had the kind of permanent scowl that suggested he had never smiled in his life, and his voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience.
"Refill the cups at the lower tables," he sneered, gesturing toward the far end of the hall where minor courtiers and visiting merchants sat. "Don't stand about gawking like some country maiden seeing the city for the first time."
Selene bowed quickly, the gesture automatic after months of practice. "Yes, my lord steward. At once."
She forced her steps to remain calm and measured as she moved away from the high table, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to run. Behind her, she could hear the continued murmur of conversation from the royal party, the clink of silver on ceramic as they resumed their meal.
The poison was in the wine. All that remained was for Damian to drink, and her years of suffering would finally find their resolution.
She moved down the hall, filling goblets with wine from the ceramic pitcher she carried, but her attention remained fixed on the high table like a lodestone drawn to true north. Every few moments she would glance back, watching and waiting for the moment when justice would finally be served.
The opportunity came sooner than she had dared hope.
Damian reached for his goblet, those long fingers wrapping around the stem with casual grace. Selene's breath caught in her throat, her grip tightening on the pitcher until her knuckles went white beneath the skin.
Drink it, she thought with desperate intensity. Drink, and let this nightmare finally end.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Just as the king lifted the goblet toward his lips, Lord Gaveth—a plump, jovial man whose fondness for wine was legendary throughout the court—threw back his head in boisterous laughter at some jest Selene hadn't heard. In his mirth, he reached across the table and snatched the goblet from Damian's hand with the easy familiarity of old friendship.
"To the king's health and the realm's prosperity!" Gaveth crowed, raising the stolen cup high above his head so that candlelight gleamed off its silver surface. "May both endure long past our own brief time upon this earth!"
The toast was taken up by others at the table, voices raised in cheerful agreement. But before anyone else could drink, Gaveth had already drained the goblet in three long swallows, wine staining his lips purple in the candlelight.
Selene's world tilted on its axis.
The jovial lord's laughter cut off as if severed by a blade. His face, flushed with wine and good humor just moments before, went pale as moonlight, then began to darken toward an alarming shade of purple. The empty goblet slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering across the table and sending platters skittering.
He tried to speak, but only a strangled gasp emerged from his throat. His hands flew to his neck, clawing desperately at flesh that was already beginning to swell. His eyes, wide with terror and confusion, bulged from their sockets as his body began to convulse.
The transformation from celebration to horror took only seconds.
Screams erupted from the women at nearby tables as they realized what they were witnessing. Nobles leaped from their seats in panic, sending chairs toppling backward and goblets crashing to the floor. Wine spread across the stone like spilled blood, while the acrid smell of fear began to overpower the earlier scents of food and perfume.
Selene stood frozen in the chaos, her breath coming in shallow gasps that seemed to echo in her ears. She had trained for this moment, planned for every contingency she could imagine—except for the possibility that her carefully crafted poison would find the wrong target.
Lord Gaveth collapsed to the floor with a crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall. His body jerked and spasmed as the poison worked its way through his system, foam bubbling from his lips as his lungs struggled to draw breath that would never come. Within moments, the convulsions stopped, and he lay still as carved stone.
The great hall descended into absolute chaos. Women shrieked and swooned, clutching at each other for support. Men shouted for guards, for physicians, for someone to restore order to a world gone suddenly mad. Some pointed accusing fingers at servants, others whispered of rival houses and ancient grudges. The air filled with the sharp scent of panic, underlaid by the metallic smell of death that seemed to coat everything it touched.
Through it all, King Damian remained seated at the head of the table, an island of calm in the storm of hysteria that surrounded him. His face revealed nothing of whatever thoughts might be racing through his mind—no shock, no fear, no anger, just the same unreadable expression she had observed in the throne room.
He raised one hand in a gesture that somehow cut through the noise more effectively than any shout could have done. The authority in that simple movement was absolute, irresistible, and within moments the screaming had dulled to frightened whispers.
When he spoke, his voice carried clearly through the vast space despite its quiet tone. "Guards, remove Lord Gaveth's body with appropriate dignity. Seal the hall—no one enters or leaves until I give permission. And summon the castle's physician to examine what remains in that goblet."
The efficiency with which his orders were carried out spoke to years of training and absolute loyalty. Guards appeared as if from nowhere, moving with military precision to secure the scene. Servants scurried to follow royal commands, their faces pale but determined.
Selene forced her hands to remain steady on her serving tray, though every instinct screamed at her to flee. She kept her expression carefully blank, projecting the kind of shocked emptiness that any servant might display when witnessing such a horrific scene. Inside, her thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea.
She had meant that poison for Damian. It should have been his body cooling on the floor, his life forfeit for the crimes he had committed against her family. Instead, an innocent man—a friend of the king's, by all appearances—had paid the price for her vengeance.
The weight of that realization settled on her shoulders like a lead cloak. She had become a killer tonight, but not the kind she had intended to be.
And then, through the controlled chaos of the sealed hall, she felt it again—that familiar pressure of royal attention.
Damian's gaze swept across the room with methodical precision, cataloging faces and reactions with the calculating eye of a man accustomed to reading the political currents that swirled beneath every court gathering. Servants, nobles, guards—all came under that penetrating scrutiny as he searched for some clue to explain the evening's tragedy.
When his eyes found her, Selene's heart slammed against her ribs with such force she was certain it must be visible through her gown. She stood perfectly still among the other servants, her tray balanced in steady hands, her face a mask of appropriate shock and confusion.
He looked at her calmly, steadily, with the same intense focus she had experienced in the throne room. Those dark green eyes seemed to catalog every detail of her appearance, every micro-expression that might betray guilt or knowledge or fear. The scrutiny was thorough, professional, and absolutely terrifying.
She did not flinch beneath that gaze. She had trained too long and sacrificed too much to betray herself now through weakness or panic. Instead, she held his stare with the confused innocence of a servant girl caught up in events far beyond her understanding.
If he saw her, let him see nothing suspicious. Let him find only what she chose to show him—another piece of human furniture, shocked by violence but ultimately irrelevant to the larger questions that demanded his attention.
But even as she maintained her facade, Selene felt the terrible weight of his notice settling over her like a hunter's net. This was no casual glance, no random sweep of royal attention. This was focused, intentional, searching.
In that moment, standing in a hall filled with the smell of death and fear, she realized with crystal clarity that her war with King Damian had truly begun. And despite her failure tonight, despite the innocent blood on her hands, she knew with absolute certainty that this was only the beginning.