Chapter 3: Shadows of the Court
Elara's fingers closed around the small vial of real poison hidden in her gown. She slipped it into a secret pocket, face blank, heart racing.
Draven stood on the other side of the bathing chamber door, his voice still rough from the aphrodisiac mishap. "Wife. Open the door."
She splashed one last handful of cold water on her face, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open just enough to peek out. "What heat? You're imagining things."
His crimson eyes narrowed, but a faint smirk played on his lips. "Your games amuse me… for now." He stepped back, giving her space. "Sleep. Tomorrow you are presented at court as my duchess."
He turned and left the chamber without another word. Elara exhaled, sliding down the door until she sat on the cold marble floor.
That was too close. Note to self: demon biology is bullshit.
The system pinged softly:
[Night 1 Survived!
Reward: +1 Skill Point (Illusion Magic Upgraded Slightly).
New Quest: Survive Court Presentation.
Warning: Many eyes will be on you tomorrow.]
Elara dragged herself to the massive bed, kicked off the torture-heels, and passed out fully dressed. Sleep was full of old nightmares—rain, falling, cold hands pushing her.
Morning came too soon.
Servants—silent women with faint glowing marks on their skin—dressed her in a new gown: deep emerald silk that hugged her figure, high collar, long sleeves. Beautiful, but still no pockets big enough for poison. She hid the nightshade vial in her hair instead, pinned under an ornate comb.
Breakfast was served in a private dining hall. Draven was already there, reading reports, looking annoyingly perfect in black and silver.
Elara sat, stared at the spread—fruits, breads, some kind of smoked meat—and frowned. No coffee. Of course.
She waved a servant over. "Do we have anything strong and hot to drink? Like… dark, bitter, wakes you up?"
The servant blinked. "Tea, Your Grace?"
"Tea is for grandmas. I need coffee." She spotted a jar of dark roasted beans on a side table—probably decorative. Close enough.
Ten minutes later, using hot water and a makeshift filter from cloth, Elara had brewed a rough cup of coffee. It smelled like heaven.
She took a sip and sighed dramatically. "Finally. Civilization."
Across the table, several noble guests invited for the morning meal stared in horror. One older lord actually crossed himself. "Witch's brew!"
Elara grinned. "Relax. It's just coffee. Better than your medieval mud-water you call tea."
A few younger nobles hid smiles. Draven glanced up from his papers, one brow raised again. The system popped up:
[Innovation Unlocked: Coffee Introduced.
+5 Charm Points with Younger Nobles.
But Traditionalists Offended – Minor Death Flag Rising.]
Worth it.
Court presentation came right after breakfast.
The throne room was enormous—black marble floors, tall pillars carved with runes that glowed faintly, massive windows showing a stormy sky. Hundreds of nobles filled the space, all bowing as Draven entered with Elara on his arm.
Whispers followed her like smoke.
"Human duchess…"
"With powers, yes, but still human…"
"Unfit for our future king…"
"His heir will be diluted…"
Elara kept her chin high, but inside she seethed. Diluted? I'll show you diluted.
Draven's grip on her arm was firm, almost protective. Or possessive. Hard to tell.
They reached the dais. Draven sat on the throne; Elara stood beside him as the nobles came forward one by one to swear loyalty to the new duchess.
Most were polite. Some were cold. Then Liora appeared—still in white, still glowing softly like a walking night-light.
She curtsied deeply. "Your Highness. Your Grace." Her smile was sweet, but her eyes flicked to Elara with fake concern.
As Liora rose, she "tripped" slightly—her goblet of wine tipping forward, splashing dark red liquid all over Elara's emerald gown.
Gasps filled the hall.
"Oh no!" Liora cried, hand over mouth. "I'm so sorry! I only meant to offer a blessing—purification for your new role."
Elara looked down at the spreading stain, then back at Liora. Rage bubbled, but she forced a bright, sarcastic smile.
"Girl, that's just bad manners. Ever heard of therapy? Might help with the clumsiness."
Laughter rippled through some of the younger nobles. Liora's face flushed pink. Draven's lips twitched—he was definitely hiding a smile now.
The system cheered:
[Witty Comeback Success!
Liora Favorability –10.
Court Favorability +15.]
Small victories.
After the ceremony, the court moved to a grand balcony for a midday ball—music, dancing, politics disguised as small talk.
Elara slipped away for a moment of air, leaning against a stone railing. The view was stunning: dark forests, floating lights in the distance, magic in the air.
Footsteps behind her. Draven.
He stopped close—too close. His hand settled lightly on her waist, pulling her back against him just enough to feel his warmth.
"Your tongue is sharp," he murmured near her ear. "It stirs something… forbidden."
His breath brushed her neck. Heat flooded her skin. Her illusion magic glitched without warning—a brief shimmer, and for a second, he saw a flicker of her real emotions: fear, anger, unwanted attraction.
Elara twisted away, heart pounding. "Touch me again, and I'll end this farce myself."
His eyes darkened, but he let her go. "We shall see."
She stormed off, cheeks burning.
The ball continued. Music swelled. Dancers spun. Elara accepted a drink from a servant, trying to calm down.
Then—movement in the shadows above.
An arrow whistled through the air, aimed straight at her chest.
Time slowed.
Draven moved faster than humanly possible—he shoved her aside and took the arrow in his shoulder. Black blood seeped through his jacket.
Chaos erupted—screams, guards rushing.
Elara stared, shocked. He… protected me?
Draven pulled the arrow out like it was nothing, face still calm. But attached to the shaft was a small note, written in red ink:
"The prince's secret will doom you both."
The system flashed urgently:
[Assassination Attempt Detected!
Plot Twist Suspected: Heroine's Hand?
New Quest: Investigate… or Die.]
Elara looked across the panicked crowd. Liora stood pale, eyes wide—but was that fear… or satisfaction?