The letter burned in my hand.
Not physically—but in the way truth burns when it rewrites everything you thought you understood.
The poison was not meant for you.
I read it again. Then a third time. The words did not change, but their meaning grew heavier with each breath I took.
If the poison was not meant for me, then the attempt on my life was not an assassination.
It was collateral damage.
I sat slowly on the edge of the bed, careful not to call the servants. My chamber felt different now. Smaller. As if the walls had leaned closer to listen.
Someone had planned to kill another person at the coronation banquet.
And I had almost died because I drank the wrong cup.
Which meant the real target was still alive.
And now they knew something had gone wrong.
I forced myself to breathe evenly.
Think.
At the banquet, the seating had been precise. Symbolic. Hierarchical. Every cup poured by servants assigned by the palace—by my mother.
The imperial cup had been brought last.
Which meant the poison had been intended for someone seated near the throne.
Someone important enough to warrant subtlety.
Someone whose death would change the balance of power.
My mind went through the faces I remembered.
Chancellor Kross had barely touched his wine.
The High Priest had only sipped.
General Hale, however—
He had drunk deeply.
Too deeply.
I closed my eyes.
If Hale had been the target, then the attempt failed spectacularly. And if he discovered that—
No.
Not yet.
I stood and walked to the window. Dawn light crept over the palace roofs, turning stone red like dried blood.
I was alive because of a mistake.
Mistakes created fear.
Fear created opportunity.
A knock came at the door.
I did not answer immediately.
"Your Majesty," a male voice said. Young. Nervous. "I bring the morning reports."
"Enter," I said.
The servant bowed low, eyes fixed on the floor. He carried a stack of documents, hands trembling.
"Leave them," I said. "And close the door behind you."
He did.
I waited. Listened to his footsteps fade.
Then I examined the reports—not for their contents, but for the seals.
One was broken.
Not carelessly. Deliberately.
Someone wanted me to notice.
Inside was a simple list.
Three names.
Two were minor nobles I barely remembered.
The third made my pulse quicken.
Captain Ilyas Dorn.
Commander of the inner palace night guard.
A man who had been reassigned three times in the last year.
A man who, according to memory, had once refused a direct order from General Hale.
I folded the paper carefully.
The letter and the list belonged together.
Someone was feeding me information.
Not out of loyalty.
Out of necessity.
I rang the bell.
This time, when the servant entered, I smiled.
"I wish to walk," I said softly. "The gardens. With minimal escort."
His eyes flickered—fear, calculation.
"I will inform the Chancellor—"
"No," I interrupted, gently. "Inform Captain Dorn."
The servant hesitated.
Then bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Good.
If Dorn refused, I would know where he stood.
If he obeyed—
The gardens were quiet at this hour. Dew clung to trimmed hedges. Statues of past emperors watched in silence, most of them men who had died violently.
Captain Dorn arrived with only two guards.
He bowed deeply.
Deeper than the others.
That alone was dangerous.
"Your Majesty," he said. "You honor me."
"Walk with me," I replied.
We moved slowly along the stone path. The guards stayed back, out of earshot.
"You were on duty last night," I said casually.
"Yes."
"Did you see anything unusual?"
He paused—just a fraction too long. "No, Your Majesty."
I stopped walking.
"So you lie," I said calmly.
He went pale.
"I—"
"You were reassigned often," I continued. "That happens to men who don't listen. Or men who listen too well."
He swallowed.
I leaned closer. "Someone tried to kill a powerful man at my coronation. I drank his poison instead."
Captain Dorn's eyes widened—not in surprise, but in confirmation.
So he knew.
"Who was the target?" I asked.
He looked around, then dropped to one knee.
"I don't know for certain," he said. "But the order came from above the guard. Very high."
"Higher than my mother?"
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
"Who tampered with the cups?" I asked.
"A servant named Reth," he said quickly. "Dead now. Fell down the east stairs before dawn."
Of course he did.
I resumed walking.
"Why tell me this?" I asked.
"Because if you hadn't survived," Dorn said quietly, "I would have been executed by tomorrow."
I stopped again.
"And now?"
"Now," he said, voice tight, "I believe the empire is about to tear itself apart."
I studied him carefully.
He was afraid—but not of me.
He was afraid of what came next.
"Captain Dorn," I said, "you will say nothing of this conversation. You will continue to obey your orders."
His shoulders sagged with relief.
"And," I added, "you will watch General Hale."
The relief vanished.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
That night, I received another letter.
No seal.
No signature.
Just one line:
The general suspects.
I sat in the dark, candle unlit.
So Hale had noticed. Maybe the bird. Maybe the wine. Maybe the sudden tightening of security around me.
A cornered general was more dangerous than a confident one.
And if Hale believed someone had tried to kill him—
He would strike first.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling dragons.
The empire was not divided into factions.
It was divided into conspiracies that overlapped just enough to cause war.
And I was standing at the center of all of them.
Tomorrow, I would summon General Hale privately.
Not to accuse him.
Not to threaten him.
But to offer him protection.
Because if he accepted—
He would owe me.
And if he refused—
Then I would know exactly how soon I would have to kill him.
As I closed my eyes, one final thought settled in my mind, heavy and cold.
I had not inherited a throne.
I had inherited a battlefield.
And the next corpse would not be a bird.