The kitchen staff of the Farnell estate watched in horrified silence as their young mistress burned three perfectly good slices of white bread into charred, blackened husks.
"My Lady," the head cook ventured, wringing his hands on his apron. "If you desire toast, I can prepare—"
"I don't desire toast, Cook. I desire carbon," Elyana muttered.
She scraped the blackened crusts into a mortar, grinding them with a pestle until they were a fine, grim dust. She poured water from a pitcher, swirled the dark slurry, and drank it in one long, agonizing gulp.
It tasted like licking the inside of a chimney. The grit stuck to her teeth, and her stomach rebelled, cramping violently before settling.
Adsorbent, she thought, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It won't clear everything, but it will bind the remaining alkaloids in my gut. It buys me time.
She had sent Marie away to fetch a "heavier dress," buying herself ten minutes alone. In that time, she had analyzed her situation with the same cold detachment she used to triage patients during her emergency room rotations.
Facts:
1. Someone in this house poisoned her.
2. Julian was the prime suspect, likely with help from a bribed servant.
3. Duke Kyle Moran was in the drawing room.
In the novel, the Duke's visit to the Farnell estate was a footnote—a disastrous negotiation that resulted in the Farnell merchant routes being taxed into oblivion by the Imperial Crown. Her father, desperate to recoup losses, had hastened her marriage to Julian, sealing her doom.
If I want to live, Elyana thought, setting the empty glass down with a clink, I need to stop that negotiation from failing.
She didn't return to her room. She smoothed the front of her silk nightgown—hardly appropriate for guests, but she didn't have time for corsets—and grabbed a heavy wool shawl from a hook by the garden door. Wrapping it tightly around herself like a toga, she marched toward the drawing room.
The voices drifted into the hallway, muffled by the heavy oak doors.
"...unreasonable, Your Grace," her father's voice. Lord Farnell sounded breathless, like a man trying to hold back a flood with a tea saucer. "The price of refined Lyrium has tripled. The supply chains in the South are..."
"Broken," a deep, baritone voice cut in. It was flat, devoid of inflection, yet it carried the weight of a gavel strike. "Because you broke them, Lord Farnell. You're stockpiling."
"Now, now, Your Grace," Julian's oily voice interjected. Elyana paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. "Surely we can come to an arrangement that benefits us all? Perhaps a private agreement..."
Elyana pushed the doors open.
The scene inside froze.
Her father, a portly man with a perpetually red face, was sweating profusely behind his mahogany desk. Julian was leaning against the mantle, striking a pose he likely thought was dashing, holding a glass of sherry.
And in the center of the room, sitting in a high-backed velvet chair that looked too fragile to hold him, was Kyle Ethan Moran.
Up close, the "Butcher" was even more terrifying. He wasn't overly muscular in the way of bodybuilders; he was built for efficiency. Lean, dense muscle visible even through his dark military coat. He sat with perfect stillness, his gloved hands resting on the head of a cane he clearly didn't need for walking.
When Elyana entered, three pairs of eyes snapped to her.
"Elyana!" Her father gasped, half-rising. "My dear, you should be in bed! You look... good heavens, you're pale as a ghost."
"A slight indisposition, Father," Elyana said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her legs. She walked further into the room, the wool shawl trailing behind her. She ignored Julian entirely and looked straight at the Duke.
Kyle didn't blink. His amber eyes tracked her movement, dissecting her. He didn't stand. He didn't offer a platitude. He just watched.
"Lord Farnell," Kyle said, his eyes never leaving Elyana's face. "You didn't mention your daughter was... unwell."
"She's fine," Julian interrupted quickly, stepping forward to block Elyana's path to the Duke. "Just a touch of female hysteria. The excitement of the wedding, you understand."
Elyana stopped. A cold fury, sharper than the headache, spiked in her chest.
"Move, Julian," she said softly.
Julian blinked, his smile faltering. "Elyana, darling, let me escort you back—"
"I said, move."
She didn't shout. She dropped her voice to the register she used when a patient was arguing about a dosage—firm, authoritative, and brokering no argument.
Julian, stunned by the sudden change in his usually docile fiancée, stepped aside.
Elyana walked past him and stood before the Duke. She was wearing a nightgown and a gardener's shawl, smelling faintly of burnt toast, standing before the second most powerful man in the Empire.
"Your Grace," she said, dropping a curtsy that was technically correct but minimal. "My father is terrible at lying. He isn't stockpiling Lyrium because he's greedy. He's stockpiling it because the current batch is contaminated."
Silence descended on the room. Thick, heavy silence.
Lord Farnell turned a shade of purple. "Elyana! What are you saying?"
Kyle's gaze shifted from her face to her father's, then back to her. He leaned forward slightly, the leather of his chair creaking.
"Contaminated," Kyle repeated. It wasn't a question.
"Mold," Elyana lied—well, half-lied. She knew from the novel that a plague hit the southern crops around this time. Farnell was hoarding, but not because of mold; he was just greedy. But if she gave him a medical excuse, she could save the negotiation. "The moisture levels in the southern warehouses were mismanaged. If he ships that Lyrium to your soldiers in the North, you won't be treating their wounds. You'll be giving them systemic fungal infections. He was trying to spare you the insult of receiving rotted goods."
She glanced at her father, widening her eyes slightly. Play along, old man.
Lord Farnell, a merchant to his core, recognized a lifeline when he saw one. He stammered, "Y-yes! Exactly! I was... I was trying to source a clean batch before informing you, Your Grace. I didn't want to worry the Crown."
Kyle stared at Elyana. The amber eyes narrowed. For a moment, she thought he might draw the sword at his hip and end them both. He looked at her hands—specifically, the faint smudge of charcoal on her thumb.
"You are knowledgeable about medical supplies, Lady Elyana?" he asked. His voice was lower now, vibrating in her chest.
"I read," she said. "And I know that fungal spores in an open wound are fatal within three days in a cold climate."
Kyle stood up.
He towered over her. The sheer size of him was daunting. He smelled of cold iron and rain. He loomed, invading her personal space, testing her flinch reflex.
Elyana forced herself to hold his gaze. Do not look down. Do not look at the scar.
"Lucas," Kyle said, without turning his head.
The messy-haired aide popped up from a corner where he'd been scribbling notes. "Yes, Boss?"
"Check the southern warehouses. Test for mold."
"On it," Lucas chirped, eyeing Elyana with new interest.
Kyle looked down at Elyana. "If you are lying, Lady Elyana, I will confiscate your father's entire estate. If you are telling the truth..." He paused. His gaze flicked to the ring on her finger—the gaudy ruby from Julian. "Then I will owe you a favor."
"A favor?" Elyana echoed.
"The North pays its debts," Kyle said. "Always."
"Good," Elyana said, her heart pounding so hard she felt dizzy. "Then I'll cash it in now."
Julian laughed nervously. "Elyana, really, you're embarrassing yourself—"
"I want a ride," Elyana said, ignoring her fiancé. "To the capital. In your carriage."
Lord Farnell choked. "Elyana! You are engaged! You cannot ride alone with the Duke!"
"Julian can come too," Elyana added, though the thought made her nauseous. "But I need to see the Royal Physician. As Julian said... I'm feeling hysterical."
She looked at Kyle, pleading silently with her eyes. Get me out of this house. Get me away from the poisoner.
Kyle studied her for a long, agonizing second. He saw the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He saw the dilated pupils. And, being a man who had seen death in all its forms, he likely recognized the look of a trapped animal.
The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was something sharper.
"Lucas," Kyle said, turning toward the door. "Make room in the carriage."
He stopped as he passed Julian, who was looking between the Duke and Elyana with open-mouthed shock.
"And bring the Viscount," Kyle added dryly. "He can ride with the driver."