The summons came less than an hour later. A royal page, his face a mask of practiced neutrality, found Kaelen in the quiet solitude of his modest chambers.
"His Majesty, the King, requests your presence at the high table, Your Highness."
The words were a command, but to Kaelen, they sounded like a death sentence. After what he had overheard, returning to that den of smiling vipers felt like walking willingly into a trap. But refusing the King was not an option. It would be an open act of defiance, a sign of fear his enemies would feast upon.
When he entered the Great Hall for the second time, the atmosphere was different. The boisterous celebration had settled into the formal gravity of a royal banquet. Kaelen was led to a seat at the long, polished table of the royal family, a place he hadn't occupied in years. He was placed at the far end, a deliberate statement of his status, but he was there nonetheless. Exposed.
At the center of the table sat his father, King Theron, a man who looked more like a weary monument than a ruler. To his right was the guest of honor, Crown Prince Vorian. His brother was the epitome of royal power, his posture perfect, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched Kaelen take his seat. He radiated a heat that was more than just confidence; it was the literal warmth of a master fire mage.
Beside Vorian was Princess Serenya. Her beauty was a well-honed weapon, her expression a carefully constructed veneer of serene grace. But Kaelen knew his half-sister better. Her eyes, the color of a twilight sky, missed nothing. They flickered towards him for a second, unreadable, before returning to her plate.
"Brother," Vorian's voice boomed, dripping with false cordiality. "How good of you to finally join us. I was beginning to think you were allergic to celebration."
The nearby lords chuckled. Kaelen simply inclined his head. "I would not miss honoring the future of our kingdom, Vorian."
The polite words were a shield. Inside, his mind was a storm of calculations. The threat he'd overheard was fresh, raw. Every shadow in the hall seemed to lengthen, hiding an assassin. Every servant who approached felt like a potential killer.
His paranoia was rewarded. A servant, his face pale with sweat despite the hall's cool air, approached to fill their goblets with deep red wine from a ceremonial flagon. As the man poured for Kaelen, his hand trembled, just for a fraction of a second. A single drop of wine spilled onto the white tablecloth, a tiny crimson stain.
No one else seemed to notice. But Kaelen, his senses screaming with hyper-awareness, saw it all. He saw the servant's fleeting, terrified glance towards Vorian's side of the table. He caught a faint, almond-like scent from his goblet, a scent he'd read about in a dusty tome on historical assassinations. Cyanide. Crude, but effective.
Vorian raised his goblet. "A toast! To the Drakemire line. To power, to legacy, and to a strong, pure future for Eryndor!"
Every word was a barb aimed at Kaelen. The entire table raised their goblets. To refuse would be suicide. To drink would be the same. He had seconds to act.
"A moment," Kaelen said, his voice calm. As he reached for his goblet, he "accidentally" let his sleeve catch on a heavy, ornate salt cellar on the table. It tipped, spilling a cascade of white crystals across the dark wood. "My apologies. How clumsy of me."
It was the perfect distraction. A nearby servant scurried forward to clean the mess. Heads turned. In that brief, two-second window of chaos, Kaelen's movements were a fluid, practiced motion. He slid his own goblet slightly to the right, simultaneously pulling the one belonging to a minor, sycophantic lord, Baron Esmond, into its place. It was a simple, subtle switch, masked by the larger motion of pulling his hand back from the spill.
When the mess was cleared, he held Baron Esmond's goblet. The Baron now had his.
"As I was saying," Vorian said, his eyes glinting with malice. "To the future."
They drank. Kaelen let the safe wine touch his lips, his eyes locked on the Baron. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Baron Esmond's eyes went wide. He made a soft, gurgling sound, his hand flying to his throat. The goblet slipped from his fingers, clattering onto his plate as he slumped forward, his face turning a deathly shade of blue.
Chaos erupted. Guards rushed forward. Serenya shot to her feet, her face a mask of shock, but her sharp eyes darted immediately to Kaelen, a question burning within them. Vorian's mask didn't slip, but Kaelen saw it in his brother's eyes—not surprise, but a flash of pure, cold fury that the wrong man had fallen.
Kaelen feigned shock, rising with the others, his heart hammering against his ribs not from fear, but from the chilling confirmation. The threat was real. The attempt had failed by a hair's breadth. This wasn't just about removing him anymore. It was about doing it publicly, a show of dominance. And the person behind it was so powerful, so brazen, they would try it right at the King's table.
Chapter End
Next: Chapter 3 - Spark of Defiance