The immediate aftermath of the poisoning was a maelstrom of controlled chaos. Medics rushed to Baron Esmond's side, their grim faces confirming what everyone already knew. He was dead. The Crimson Guard, Vorian's personal elite, moved with chilling efficiency, their crimson-plumed helmets creating a ring of steel around the royal table. They were less investigators and more a wall, controlling the scene.
King Theron slammed his fist on the table, the sound cracking through the panicked whispers like thunder. "Silence! Who did this? In my own hall! Under my own roof!"
The Captain of the Crimson Guard, a hard-faced man named Malek, stepped forward and knelt. "Your Majesty, we have the servant who poured the wine in custody. It was likely a personal grievance against the Baron. We will have a confession by morning."
It was a neat, simple solution. Too simple. It swept the entire incident under the rug, blaming a disposable man and ignoring the terrifying implications. Kaelen saw the plan for what it was: a narrative designed to protect the powerful. Vorian stood impassive, a mask of regal concern on his face, but his eyes were fixed on Captain Malek, a silent command passing between them.
This was it. The moment Kaelen had spent a lifetime—two lifetimes—preparing for. He could remain silent, the forgotten prince, and let the lie stand. It was the safe option. Or he could step out of the shadows.
He took a breath and stepped forward. Every eye in the hall turned to him. The forgotten prince, who never spoke, was about to address the court in a moment of crisis.
"Your Majesty," Kaelen said, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the tension. He bowed his head respectfully to his father. "Captain Malek's diligence is commendable, but his conclusion is flawed."
A gasp went through the court. To publicly contradict the Captain of the Crimson Guard was unthinkable. Vorian's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
Kaelen continued, his voice calm and analytical, like a scholar presenting a thesis. "The poison. The royal apothecaries can confirm it, but the scent and the speed suggest Nightshade Kiss—a rare and costly substance. It is not the tool of a common servant with a petty grudge."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Furthermore, consider the target. If the assassin truly wanted Baron Esmond dead, why here? Why in this manner? It was an act of immense risk for a target of little political value. The method does not match the motive."
King Theron leaned forward, his weary eyes showing a flicker of genuine interest for the first time. "What are you suggesting, boy?"
"I am suggesting the target was not Baron Esmond," Kaelen stated plainly. His gaze swept across the high table, a silent accusation that touched everyone. "The poison was not in the flagon, or we would all be afflicted. It must have been administered to a single goblet. The servant who poured it is shaking with a fear that goes beyond guilt. He is a pawn, not a mastermind."
He turned his attention back to the King. "The question is not who carried the poison, but who had the authority to orchestrate such a precise act within these walls? Who could command a specific servant to serve a specific goblet at a specific time, and be so certain of their obedience they would use them for regicide?"
He didn't need to say the final part. Regicide. The attempted murder of a royal. He had just re-contextualized the entire event. It wasn't a minor lord's murder; it was a failed attempt on a prince.
The silence that followed was absolute. Kaelen had not accused anyone by name, but he had drawn a circle, and within it stood only a handful of people with that level of authority. Vorian's face was a thundercloud, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle pulsed in his cheek. Kaelen had used pure, undeniable logic to dismantle his neat cover-up and turn the investigation back towards him like a loaded crossbow.
Serenya, who had been watching the entire exchange with the intensity of a hawk, allowed the smallest, faintest smile to touch her lips for a fraction of a second. It was a look of grudging, impressed acknowledgment.
King Theron stared at his youngest son, truly seeing him for the first time not as a magic-less failure, but as something else entirely. Something sharp and dangerous.
"Captain Malek," the King commanded, his voice now cold steel. "Release the servant into the custody of the Royal Guard—my guard, not yours. Your investigation will now follow the line of inquiry Prince Kaelen has suggested. I do not want the hand that held the cup. I want the mind that plotted the act. Find the puppet master."
Vorian bowed stiffly. "Of course, Father. We will find this traitor."
But the damage was done. Kaelen had survived the poison, and in the aftermath, he had fired his first shot in a war he had never asked to join. It was not a magical bolt or a swing of a sword, but a volley of words, perfectly aimed. He had shown the court, and more importantly, his enemies, that the shadow had a mind. And it was sharper than any blade.
Chapter End
Next: Chapter 4 - Lessons in Shadows