Kael's POV
The traitor is smiling at me.
Actually smiling.
Lady Elara Thornwood—the woman who poisoned me, who I sentenced to die in these slums—stands in this filthy alley with bruises covering her face and blood on her torn dress, and she's smiling like she knows a secret.
"Disappointed?" she asks.
My hand tightens on my sword. No one speaks to me like that. Not even my closest advisors. Certainly not a condemned traitor who should be a corpse by now.
"You have three seconds to explain why you're still breathing," I say coldly. "Before I finish what the slums failed to do."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't beg. Doesn't cry.
Instead, she laughs.
It's not a happy laugh. It's bitter and sharp and sounds like breaking glass.
"Go ahead," she says, spreading her arms wide. "Kill me. Add murder to your list of crimes. But you'll die within six months without me, Your Highness. That poison eating through your veins? I'm the only one who can cure it."
Ice floods my veins. "You admit to poisoning me?"
"I admit to nothing." Her violet eyes—why are they so different now? So fierce?—meet mine without fear. "Elara Thornwood was framed. The real poisoner is still in your palace, probably laughing while you waste time hunting the wrong person."
"Elara Thornwood." I step closer. "You speak of yourself like a different person."
Something flickers across her face. Panic? No—calculation.
"Prison changes people," she says. "Three days dying in an alley changes them even more. The girl you condemned is dead, Prince Kael. I'm what's left."
I study her carefully. I've interrogated hundreds of prisoners. Watched them lie, cry, beg for mercy. But this woman is different.
Her body language is all wrong. She stands like a soldier, not a noblewoman. Her eyes don't drop in respect—they challenge. And there's an intelligence in her gaze that Commander Theron's reports never mentioned.
"The reports said you were gentle," I say slowly. "Soft-spoken. Terrified during your trial."
"The reports were about someone who believed the world was fair." Her smile turns sharp. "I don't believe that anymore."
Pain suddenly lances through my chest—the poison, always the poison. I've hidden it well for two years, but it's getting worse. The palace physicians give me six months at most.
She sees me wince. Steps forward before my guards can react.
"There," she says, pointing at my chest. "Left side. The pain spreads to your arm sometimes, doesn't it? Makes your fingers go numb. You wake up at night choking."
My blood runs cold. "How do you know that?"
"Because I know poisons." She tilts her head. "And I know cures. Let me see the brand on my shoulder, and I'll tell you exactly what's killing you."
"Your brand?"
"The one your soldiers burned into my skin when they destroyed my life." Her voice drops. "Or are you afraid to see what justice looks like in your kingdom?"
Before I can respond, she turns around and pulls the torn fabric off her left shoulder.
I freeze.
The brand is there—the traitor's mark, still red and angry. But that's not what makes my breath catch.
Her entire back is covered in scars.
Whip marks. Dozens of them. Layered over each other like some horrific map of suffering. Some are old and silver. Some are fresh and scabbed.
"Who did this?" The words come out harder than I intend.
"Your justice," she says quietly. "Your soldiers. Following your orders."
"I ordered you stripped of your title and removed from the palace. Not—" I can't finish the sentence. Looking at her back makes something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with poison.
She turns back around, and I see tears in her eyes. But they're not sad tears. They're furious.
"You ordered me branded and thrown away. What did you think would happen? That people would be kind to a convicted traitor?" She laughs that broken-glass laugh again. "They beat me. Stole what little I had left. Did things I won't describe because even thinking about them makes me want to set this whole kingdom on fire."
The words hit like arrows. I've sentenced dozens of traitors. Never thought about what happened after they left my sight.
Never cared.
But standing here, seeing the results of my justice written on her skin, something cracks inside my frozen chest.
"I didn't know," I say, and I hate how weak it sounds.
"You didn't ask." She wipes her eyes angrily. "None of you ever ask. You just decide someone is guilty and throw them away like trash. Well, congratulations, Your Highness. Your trash survived."
"If you're innocent—"
"I AM innocent!" The words explode from her. "I served wine at that banquet because your Master of Ceremonies told me to! I didn't mix it, didn't prepare it, didn't even choose the bottle! I was just the unlucky servant who carried it to your table!"
"Then why did your cousin testify—"
"Because Seraphina wants my title and my fiancé, and framing me for attempted murder was the fastest way to get both!" She's shaking now, whether from anger or cold I can't tell. "And Damien testified because he's a lying snake who never loved me. He just wanted my family's lands."
Her voice cracks on that last part, and I see it—the real pain underneath all the anger. This woman isn't just furious about injustice.
She's heartbroken.
Just like I was, when my parents were murdered and everyone I trusted disappeared.
"You said you could cure me," I say quietly. "Prove it. Tell me about the poison."
She straightens up, and I watch her visibly pull herself together. When she speaks again, her voice is steady and sure:
"It's called Shadowthorn. Made from three rare plants that only grow in the Eastern kingdoms. Symptoms start slow—chest pain, numbness, nightmares. Then your organs begin failing one by one. Most victims die within two years thinking it's natural illness."
My heart pounds. She's exactly right. Everything she said matches what I've been experiencing.
"The palace physicians didn't recognize it," I say.
"Because it hasn't been used in Valoria for over a hundred years. Whoever poisoned you knew exactly what they were doing. Knew it would be untraceable. Knew everyone would blame whoever served the wine." She meets my eyes. "They set me up perfectly."
"And the cure?"
"Exists. But requires knowledge your physicians don't have." She crosses her arms. "So here's my offer: Give me access to your palace gardens and library. Let me work. In two months, I'll have you cured."
"In exchange for?"
"My innocence proven. My title restored. And Seraphina and Damien punished for what they did." Her violet eyes burn with determination. "I want justice, Prince Kael. Real justice. Not your version."
I should refuse. Should execute her right here for the disrespect alone. But something about this woman makes me hesitate.
Maybe it's the intelligence in her eyes. Maybe it's her impossible knowledge of Shadowthorn poison. Maybe it's the scars on her back that I can't stop seeing.
Or maybe it's the fact that I'm dying, and she might be my only chance at survival.
"Two months," I say finally. "But you work under guard at all times. Try to escape or poison anyone else, and I'll make your previous punishment look like mercy."
She nods once. "Agreed."
I turn to leave, then stop. "One question. How do you know about Shadowthorn poison? It's rare knowledge even among master assassins."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is strange. Distant.
"Let's just say I've studied things your people can't imagine."
Before I can ask what that means, she collapses.
I catch her before she hits the ground—she weighs nothing, all bones and fever-hot skin.
"Guards!" I shout. "Get the palace physician. Now!"
As I lift her unconscious body, something falls from her torn dress pocket. A small piece of metal, twisted and melted.
I pick it up, frowning. It's warm. Almost hot.
And there's writing on it. Strange symbols I've never seen before:
MAYA CHEN - SENIOR ENGINEER - CLEARANCE LEVEL 5
What in all the kingdoms is a "senior engineer"?
Who is Maya Chen?
And why does a medieval noblewoman have metal with writing from nowhere I've ever heard of?