Inside the war chamber of the royal court, Admiral Throne knelt before King Aldric. Sweat clung to his brow from the hard ride.
"Your Majesty, General D'Aragon has returned to his estate. He's been poisoned. We don't yet know what kind of toxin, only that his condition is worsening. His physician advised immediate action."
King Aldric stood sharply, a tremor of fury in his voice. "Why wasn't I told sooner?"
"My lord, we only just returned. The general wished not to disrupt court while his condition was uncertain."
The King exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the table. "No disruption outweighs his life. Dispatch the royal physician to Blackmoor Hall immediately. And send word to the apothecary council—gather every known antidote, rare herb, and arcane remedy they can carry."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And Throne," the King said, voice low but clear, "he is not just a general. He is our shield. Whatever it takes… save him."
Throne bowed. "We'll not fail him, sire."
As the chamber cleared, King Aldric turned to his advisors. "Poison amid battle. Treachery cloaked in blood. This is no random act—it's a message."
The night was cold and wet by the time Lucien's escort reached Blackmoor Hall. Rain slicked the cobblestones, and the mansion's tall windows glimmered faintly with candlelight. A pair of servants rushed to open the gates when they saw the riders approach.
Lady Evelyn was already at the front steps, hastily pulling a shawl around her shoulders. Her hair was loose, her face drawn tight with worry. When she saw Lucien slumped in the saddle, supported by Commander Rane, her stomach twisted.
"Lucien?" she called out, her voice thinner than she meant.
Rane dismounted quickly. "He's alive," he said as he caught her arm to steady her. "But it's bad."
"What happened?"
"I'll explain inside. Help me get him down."
Evelyn wasn't strong, but she moved to Lucien's side without hesitation. Together with Rane and one of the guards, they eased him from the horse. He barely stirred.
They brought him into the manor, the warmth of the entrance hall doing little to cut the sharp chill that clung to them. The servants moved quickly—someone fetched blankets, and another stirred the fire to life.
"Clear that settee," Rane ordered.
Lucien was lowered down, his head lolling slightly before Evelyn cupped it, easing him into a resting position. His skin felt unnervingly cold.
"Someone fetch Master Carrow," Evelyn said, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I'm here," the physician spoke, already kneeling by Lucien's side with his satchel open. He checked Lucien's pulse, his brow furrowed.
"Poison," Rane said quietly. "Some kind of bloodborne toxin."
Evelyn's hands trembled as she smoothed Lucien's hair back from his damp forehead. "He's burning up," she murmured.
"There's little we can do out here," Master Carrow admitted. "I've sent a rider to the palace. The King will dispatch the royal physician. Until then… cool clothes, and water. And hope."
Evelyn swallowed hard. "I'm not leaving him."
"No one's asking you to," Rane said, softer now.
Lucien stirred faintly, a flicker of awareness passing through his expression before it faded again.
"I should've been there," Evelyn whispered, though she knew how useless the words were. She didn't know how to fight, and had never been to a battlefield—but that didn't stop the guilt from clawing at her.
"You couldn't have stopped this," Rane told her quietly.
"I know." She exhaled and sat down beside Lucien, her hand resting against his shoulder. "But I can be here now."
The fire crackled. The storm outside pressed against the windows. And in the hush that followed, the house seemed to hold its breath.
The minutes dragged into hours. Master Carrow worked steadily, applying salves to the wound on Lucien's palm and brewing what little he could with the herbs available at Blackmoor. Every so often, Lucien would stir—sometimes muttering incoherent fragments of battlefield orders, sometimes lapsing into a tense, fevered silence.
Evelyn stayed at his side, refusing to be coaxed away even when the servants urged her to rest. She wiped his brow, cooled his lips with water, and listened to the uneven cadence of his breathing.
At one point, Rane returned from the courtyard, shaking the rain from his cloak.
"The royal physician's on his way," he said quietly, not wanting to wake Lucien if he slept. "King Aldric's orders. He sent word that nothing else is to take precedence over the Duke's recovery."
Evelyn's shoulders sagged with a mixture of relief and helplessness. "Good. Maybe they'll know what this is."
"I pray they do." Rane hesitated, his gaze falling to Lucien's pale face. "I've fought beside him for years, Evelyn. I've seen him take wounds that would feel lesser men… but this—" his voice dipped, thick with unease, "this isn't like the others."
"It's poison," Evelyn said, her voice soft but firm. "And poison's made to be cruel."
She tucked the blanket more securely around Lucien's shoulders. "He'll pull through," she added, whether to convince herself or Rane, she wasn't sure.
The commander gave a small, grim nod. "Aye. He's stubborn as hell. I've seen him will himself through worse."
They lapsed into silence again. Only the low crackle of the fire and the patter of rain filled the room.
A servant appeared at the door. "Milady… I've prepared a room for you to rest."
"I'll stay here," Evelyn answered without glancing away.
The servant hesitated, nodded, and retreated.
Rane poured himself a cup of something hot from a nearby kettle. He didn't bother offering any to Evelyn; he knew she wouldn't take it. Instead, he settled into a chair nearby, keeping watch alongside her.
For all the grandeur of Blackmoor Hall, the night felt small, heavy, and close. Worry hung thick in the air, wrapping around them both as they waited for the physician—and whatever grim news he might bring.
As the hours ticked by, Evelyn leaned closer to Lucien's ear, her fingers gently brushing his hair. "You've come through worse, cousin," she murmured. "Don't you dare give them the satisfaction now?"
If Lucien heard her, he gave no sign.
The heavy knock at the door came just before dawn. Rane was the one to answer it, his face drawn and tired. The royal physician—an older man with a lined face and sharp eyes named Aldren—stepped inside, already shedding his rain-soaked cloak.
"Where is he?" Aldren asked without pleasantries.
"Upstairs. The east chamber," Rane replied, leading the way.
Within moments, Aldren knelt beside Lucien's still form, his experienced hands already checking his pulse, his eyes examining the faint grayish tint to the skin near the wound. He opened a leather satchel and laid out vials and instruments, muttering to himself as he worked.
Evelyn stood a few paces away, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her worry plain.
After a long, tense stretch of silence, Aldren finally exhaled and spoke.
"It's as I feared," he said grimly, dabbing a mixture of herbs along Lucien's wrist. "This isn't a natural toxin… it was crafted. Likely foreign. Whatever it is, it's burrowed too deep into his blood. There's no known antidote in the capital nor any of the surrounding territories."
Evelyn's face paled. "Then… what happens now?"
Aldren's expression softened, but his voice remained steady. "He'll live. But not unchanged. The poison won't kill him—not immediately. It's slow… designed to linger. He'll endure bouts of pain, worse than what he's felt tonight. Every seven days, without fail."
Rane cursed under his breath, clenching his jaw.
"Can you stop it?" Evelyn asked, hope flickering in her voice.
"I can dull the pain. Slow its reach. But it will always return." Aldren met her gaze. "There are poisons in this world made not to kill a man outright—but to remind him he was meant to die."
Evelyn's throat tightened. She turned to Lucien, whose face remained still, his breathing shallow. "Will he… will he be able to fight? To command?"
Aldren hesitated. "In time, yes. He's strong. Stronger than most. But there will be days when even standing will cost him dearly."
Rane's eyes darkened. "And who would dare use such a thing on him?"
"We'll find out," Aldren murmured. "But for now—keep him here. Away from the court's eyes. Away from those who might finish what was started."
"I'll see to it," Rane promised.
Aldren began preparing more tonics, leaving Evelyn to settle once more beside her cousin. She reached for Lucien's hand, lacing her fingers through his, the chill of his skin sending a knot through her chest.
"You'll get through this, Lucien," she whispered fiercely. "You always do."
And though he didn't stir, the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth might've been the faintest ghost of a smirk.