The royal hall was full of golden light when Duke Brant suddenly fell over, a bloody grape stuck in his throat.
At first, no one moved. The music had just stopped, and for a second, everything was quiet — too quiet.
Then the coughing began. Hard, painful, wet.
Brant reached for his neck. His face turned red, then purple. He gasped like a fish on land. Blood trickled from his lips, mixing with wine and saliva.
All eyes turned to Eliana Veyne, sitting in the darkest corner of the long table. She didn't move. She simply raised her glass in a silent toast, while the ravens carved into her family ring seemed to smile.
"It seems the gods are thirsty tonight," she said softly, letting the red wine colour her lips.
Gasps echoed through the room. One lady dropped her spoon. Another made the sign of protection.
The silence broke with a scream from the Duchess of Brant.
"It was her! That cursed Veyne did this!"
Eliana blinked slowly. Just as planned.
While people shouted and stood up, Eliana looked toward King Lorian — her uncle — sitting on the throne above them. His hands gripped the armrests tightly. His knuckles were white. He knew. Of course he did.
"To accuse without proof is a serious crime, Duchess," Eliana said, her voice calm and clear. "Unless you wish to join your husband?"
The quiet threat made the nobles fall back. They had seen things before. Whispers followed the name "Veyne" like smoke. No one dared touch one of them. Not even now, when the once-powerful House of Omens was nothing but an old joke in court songs.
But even old jokes can still frighten people. Especially when the punchline kills.
Three hours earlier, Eliana had prepared the poison.
She sat by the window of her chamber, watching the sun paint the castle walls orange. Outside, the servants hurried to prepare the banquet. Inside, silence ruled.
"Aconitum. Wolfsbane. Mixed into grape jelly," whispered Lysandra, her maid — who only pretended to be mute. She sealed the small glass bottle. Her fingers were fast, practiced. "Enough to kill a bull. It will take ten minutes for a man."
Eliana held the bottle up to the light. The liquid was thick and purple. It shimmered slightly in the glow of the fire.
"Brant always eats too fast. He won't even chew the grape," she said coldly. "He'll swallow it whole. Like the pig he is."
Lysandra didn't answer, but her sharp eyes met Eliana's.
She didn't need words.
Now, in the banquet hall, servants carefully lifted the Duke's body. Blood and foam covered his lips. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing. The grape lay broken on the table beside his hand — a small, deadly fruit.
King Lorian finally stood. His voice was rough, angry.
"Lock the doors. No one leaves until we find out what happened."
Guards rushed to close the great doors. Metal slammed shut. The nobles whispered nervously. Some held hands. Others looked around, trying to guess who might be next.
Eliana crossed her legs slowly. Her dark purple dress caught the candlelight like polished stone. Her grey eyes moved from face to face. She knew no one would find anything. Not unless she allowed it.
"Your Majesty," said the Marquis of Thalos, pale and sweating. "This must be dark magic... or old knowledge. Maybe alchemy. Maybe even blasphemy!"
Eliana hid a smile behind her hand. Blasphemy. That word again.
"Blasphemy is letting a man like Brant live this long," she said, just loud enough for the Countess next to her to hear.
The Countess turned her face away, eyes wide with fear.
Across the room, the Duchess of Brant cried over her husband's body. But her tears were dry. Her eyes were moving — scanning the room, counting allies, calculating enemies. Grief could wait. Survival came first.
Earlier that evening, just before the banquet, Eliana had stood before a mirror. She wore the dress of her mother — the last woman who dared speak openly in the king's court. The dress smelled of lavender and old dust.
She had taken a ceremonial dagger from the drawer. Not to use, just to look. Its edge reflected her face.
She didn't see a killer.
She saw something colder. Something older.
Not an assassin. A reminder. A warning. A Veyne.
"My mother said omens don't wait for permission," Eliana had whispered while Lysandra braided her hair.
"And when he starts choking?" Lysandra asked, watching her in the mirror.
"Don't look away," Eliana said. "They respect power, but they fear eyes that flinch."
"And if they cry for him?"
"Then they cry for what he gave them. Not for who he was."
Now, the Duke was gone. The hall was quiet again. Even the musicians were frozen, their instruments held in still hands.
Everyone watched the king.
Eliana stood slowly.
"I'm sorry for the Duke's death. Truly," she said, voice smooth and polite. "He was a man of great... hunger. And sometimes hunger is what kills."
"Enough!" shouted the Duchess. "She's mocking us — mocking me!"
Eliana tilted her head, as if confused.
"I don't mock anyone. But I won't lie and pretend Brant was a good man. He sold justice for gold. Traded lives for coins."
That stopped the room. Even the king stayed silent.
He looked at her now. Really looked. For years he had tried to protect Eliana, control her, raise her as a quiet niece, not a future threat.
But she wasn't a child anymore.
"I will investigate this," he said. "If you are innocent—"
"If?" Eliana interrupted. She raised one eyebrow.
"You forget something, Uncle," she said quietly. "Omens don't ask for innocence. They appear when they must. They don't wait. They don't ask. They come."
The room felt colder after she spoke. People pulled their cloaks tighter.
No one dared reply.
The nobles began whispering again — not about Brant anymore, but about her. Eliana Veyne. The last of her line. Beautiful, clever, dangerous.
A girl raised by secrets and silence.
She turned to the stained glass windows high above the throne. The painted gods looked down, frozen in judgement. Or maybe amusement.
Behind her, Lysandra appeared from the shadows. She walked like a shadow herself — quiet, soft. She handed Eliana a small cloth. Inside it, a single leaf of wolfsbane.
A message.
"What are they saying now?" Eliana asked in a whisper.
Lysandra moved her hands in silent signs. Just one word:
"You."
Eliana smiled.
And so she did.