The court gathered for the Royal Garden Luncheon, a tradition soaked in old roses, new gossip, and the kind of politeness that drew blood beneath lace gloves.
Aveline arrived late—intentionally.
The nobles were already seated beneath embroidered canopies and parasols, golden sun catching in their jeweled smiles. Courtiers turned as she entered, like birds sensing a predator that had just remembered how to hunt.
She wore green today. Emerald silk, cinched at the waist with threads of gold. The color of envy. Of regrowth.
Of survival.
"Lady Aveline," someone murmured.
A few bowed stiffly. Most stared. The rest whispered behind fans, as if she couldn't feel the weight of their words.
She took her seat without flinching.
Across the garden, Lucien was speaking to a visiting diplomat, but she felt the moment he noticed her. The slight pause. The shift in air.
She didn't look at him.
Not yet.
"Making a statement?" came a low voice to her right.
Aveline turned her head just slightly—Caden.
He lounged beside her like a noble who belonged to every family and none at all.
"Always," she said.
He smiled, eyes scanning the crowd. "You're drawing attention."
"Good. That means someone's already uncomfortable."
As if summoned by the thought, Calista arrived at the far end of the garden. She was radiant in pale lavender, all soft innocence and honeyed smiles.
And she was staring straight at Aveline.
Their eyes locked.
Calista raised her glass. A toast without words.
Aveline didn't blink.
She simply smiled back.
Let the games begin.
The laughter was too bright. The wine too sweet. The courtiers leaned in like nothing could touch them beneath the sun.
And then—
A scream.
Sharp. Immediate. Cutting across the garden like a knife through silk.
Everyone turned.
A young noblewoman—Lady Brielle of House Thorne—had collapsed beside the fountains, her body convulsing, eyes wide in terror.
"Poison!" someone shouted.
Panic bloomed like wildfire. Servants dropped trays. Ladies gasped and clutched pearls. Men stumbled over chairs in their rush to distance themselves.
Aveline rose slowly, gaze locked on the fallen girl.
But her mind… it was racing.
Poison at a royal event? No one would be foolish enough to target a random girl. Not unless—
Her eyes snapped toward the empty goblet still clenched in Brielle's shaking hand.
The one served from the tray meant for her.
Caden was already moving, placing a hand on Aveline's arm—subtle but steady. "Stay still. If you react too fast, you look guilty."
She didn't flinch.
But across the garden, Calista stood motionless, her face perfectly composed… except for one thing.
A flicker of something too calm.
Too prepared.
A test, Aveline realized.
And she had failed to drink it.
Guards rushed in. Healers followed. But the damage was done—not to Brielle, but to Aveline's reputation.
The whispers had already begun.
The nobles were scattering like frightened birds, but Aveline didn't move with them.
She stepped forward.
Each stride measured. Unhurried. Deliberate.
The guards hesitated, unsure whether to shield her or stop her, but no one dared reach out.
Aveline knelt gracefully beside Brielle, ignoring the growing circle of stares.
"Breathe, Lady Brielle," she said, her voice low but steady. "You're stronger than this."
The girl's eyes fluttered in panic, her body wracked with spasms—but the simple steadiness in Aveline's tone seemed to cut through the haze.
One of the royal healers rushed over, flustered and pale.
"My lady, you must step back—"
"No," Aveline said crisply, not looking away from Brielle. "Every second wasted is another inch closer to death."
She glanced up at the healer, voice sharp enough to slice through the rising hysteria.
"Administer Stillingleaf," she commanded. "It counteracts the effects of mistshade poisoning in its early stages."
The healer blinked. "I—I didn't realize—"
"You would, if you studied half as much as you gossip," she snapped.
Several nobles gasped. Someone laughed nervously.
The healer flushed and fumbled in his pouch, pulling out a vial and working quickly.
Within moments, Brielle's tremors slowed. Her breathing evened out.
The tension in the garden shifted. Confusion warred with admiration. Fear tangled with grudging respect.
Aveline had saved her.
Slowly, Aveline stood, dusting imaginary dirt from her skirts.
She turned to face the court—regal, cold, alive with purpose.
"I am grateful," she said, voice carrying across the stunned gathering, "that the attack meant for me did not claim Lady Brielle's life. We must be ever vigilant, mustn't we?"
Her gaze sliced across the nobles—pausing just briefly on Calista.
Calista's fan trembled ever so slightly.
Good.
Aveline smiled—slow and dangerous.
Let them wonder.
Let them fear.
Let them realize that whoever wanted her gone… would have to try much, much harder.