The grand hall was decorated in arches and bathed in soft sunlight. Fresh flowers adorned every corner, and the entirety of high society had gathered there. The treaty lay upon the long obsidian table, written in beautiful handwriting on rich parchment, in both empires' languages. The golden ink glistened as it caught the light—a document of peace and prosperity. Or so it was meant to be.
Elliott stamped his royal seal first, then signed. He raised his goblet, dark wine swirling inside like liquid night.
Earlier, there had been a slight commotion—an informant had come to Aiden with urgent news. The crown prince had left to investigate but returned quickly. He didn't have a major role in the signing anyway, per protocol.
The emperor's eyes met Aiden's. His gaze was troubled. Elliott made a mental note to ask him about it later.
He took the first sip.
Something was wrong.
But the taster had tested the wine moments ago. The man stood unharmed, blank-faced. Then why did Elliott's throat suddenly feel... constricted?
It was spiced wine—a gift from the envoys. A show of goodwill. Perhaps it was just his sensitive tongue acting up.
Lord Veylar smiled, lifting his own cup. "To a new era of peace."
The court echoed the sentiment. Elliott knew he was supposed to drink again. Refusing might send the wrong message. So, ignoring the tightening in his chest, he took another sip.
Spiced. Bitter. Not his favorite, but never this unbearable.
He had barely swallowed before the constriction worsened. Then came the burn.
At first, he thought it was the heat of the wine, the unfamiliar sting of foreign spices. But then—
His throat closed.
A strangled gasp escaped as his hand flew to his neck. The goblet slipped from his grasp, shattering on the marble floor.
The room froze. Every conversation ceased, every eye turned to the gasping emperor.
Aiden was already pushing his way through.
"Elliott—?" His voice trembled. Disbelief. And fear. So much fear.
Elliott couldn't answer. His vision blurred, lungs seizing. The world spun. And suddenly, he was falling—
But the marble never met him.
An arm caught him, steady and sure. Aiden. Holding him with a gentleness that burned.
Elliott couldn't see. He was slipping from consciousness. But he still heard Aiden's next word, clear and feral:
"POISON!"
Chaos erupted. Nobles stiffened, whispering behind feathered fans. Veylar wore a mask of concern, his mouth moving with empty words.
Whispers spread: The taster wasn't dead. The wine wasn't poisoned.
But no one dared say it aloud. Not to Aiden.
He had gone still, cradling Elliott close, as if to physically shielding him from the poison with sheer will.
His mind worked fast. The taster was unharmed. Elliott wasn't poisoned—not in the traditional sense.
Saffron.
A rare, costly spice—harmless to most, lethal to Elliott. A trivial yet specific allergy no taster would check for.
The spiced wine. The overwhelming aroma. It had masked the saffron.
And Veylar had known. Of course, he had.
Aiden didn't wait. He didn't care about proof. Or diplomacy. Elliott was hurt. That was all he needed.
His roar cracked through the hall: "GUARDS! SEIZE THEM—"
But Veylar had already stepped back. His expression was one of feigned horror, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
This bastard—he thought he had won.
Veylar began his rehearsed defense, "Your Majesty—what a tragedy! Could it have been an accident? A misplaced spice in the wine—"
A sword was at his throat before he finished.
The Nightshade Knight's vice-captain. Aiden's second-in-command.
And in that instant, Veylar realized his miscalculation.
Aiden without Elliott was not lost.
He was unleashed.
"You," Aiden growled. His voice dripped with violence and vengeance. "You knew."
Veylar smiled thinly. "Prove it, Your Highness."
Before Aiden could reply, a weak touch tugged at his sleeve.
Elliott.
Fingers trembling. Lips moving, soundless.
Don't.
Not a command. A plea.
Aiden's throat tightened. He could give the order. Right now. Slit Veylar's throat. No one would stop him.
War was already inevitable.
He could kill Veylar. He could start the war Elliott had spent his life trying to avoid.
And then—
A choked gasp. A weak cough.
Elliott's body went limp.
Aiden screamed for physicians, for help, for someone to do something—but he never took his eyes off Veylar.
This wasn't about need. It never was.
Aiden's devotion wasn't a leash.
It was an obsession.
He didn't follow Elliott because he lacked direction.
He followed Elliott because
Elliott was the direction.
He wasn't lost. He was unleashed.
And Veylar—
He had just made himself the first target.