The passage ahead narrowed to a throat of rough stone, forcing Drizella to turn sideways. Her shoulder scraped against centuries of grime as she inched forward, the ledger pressed tight against her chest. The air grew thicker here, tasting of old mortar and secrets.
"They're using wormwood extract," she whispered back to Alistair, her voice barely carrying over their labored breathing. "Mixed with nightshade. I found the receipts, the exact quantities. They've been dosing him slowly for weeks, building the tolerance—" She broke off as her twisted ankle threatened to buckle. Keep moving. The King has minutes, not hours.
"Clever," Alistair muttered, his breath warm against her neck in the cramped space. "Makes it look like natural illness. No one questions why an aging king grows weaker."
Drizella's fingers traced the wall, counting the subtle grooves that marked each turning. Three left, two right. The storm's fury felt distant here, but occasional thunder still vibrated through the stone. Her scarred palm throbbed with each pulse of lightning, as if responding to the building tension.
"The contract proves everything," she continued, ducking under a low beam. "Silas's signature, the trade routes he promised once Thorin takes the throne. They needed the King too weak to properly review the—" A spider web caught her face. She suppressed a shudder, brushing it away. Focus. Calculate. Move.
"And my father trusted them both," Alistair's voice had gone cold. "Thorin's been at his right hand for fifteen years."
"The best lies are served with absolute loyalty." Drizella paused at a junction, oriented herself. North tower, third level, western face. "Until the moment they're not."
The passage kinked sharply right, then began to slope upward. Each step sent fresh pain shooting through her ankle, but she forced herself faster. The ledger's weight seemed to grow with every yard, its damning contents burning against her chest.
A distant cough echoed through the walls – deep, wet, painful. The King.
"We're close," she breathed, recognizing the particular acoustics of the royal apartments. "The entrance is behind the Solstice tapestry. If we're lucky, they won't expect—"
"They won't be alone," Alistair cut in. "Thorin always keeps at least two guards."
"Then we'll need to be faster than they are." Drizella's fingers found the subtle catch in the stonework. "The evidence means nothing if we're too late to—"
Voices filtered through the wall ahead, muffled but growing clearer. Drizella pressed her ear to the cool stone, straining to separate words from the storm's constant growl. Her heart hammered against the ledger, matching the thunder's rhythm.
"—just finish it," someone was saying. Silas. "We can't afford to wait for—"
Another wet, rattling cough interrupted him.
Almost there. Drizella's hand settled on the hidden latch. Through the wall, she could hear footsteps, the clink of glass, a chair scraping stone. The voices continued, but now she focused on locating their positions in the room beyond. Three distinct sources. No armor sounds. No extra guards – yet.
She looked back at Alistair, finding his eyes in the darkness. A silent understanding passed between them. Whatever came next, there would be no retreating through this narrow passage. No second chances.
The thunder crashed again, and beneath it, she heard the unmistakable sound of a vial being uncorked.
The heavy tapestry slapped against stone as Drizella burst through behind Alistair, her twisted ankle screaming in protest. Moonlight pierced the chamber through rain-lashed windows, casting silver bars across the massive canopied bed where King Roland lay motionless, his chest barely rising beneath embroidered coverlets.
Silas's fingers curled around a crystal vial at the bedside, while Thorin's hand rested on his sword hilt. Their shadows stretched long across the Aubusson carpet, reaching like dark fingers toward where Alistair had frozen mid-stride, his own blade half-drawn.
Two armed men. One exit. Three steps to the bell-pull. Drizella's right palm burned as she gripped her leather ledger tighter, cataloging exits and advantages with the same precision she used for inventory counts. The air reeked of wormwood and something sweeter—nightshade, mixed with the King's labored breathing.
"Your Highness." Silas's voice dripped honey-sweet poison. "Such a late hour for a social call." His thumb stroked the vial's stopper with practiced ease. Too practiced.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the careful distances they all maintained—Thorin angling to flank them, Silas positioning the bed between himself and Alistair's sword reach. The King's sallow complexion spoke volumes about how long they'd been administering their "medicine."
"Step away from His Majesty." Alistair's command cut through the thunder, sharp as steel on stone.
Thorin's boots scraped against carpet as he shifted his weight. "My lord, you misunderstand. We're attending His Majesty's health, as we have for weeks." His hand never left his sword.
"How convenient." Drizella let acid seep into her tone, drawing their attention. Keep them talking. Note their tells. "That you're so... dedicated to your duties. Particularly on nights when the castle guard rotation leaves this wing rather sparse."
Rain hammered against leaded glass as Silas's eyes narrowed, calculating. She recognized that look—the same one her mother wore before striking. The King stirred slightly, a weak cough rattling in his chest.
"Lady Tremaine." Silas's lip curled. "Still playing at merchant princess? Or have you graduated to full conspirator now?" He lifted the vial, moonlight catching crystal facets. "Such serious accusations require serious evidence."
Drizella's fingers found the damning ledger's spine, its weight reassuring. Every transaction, every shipment of poison, every betrayal recorded in meticulous detail. But he doesn't know that yet.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about evidence." She matched his smirk with one of her own, letting her gaze drift meaningfully to the letter opener concealed in her sleeve. "I'm rather good at keeping records."
Thunder cracked overhead as Silas's triumphant expression faltered for just a heartbeat. His knuckles whitened around the vial as he glanced between her and Alistair, recalculating odds she'd already measured thrice over.
A cruel smile twisted his features. "Clever girl. But records can burn. Witnesses can disappear." He raised the vial higher, like a toast. "And little merchant daughters should know better than to play at court politics."