Vesper returned shortly, not with Scribe Rian, but with a stiff assessment of the new political reality.
"The King is not pleased with your sudden interest in toxins," Vesper reported, standing near the door like a silent sentinel. "He finds it a distraction from your primary task: mastering the conduit. He wants you focused on the shadow, not on petty Court squabbles."
This was the opening I needed. "And yet, Lady Isolde chose this exact moment to deliver a specific neurotoxin to my chambers," I countered, gesturing to the gleaming silver box. "If I am rendered incapable of channeling, the bond fails. Is the King's survival a 'petty squabble'?"
Vesper paused, the logic inescapable. "He has permitted Scribe Rian to attend you for one hour. Rian is bringing historical documentation on Fae assassinations. I have been instructed to monitor every word."
"Then let's get to work," I said.
When Rian entered, the air of tension was thick enough to taste. He was trembling slightly, terrified of the King's shadow now that he had been in the same room as its explosive force. He carried a stack of ancient scrolls that looked heavy enough to crush him.
We sat across the table, the silver box containing the Nightshade Bloom sitting innocently between us. Vesper watched us from the corner, her arms crossed.
"Your Highness," Rian murmured, unrolling the first scroll detailing ancient Fae methods of silent killing. "The Nightshade Bloom is primarily used in political incapacitation. As you suspected, it causes a severe magical instability."
"And the counter-agent?" I asked, keeping my voice low and urgent.
Rian used the thick scroll to shield his hands, discreetly nudging a tiny, corked vial wrapped in brown linen toward me, the same color as his robes. It was a clear, slightly iridescent liquid.
"The antidote is a specific distillation of Asphodelium, a common underworld root," Rian recited, his eyes fixed on the scroll. "It is a heat-neutralizing agent. It does not stop the toxin, but it instantly cauterizes the neuro-channels the Nightshade uses to spread. A few drops, inhaled or ingested, will render the toxin inert."
"And what of Lady Isolde herself?" I asked, pushing the conversation beyond immediate survival. "What is the weakness of the Verdant Line?"
Rian paused, making a show of flipping to a new section of the scroll. "Lady Isolde's magic is rooted in the perfection of the Verdant Sense which is the highest order of Fae sensory perception. Her line is obsessively attuned to beauty, perfection, and order. Her most extreme magical defense is tied to the purity of her environment."
He subtly tapped a line of Fae script. "It is said that severe, disruptive sensory overload like a sudden assault on the ears or eyes, can cause a total magical shutdown in the Verdant Line."
I immediately grasped the significance. Lorcan's cold was a brute force weapon; Isolde's power was a fragile, crystalline beauty.
"Thank you, Scribe Rian," I said, giving him a cool, royal nod. "This information is precisely what I required. You may leave the scrolls and the necessary counter-agent for my personal reference."
Rian packed his satchel, his face a mix of fear and relief, and left quickly, Vesper following him out to ensure the separation.
I was finally alone. I uncorked the vial of Asphodelium. The liquid was cool and smelled faintly of mint and ozone.
I walked to the window, opened it slightly, and then carefully opened the silver box, exposing the Nightshade Bloom. The sickly, heavy air emanating from the flower was immediately noticeable, a dullness that wrapped around my senses.
I tilted the vial and let three drops of the Asphodelium splash onto the dark purple petals.
The reaction was subtle but instant. The oily black edges of the flower recoiled slightly, and the sickeningly heavy smell vanished, replaced by a harmless, faint scent of cold soil. The poison was neutralized.
Later that evening, before the third conduit training session, Lorcan visited my chambers. He didn't crash through the door this time; he simply appeared in the archway, his eyes dark and assessing. He was already wearing his leather training gear.
"Vesper informed me of your research," he stated, his voice flat. "Your focus on the antidote is excessive. You are letting a minor political annoyance distract you from the primary, existential threat."
"On the contrary, Your Majesty," I said, walking toward the table and deliberately picking up the silver box and placing it out of sight on a high shelf. "I have neutralized the external threat. Isolde's Nightshade Bloom is inert. I am fully focused on the primary threat."
He watched the movement of the box with sharp, predatory focus, confirming he knew what it was. But his expression remained unreadable.
"Your confidence is either warranted or delusional," he observed coldly. "Do not assume that one small victory against a fading political rival translates to readiness for the Shadow-Curse. That curse is not a poison you can neutralize with a root."
He took a step closer, and I could feel the cold radiating from him, but this time, I also sensed something new, a fragile confusion masked by his usual severity.
"I found your sudden, frantic interest in the antidote... unsettling," Lorcan admitted, the word sounding grudgingly torn from him. "It demonstrated a reckless disregard for self-preservation that is contrary to your survival mandate. Do not risk yourself so carelessly again. Your life is no longer only yours to gamble."
He was furious over my risk, not my deception. He was confused by the sudden, inconvenient surge of worry that he was trying to categorize as necessary caution for the sake of the ritual. Hmm, this is interesting.
"I will not risk your life, Your Majesty," I replied, meeting his intense gaze, refusing to give him the emotional release of a fight. "But I will not be a passive sacrifice either. I am ready for the training."
Lorcan stared at me for a long, silent moment, his eyes searching my face for any sign of fear or deceit. He found none, only stubborn resolve. He hated that he was relying on my defiance, but he desperately needed it.
"Then follow me to the Pit, Seraphina," he commanded, his voice returning to its normal, icy depth. "Let us see if your confidence is strong enough to survive the full containment."
I knew Lorcan's worry was genuine, even if he couldn't name it. My heart, however, was focused on the next fight: surviving his touch long enough to find the key to our mutual salvation.