The dungeon was colder than Takao expected, damp walls dripping with condensation, the air heavy with the scent of iron and dust. Yet it felt as though it had been prepared for him alone. Shelves lined with herbs, jars of dried roots, vials of strange powders—everything a healer might need. Everything a poisoner might use.
His hands trembled as he reached for the pestle. Each grind of the mortar echoed against the stone, each hiss of steam from the boiler seemed to mock him. He was a healer. His very existence was meant to preserve life, not end it. And yet—he crushed the herbs, measured the powders, and watched the liquid darken into a venom so potent it could silence a man within hours.
Two guards loomed over him, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Done, doc?" one asked, inspecting the small vial.
Takao's reply was low and flat. "Yes."
The tone in his voice made them laugh.
"Careful with that tongue. Master'll be here soon. Then you'll be free to go."
Free. The word tasted like ash.
When Rikuya entered, his smirk carried triumph. He inspected the vial, lifting it against the torchlight. "Impressive. You're a charm indeed, Takao." His voice coiled like a serpent. "Guards, let him go. Let him enjoy the banquet as his… reward."
Takao's steps were unsteady as he was escorted upstairs. But instead of leaving, he followed. Quiet, calculated. His instincts screamed danger. From a darkened corridor he watched Rikuya vanish into the kitchen. Peering through the crack of the door, Takao's chest tightened. There—Rikuya poured the poison into a single glass, blending it seamlessly among the others before stepping away.
Takao memorized the glass. Its position on the tray. The way it gleamed under the lanterns. His heart pounded like a war drum.
The banquet was chaos—music, laughter, the clinking of plates. Takao slipped among the crowd, his eyes locked on that one glass as it traveled across the room. Then his blood froze. The tray approached Nozomi.
The exiled prince accepted it with a polite nod, unaware of the death in his hand.
Takao surged forward, the music swallowing his voice. Desperation clawed at him. He reached Nozomi's side, lips brushing the prince's ear in a whisper sharp as a dagger:
"Don't drink it. If you value your life—don't."
He slipped away before suspicion could catch him.
Nozomi froze, the warning replaying in his mind. For reasons he couldn't explain, he believed the stranger. His grip loosened, the glass slipped from his hand and shattered. Servants rushed to clean the spill, dismissing it as an accident. But he knew. Someone had meant for him to die. And someone else had just saved him.
In his chamber, Rikuya's smug grin shattered when the news was delivered.
"Young master dropped the glass," the guard stammered. "He never drank it."
Rikuya's face darkened. "That cursed brat… How does he escape fate again and again?" He waved the guard away, fury boiling in his voice. "No matter. This is only the beginning."
That night, Takao stood at the balcony of his allotted room, the moonlight silvering his worried face. Relief and dread battled in his chest. He had saved the boy—for now. But at what cost?
Elsewhere in the palace, a flicker of warmth broke the night.
"Nozomi…"
The prince turned, candlelight spilling over a face he had longed for all his life. His mother.
"Mother…" His voice cracked as tears welled. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Reika's eyes glistened as she drew him into her embrace.
"Years they caged me in silk and silence," she whispered, trembling, "yet the ache of your absence was louder than any chain. My son… let me hold you until the world feels right again."
Nozomi buried his face against her shoulder. For the first time in years, the cursed prince felt like a child—safe, loved, and wanted.
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