The first attempt came quietly.
No banners.
No warnings.
No armies.
Only poison.
Aren felt it at supper.
A strange bitterness in the wine.
A burning in his throat.
His vision blurred.
He staggered.
Lysa caught him before he fell.
"Poison," she hissed.
She forced water down his mouth.
Crushed herbs between his teeth.
"Spit," she ordered.
He obeyed.
Vomited onto the floor.
Shaking.
Alive.
By morning, three servants were gone.
One found dead.
Two vanished.
No names were given.
No questions asked.
Rowan visited.
Concern painted on his face.
"Are you well?" he asked.
"Well enough," Aren replied.
"Enemies grow bold," Rowan said.
"Because I grow useful," Aren answered.
The prince smiled thinly.
Aren began sleeping armed.
Eating little.
Trusting no one.
The palace felt smaller.
Darker.
Hostile.
Lysa uncovered whispers.
"Harland hires killers."
"Morn funds spies."
"Edric plots exile."
All rumors.
All possible.
One night, Aren followed a cloaked figure.
Through servants' tunnels.
Into forgotten vaults.
Torches flickered.
Voices murmured.
"…before he replaces us."
"…too popular."
"…needs to disappear."
Aren froze.
He recognized Harland's voice.
And another.
A councilman.
"They plan to accuse you of treason," Lysa said later.
"False letters. Fake witnesses."
Aren clenched his jaw.
"Then I'll expose them."
"Careful," she warned. "They own the courts."
Days later, documents surfaced.
Bearing Aren's seal.
Orders to rebel towns.
Calls for revolt.
All forgeries.
The trap was set.
Only waiting to close.
Aren stood alone in his room.
Holding the false letters.
Looking at his own signature.
Perfectly copied.
He realized:
They were not trying to kill him.
They were trying to erase him.