He looked down at her, his lips and chin red. She imagined him like a beast, a predator feasting on prey.

“Poison,” she said aloud, raising a shaking finger.

He caught it before she could touch his lips, pushing her away.

“I am immune,” he ground out. “You are not.”

The Lionguard moved in pursuit, most of them charging after Konegin and his men. They disappeared through the doors at the far end of the hall, streaking for the courtyard and the gates of Castle Lotha. Erida wanted to gather her skirts and follow. To pin Konegin down herself and cut his throat for his treachery.

Instead she remained at the high table, a statue to all who saw her, though her bones were shaking.

I’ll need to explain, she thought idly, eyeing the room. Her loyal subjects were in a frenzy, too drunk to understand or too confused to do anything more than shout. Her remaining knights bristled at the base of the dais, pushing back any who attempted to pass.

All but Ronin.

They knew better than to cross the wizard.

He glowered, his body twitching in an odd manner, his face whiter than Erida could ever remember it being. Like fresh snow, like a corpse drained of blood. The whites of his eyes were lined with blood vessels, some broken.

Taristan wiped at his face with his sleeve, scrubbing the poison away. “What is it?” he snarled, looking down on his wizard.

Ronin dropped his head, his hands raised like a priest begging forgiveness. “We’ve lost Meer,” he murmured. “We’ve lost a Spindle.”

The chalice, made of pure silver, cracked apart in Taristan’s hands.

Erida felt his rage. It mirrored her own.

“Lost,” she breathed. As if someone has simply misplaced it. Blood roared in her ears and she met Taristan’s eye, catching his wrists before he could tear the table into pieces. “Lost,” she said again, snarling.

He glared, the fire burning in his eyes, a dull red edged in gold. Somewhere, Erida smelled smoke. “I’ll kill her,” he hissed.

“I’ll help you,” she answered.