Adrian’s war room stank of ambition and elderberry wine. The heavy oak table was strewn with maps, battle plans, and half-empty goblets. The family convened around a holographic projection of the capital, its glowing markers tracking Inquisition forces with eerie precision. The Grand Tournament was no longer just a spectacle—it was a battlefield.

  “They’ve infiltrated three tournament houses.” Valeria adjusted her spectacles, her tone clipped. “Our counteragents suggest poison during the feast.”

  Lilia, sprawled lazily across a chair, snorted. “Amateurs. I’ll spike their own cups before they get the chance.”

  “No.” Adrian’s cane struck the floor, silencing the room. “Let the attempt happen. Liam’s ‘miraculous survival’ makes better theater.”

  Mara’s healing rings glowed crimson as she clenched her fists. “You’d risk his life for theater?”

  “Risk?” Adrian smiled, swirling the wine in his goblet. “I’ve ensured the poison is non-lethal. Painful, yes, but nothing he won’t survive.”

  A tense silence followed, broken only by the flickering of the holographic map. Then, with slow deliberation, Liam stood. The chair screeched against the stone floor, a sharp counterpoint to the suffocating quiet.

  “I’ll do it.” His voice was steady, resolute.

  Seven pairs of eyes pinned him.

  “If it protects Amara, I’ll drink their poison and smile.”

  The Spire’s corruption curled within him, a dark whisper of approval threading through his bones. Helena’s lips curled in a sharp grin. “That’s my boy.”

  Evelina’s quill snapped between her fingers. “You’re not ready.”

  “He’s not yours to coddle,” Adrian countered. “The decision is made.”

  Shadows Over the Capital

  That night, Liam found Amara sleepwalking again. The corridors of the estate were hushed, the torches burning low. Her tiny hand glowed violet with unchecked energy, her small frame moving like a wraith through the halls. He caught her gently, lifting her into his arms.

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  He carried her to the rooftop, where dawn painted the Frostspires in blood and gold. The wind was cold, but he hardly noticed. Amara stirred slightly, her head resting against his shoulder.

  “I’ll make it safe,” he murmured, staring out at the distant skyline. “Whatever it takes.”

  Elara’s warning echoed in his mind: Whatever it takes? Careful, hero. That road ends in ashes.

  He closed his eyes. He knew that. He just didn’t care.

  The Feast of Daggers

  The grand hall of the tournament palace was a marvel of decadence. Gilded chandeliers bathed the room in a warm glow, and long banquet tables were overflowing with roasted meats, jeweled goblets, and the finest wines. The nobles laughed, their masks of civility firmly in place, but Liam could feel the undercurrents of danger beneath their smiles.

  Elara, seated beside him, leaned in. “The Inquisition’s agents are watching.”

  Liam reached for his goblet, the cool metal a grounding presence in his grip. He lifted it, studying the deep red liquid. The poison was there, invisible but waiting.

  Across the table, Adrian raised his own glass in silent command.

  Liam didn’t hesitate. He drank.

  A beat of silence. Then fire ignited in his veins.

  Pain lanced through him, sharp and burning, coiling around his ribs like a vice. He gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the goblet, refusing to let even a flicker of pain show on his face. The nobles continued to chatter, oblivious.

  Elara’s eyes darkened. “Liam—”

  “I’m fine,” he rasped.

  The Inquisition’s agents were watching. He had to be fine.

  The feast blurred around him, voices distorting, but he forced himself to move, to smile, to engage. By the time the final toast was raised, his vision had tunneled to black at the edges.

  He had survived the first test. But barely.

  The Cost of Defiance

  Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he collapsed to his knees. The pain hadn’t faded; it had settled into a slow, excruciating burn. His breath came in ragged gasps. He pressed his palm against the cold marble floor, grounding himself as the poison fought to take hold.

  A hand settled on his shoulder.

  Mara knelt beside him, her healing rings flickering between crimson and gold. “You’re a damned fool,” she whispered, pressing her hands to his chest. Warmth flooded through him, chasing away some of the agony, but not all.

  Liam laughed weakly. “You’re only figuring that out now?”

  Mara sighed, shaking her head. “You keep walking this line, Liam. One day, you won’t come back from it.”

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  The Gathering Storm

  The next morning, Adrian was waiting for him in the war room. There was no trace of concern in his gaze, only calculation.

  “You did well,” Adrian said simply.

  Liam exhaled. “It wasn’t an act.”

  “Good.” Adrian’s lips curved. “That makes it more convincing.”

  Liam clenched his fists. “Was there ever an antidote?”

  Adrian chuckled. “Would it have mattered?”

  Liam turned sharply, storming out before he could say something he’d regret.

  Elara intercepted him in the corridor, her gaze searching. “And now?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “Now we make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”

  She nodded. “Then let’s begin.”

  The Grand Tournament was just starting. And the real battle had yet to come.