Chapter 26 – The Serpent Uncoiled
The King's solar, once a chamber of imposing authority, had become a pressure cooker of raw, volatile power. The air was so thick with tension it felt difficult to breathe. King Medveick sat upon his high-backed chair, his face like a thundercloud, his gaze fixed on the scene before him: the captured handmaiden, the vial of poison glittering on his table, and the defiant young lord who had thrown his entire court into chaos. His single, whispered command still hung in the air: "Explain."
It was not Don who spoke, but Grand Scriptor Menvin Thalos. The old scholar, his customary warmth replaced by a tremor of cold fury, stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice shaking but clear. "Lord Adraels and Lady Caria sought my counsel in the Great Library. While we spoke, an acolyte offered me tea, a 'gift from the Queen.' Lady Caria sensed the poison before I could drink. Lord Adraels prevented it. His companions, waiting in the shadows, apprehended the assassin." He pointed a trembling finger at the bound Lyra. "That is the woman who, disguised, tried to murder me not an hour past."
The King's cold gaze shifted to Lyra. Prince Strelm, who had been observing the scene with a chilling stillness, now moved. He stepped down from the dais, his expression a mask of aristocratic disgust, positioning himself as an interrogator, not a son. "Who gave you the order, girl?" he demanded.
Lyra's eyes, full of venomous loyalty, darted to where the Queen's chambers lay. She spat on the floor. "I serve my Queen."
"A Queen who has clearly abandoned you to the consequences of your failure," Caria said, her voice cool and steady. She looked to the King. "Your Majesty, with your leave, I can compel the full truth. We must know the extent of this plot."
King Medveick gave a single, sharp nod.
Caria approached the kneeling handmaiden and placed a hand on her forehead. A soft, undeniable silver light pulsed from her palm. "There are no more secrets," Caria commanded softly. Lyra's body went rigid, her defiance melting away under the magical pressure, replaced by a torrent of unvarnished truth.
"I acted on the direct command of Queen Yssara," Lyra confessed, her voice flat and hollow. "The Grand Scriptor was to die to sow chaos. The duplicate vial was planted in Lord Adraels' quarters. The Captain of the Guard was given an anonymous tip. He was to be arrested for the crime. It was… it was to neutralize the Adraels threat, to solidify the Prince's position, to cleanse the realm of the impure flame..."
The confession hung in the air, each word a hammer blow against the foundation of the royal house. Strelm's face was a masterpiece of controlled shock, betraying nothing but dismay at his mother's reckless overreach.
King Medveick's knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of his chair. He rose slowly, his rage not a hot, explosive thing, but a terrifying, glacial pressure that filled the room. "Captain," he said to the pale-faced commander of his guard.
"Your Majesty?" the man croaked.
"Take this traitor," the King commanded, gesturing to Lyra. "Place her in the Black Cells. There will be no trial." A death sentence. The Captain, humbled and eager to prove his loyalty, hauled Lyra to her feet and dragged her from the room without another word.
The King then turned to two of his own personal guards, men who wore the simple, unadorned armor of the King's own house guard. "Fetch the Queen," he ordered. "Inform her that her presence is not requested, but *required*. Now."
The wait was agonizing. The only sound was the crackle of the fire. When Queen Yssara entered, she was the very picture of regal grace, but her eyes, seeing the assembly, narrowed with the cold awareness of a predator caught in a trap.
"Medveick," she began, her voice like chimes of ice. "What is the meaning of this theater?"
"The play is over, Yssara," the King said, his voice dangerously soft. He pointed to the vial of Night-Tear on the table. "Your agent has confessed. You moved against a guest under my protection. You plotted to murder the most respected scholar in my kingdom. You used my own guard to frame a son of a great house. You have committed treason against this Crown and this family."
For a moment, the Queen's composure cracked. "I did it for this family! For our son! To protect this kingdom from the chaotic fire of his ancestors!" she retorted, pointing a trembling finger at Don.
"You did it for your own obsession with order," the King thundered, his voice finally breaking its restraint. "And in doing so, you have brought shame and weakness upon us all." He took a deep breath, his judgment absolute. "You will retain the title of Queen, for the sake of the stability of the realm. But that is all you will retain. You are hereby confined to the Western Spire, effective immediately. Your political authority is revoked. Your correspondence will be monitored. You will speak to no one outside your handmaidens without my express permission. You are a Queen in name, and a prisoner in truth."
Yssara stared at him, her face a mask of disbelief and pure hatred, before his guards silently escorted her from the room, her political life in ruins.
A heavy silence descended once more. The immediate crisis was handled. The King slumped back into his chair, the fire of his rage banked, leaving only the cold ashes of political reality. He looked at Don, and his expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions: fury at the insult, grudging respect for the strategy, and a deep, weary suspicion.
"You have exposed a traitor in my court and saved a loyal servant's life," the King said, his voice flat. "This kingdom owes you a debt. Your 'Shadow Hunters,' which I was prepared to brand a rebel army, have proven their value."
He steepled his fingers, his eyes boring into Don's. "Therefore, I will legitimize them. They will be officially sanctioned by the Crown. Their mandate—to hunt the agents of the Pale Wraith and its allies—is now a royal one."
Don felt a flicker of triumph, but it was extinguished by the King's next words.
"However," Medveick continued, "as a Royal Unit, they will, of course, report directly to the Crown. All intelligence they gather, all operations they undertake, will be overseen by a royal liaison who will act as their official commander in my name." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"And that liaison will be Crown Prince Strelm."
The room grew cold again. It was not a reward; it was a chain. Don had won the battle, exposing the Queen and saving Menvin. But in doing so, the King had expertly maneuvered him into an even more dangerous position—tethered directly to his most cunning, most ruthless rival. He had escaped one trap only to be placed in another, far more sophisticated cage.
Don met the King's gaze, understanding dawning in his eyes. He had no choice but to accept. "As you command, Your Majesty," he said, the words tasting like ash. The game had changed once more.