The shadows of the palace kitchens were thick with the smell of roasting grease and the frantic energy of a hundred servants. No one noticed a lowly maid ducking behind a stack of flour sacks. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird, but my brain—the cold, calculating part of me that had survived a decade of corporate warfare—was already running a risk-assessment.
The two guards in black leather were moving. One adjusted a thin, silver needle tucked into his glove. It was a "Sting"—a common assassin's tool coated in a concentrated paralytic. In a crowded ballroom, it would look like the Prince had simply fainted from too much wine. By the time they found the puncture mark, he'd be dead, and the "Trash Prince" narrative would be sealed forever.
Not on my watch, I thought, my fingers closing around the handle of a heavy, marble rolling pin.
In my past life, I'd neutralized hostile takeovers with a single phone call. Here, I was going to have to do it with kitchen supplies.
I looked at the jar of industrial-strength black pepper I'd snatched from the spice rack. It was enough to make an elephant sneeze for a week.
"The toast is in five minutes," the taller guard whispered, his voice like gravel. "The Empress wants him slumped over before the dessert is served. Move."
They began to head toward the hidden service stairs that led directly behind the royal dais. I didn't have time to call for help, and even if I did, who would believe a maid over the Empress's personal guard?
I moved through the darkness, sticking to the servant passages I'd memorized. I reached the landing of the stairs just as the lead guard placed his hand on the door handle.
I didn't hesitate. I threw the jar of pepper against the stone wall right above their heads.
CRACK!
The glass shattered, and a cloud of stinging, black dust exploded into the narrow stairwell.
"What the— ACHOO!"
The guards were instantly blinded. In the cramped space, the pepper was lethal. They dropped their weapons, clutching their red, streaming eyes and coughing violently.
"Who's there?!" the second guard wheezed, reaching blindly for his sword.
I didn't answer. I stepped out of the shadows and swung the marble rolling pin with every ounce of strength I had.
THWACK!
The heavy stone connected with the back of the first guard's head. He crumpled like a wet rag. Before the second one could blink through the tears, I delivered a sharp kick to his kneecap—a move I'd learned from a self-defense class I took after a particularly nasty board meeting—and followed it up with a rolling pin to the jaw.
He hit the floor with a satisfying thud.
I stood over them, gasping for air, the rolling pin still gripped in my shaking hands. I looked down at my apron. It was covered in flour and pepper.
"Audit complete," I whispered, my voice trembling.
I quickly knelt and searched the guards. I found the silver needle and wrapped it carefully in a scrap of cloth. This was Evidence. If I could get this to Bastian, we could prove the Empress was trying to kill him.
But I heard footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs from the ballroom.
"Is the task done?" a cold, feminine voice asked.
My blood turned to ice. It was Sarah—the Empress's personal maid. The one who had brought the poisoned tea.
I looked at the two unconscious men. I couldn't hide them in time. I looked at the dark corner under the stairs.
I dove into the shadows just as Sarah stepped onto the landing. She looked at the two bodies on the floor, her eyes widening in horror.
"What happened here?!" she hissed, looking around the empty stairwell. She saw the shattered glass and the pepper. "A maid? No... who could have done this?"
She knelt to check the guards' pulses. This was my only chance. I slipped out from the back of the stairs and ran. I didn't go back to the kitchen—I went toward the Grand Ballroom.
I burst through the side service entrance just as the Crown Prince raised his gold goblet.
"To the prosperity of Oakhaven!" he shouted, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "And to the health of my brother, Bastian!"
The crowd cheered. Bastian raised his own glass, his eyes scanning the room. He looked calm, but I saw the slight tension in his jaw. He was waiting for the attack.
He saw me.
I didn't say a word. I simply touched my ear and then pointed a single finger toward the Empress. It was a signal we'd agreed on: Danger from the shadows.
Bastian didn't hesitate. Instead of drinking, he "accidentally" tripped on his long blue velvet cape. The wine splashed across the front of his doublet, and the goblet fell to the floor with a loud clang.
"Oh, how clumsy of me!" Bastian laughed, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "It seems my 'recovery' has made me a bit light-headed. Perhaps I should have a fresh glass... one poured by my own personal maid?"
He looked directly at me.
The Empress looked like she wanted to breathe fire. The Crown Prince turned a strange shade of purple. But the King, who had been watching the whole scene with a bored expression, finally spoke.
"Let the girl pour it," the King commanded, his voice like iron. "I would hate for my son to stain such a fine coat twice in one night."
I stepped forward, my head bowed, my heart racing. I walked to the royal table, took a fresh goblet, and poured the wine. As I handed it to Bastian, our fingers brushed.
"They're in the East stairwell," I whispered, so low only he could hear. "I have the needle."
Bastian's eyes flashed with a dark, dangerous fire. He took a long, slow sip of the wine, never taking his eyes off the Empress.
"Excellent vintage," he said, smiling like a wolf. "I think tonight is going to be a very long, very interesting night."