By the end of the third day, Kyle was still walking, talking, and commanding like nothing had happened.
His steady composure and complete lack of symptoms unnerved the ones who had been watching him closely.
The nobles who'd orchestrated the attempt on his life were no longer just anxious—they were unraveling. They had been so certain.
The dose had been precise, the delivery method perfect. But Kyle Armstrong still lived.
And worse, he looked healthier than ever.
The paranoia began to seep in.
Whispers were exchanged in corridors, behind closed doors, around fire-lit halls.
Something didn't add up.
Their latest theory? The kitchen servant had betrayed them. She must have switched the tray before reaching Kyle.
It was the only explanation that made sense—because no one, no one, could survive that level of concentrated poison.
So they decided to confirm it.
The servant—a young woman barely into her twenties—returned from Kyle's quarters with the empty dish.
