The Rose's Thorns
The dinner tray arrived at dusk, carried by Mira's trembling hands.
Ghost noted the difference immediately. The servant girl who'd been nervously chattering yesterday now moved like a puppet with cut strings. Mechanical. Hollow-eyed. Her hands shook so badly the crystal goblet rattled against the silver tray.
"Your dinner, my lady." The words came out flat. Rehearsed.
Ghost remained in her window seat, the picture of timid confusion. "Thank you, Mira. It smells wonderful."
It smelled like death.
Three distinct poison signatures registered in her trained senses before the tray even touched the table. The wine carried the bitter-almond sweetness of nightshade—crude, obvious, the same compound that had killed Anya's original soul. The roasted meat glistened with a sauce that held a metallic tang she recognized from a job in Istanbul: basilisk venom, a paralytic that stopped the heart in stages. And the glazed vegetables shimmered with an oily residue that made her tongue tingle just from proximity—ironbane, which would corrode her digestive tract from the inside out.
Amateur work. Enthusiastic, thorough, but ultimately transparent to someone who'd once eliminated a Saudi prince using a concentration of polonium-210 so precise it had taken forensics three weeks to identify the cause of death.
Whoever prepared this meal had never killed anyone who mattered.
Ghost rose slowly, letting Anya's body language speak—uncertain steps, hunched shoulders, hands twisting in her skirts. She approached the tray with visible nervousness.
"Lady Rowena herself supervised the preparation, my lady." Mira's voice cracked. "She wanted to ensure everything was perfect for you."
There it was. Confirmation and threat wrapped in servile concern.
Ghost let her eyes widen appropriately. "How... how generous of her. I must remember to thank her."
She lifted the wine goblet, watching Mira's face go even paler. The girl's pupils dilated. Her breathing quickened. Fear and guilt broadcasting so loudly Ghost could have read it from across the room.
The observation posts in the walls would be recording every movement. Rowena would want to watch her new rival die.
Ghost brought the goblet to her lips—then stopped, pressing a hand to her stomach. "Oh. I'm... I'm so sorry, the journey still has my stomach unsettled. Perhaps just the bread for now?" She set the wine down with an apologetic smile. "I wouldn't want to waste such a beautiful meal by becoming ill."
Relief and confusion warred on Mira's face. The script hadn't included the bride refusing the poison.
"Of course, my lady. Shall I... should I take the rest back to the kitchens?"
"No, no. Leave it. I'll try to eat more later, when my stomach settles." Ghost broke off a piece of plain bread, the only item on the tray without poison. "You've been so kind, Mira. Who prepared this meal? I'd like to compliment the cook personally."
The girl's throat worked. "Elara, my lady. She's... she's Lady Rowena's personal assistant. In the kitchens."
Perfect.
Ghost ate the bread slowly, asking innocent questions about the Keep's meal schedules, kitchen staff, and Elara's culinary specialties. Each answer another piece of intelligence filed away. Mira answered mechanically, desperate to escape, the blood-magic sigils on her uniform cuffs glowing faintly in the lamplight.
When Ghost finally dismissed her with gentle thanks, the girl fled like a rabbit from a wolf's den.
The door clicked shut.
Ghost remained still for exactly thirty seconds, counting heartbeats, giving the observation posts time to relax their focus. Then she moved.
The curtain rod came apart with a soft twist—she'd loosened the joints earlier. The hollow interior gave her a perfect mixing vessel. She poured the wine inside, then carefully scraped the sauce and vegetable glaze into the makeshift container using the dinner knife.
Her hands worked with the precision of someone who'd once synthesized VX nerve agent in a Kandahar basement using ingredients from a hardware store.
The nightshade separated first—its alkaloids rising to the top like oil. She skimmed it off with a torn piece of silk from her dress. The basilisk venom required more work, but she isolated it by temperature differential, using the cold stone windowsill to precipitate the proteins. The ironbane was simplest—it bonded with the wine's tannins naturally.
Twenty minutes of work that would have earned her a chemistry PhD in her old world.
She concentrated each poison individually, then recombined them in proportions that would kill within an hour. Fast enough to be clearly intentional. Slow enough to allow for maximum suffering and spectacle.
The result went into her personal wine decanter—untouched since her arrival, a welcoming gift that sat decoratively on her desk.
Ghost sealed it with the original crystal stopper and wrote a note on expensive parchment in Anya's careful, educated script:
To the talented cook who prepared tonight's unforgettable meal—
Please accept this wine from my personal stores as thanks for your generous attention to my comfort. Lady Rowena's kitchen truly contains the finest servants in the Keep.
With deep gratitude, Anya Valerius
She studied the words. Innocent. Grateful. Each phrase crafted to pass scrutiny while delivering poison wrapped in courtesy.
The observation posts couldn't see her smile in the shadows.
Mira returned an hour later to collect the tray, her eyes widening at the untouched meal.
Ghost handed her the sealed decanter and note with a shy smile. "Would you give these to Elara? I feel terrible for not eating more. I hope this small gift shows my appreciation."
The girl took them with shaking hands, clearly confused but unable to refuse without revealing the meal's true purpose.
After she left, Ghost positioned herself in her bed with a book, the picture of innocent confusion. She'd changed into a modest nightgown. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Everything about her posture screamed vulnerability.
The observation posts would see exactly what they expected—a weak, frightened bride who'd survived purely by accident, too naive to recognize poison when it was served on silver.
Ghost read three pages of a romance novel from the shelf—something about star-crossed lovers and noble sacrifices that made her want to laugh—while internally counting minutes.
Forty-seven minutes after Mira delivered the wine, a scream split the Keep's evening quiet.
Ghost jerked upright with perfectly performed shock, the book falling from her hands.
More screams. Shouting. The sound of running boots echoing through stone corridors.
She rushed to her door—locked from the outside, as always—and pressed her ear to the wood. Servants' voices carried through the stone, high and panicked.
"—the kitchens—"
"—Elara's dead—"
"—poison, someone said poison—"
"—the new bride's wine—"
Ghost backed away from the door, pressing a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and terrified. The observation posts would be watching her reaction closely.
She had to be perfect.
When the guards arrived twenty minutes later, she was huddled in her window seat, wrapped in blankets, looking small and frightened and utterly confused.
Commander Zareth himself led the interrogation. He filled the doorway like a wall of scarred muscle and cold assessment, his Onyx Guard uniform making him look carved from shadow.
"Lady Anya." His voice carried the flat authority of someone who'd killed more people than he remembered. "A woman is dead in the kitchens. She drank wine that came from your chambers."
Ghost let her voice shake. "Dead? But... but I don't understand. Mira brought dinner, and I... I gave the cook a gift to thank her for her kindness. How could..." Her eyes welled with tears that were pure performance. "Did I do something wrong?"
Zareth studied her with the focus of a predator evaluating prey. His hand rested on his sword hilt. Behind him, three guards watched with similar intensity.
"The wine was poisoned," he said flatly. "Heavily. Deliberately."
"But that's... that's my wine. From when I arrived." Ghost's voice climbed with perfect hysteria. "Who would poison a welcoming gift? Unless..." She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. "Unless someone was trying to hurt me, and the cook drank it by mistake?"
Beautiful misdirection. Plant the seed that she was the intended victim, not the killer.
Zareth's eyes narrowed. "Show me the dinner tray."
Ghost gestured to the mostly untouched meal with a helpless flutter of hands. "I couldn't eat much. My stomach's been unsettled since the journey. I only had bread."
One of the guards examined the remaining food, sniffing carefully. His face went rigid. "Commander. This meal is poisoned too. Multiple compounds."
Zareth's attention snapped back to Ghost with laser focus. "You didn't eat any of it?"
"Just the bread." Ghost made herself smaller, more vulnerable. "I was going to try more later, when I felt better. Did Lady Rowena's cook make a mistake with the ingredients? I've heard some herbs can be dangerous if prepared incorrectly..."
The silence stretched like a blade between ribs.
Zareth exchanged glances with his guards. Professional assessment flickering in their eyes. The math was simple—if the bride had eaten the meal, she'd be dead. If she'd sent the wine deliberately, she was a killer. But everything about her screamed helpless victim who'd survived through blind luck.
"Remain in your chambers," Zareth ordered. "Don't open your door for anyone except me or Lord Malakor."
They left without another word.
Ghost waited until their footsteps faded completely. Then she returned to her window seat and picked up her fallen book, turning to the next page with steady hands.
The observation posts were still watching. She maintained her frightened, confused expression for their benefit.
But inside, where centuries-old monsters couldn't see, Ghost smiled.
Because somewhere in this Keep, Rowena was realizing that the weak little bride she'd tried to poison had just killed her favorite servant using the Blood Rose's own weapons.
The game had officially begun.
And the body count was about to get much, much higher.
**