The Prince Who Ran

Chapter Eight: The Poison

Chapter Eight: The Poison in the Cup

The throne room of Andar had never felt colder.

Its vaulted ceilings were the same. Its stained-glass windows still painted colored light across the marble floor. But now, each echoing footstep rang with the weight of watching eyes and hidden knives.

Caelan sat not on the throne — not yet — but in the regent’s chair, lower, plainer, beside it.

“The water supply in Wrenfall is poisoned,” said a messenger, kneeling. “The fields are blackening.”

“It’s sabotage,” said Garrin. “Burnt grain. Salt in the wells.”

Another report followed. Bandit attacks near the southern road. Vayne’s former men, no doubt. But not wearing his crest — just enough to maintain plausible denial.

And then came the petitioners — a line of them, down the marble corridor and beyond the doors.

A boy asking for medicine for his sick mother. A former guard seeking reinstatement. A stonemason demanding back pay.

Each one carried a story.

Each one looked to Caelan for answers.

He listened. He judged. He compromised. He signed what he could and promised what he must.

But the weight of each decision piled on his back.

“This is your destiny,” Garrin reminded him quietly during a break. “Not the sword, not the title — this. Listening. Carrying.”

“I’m trying,” Caelan murmured.

“I know,” Garrin said. “That’s what makes you dangerous to them.”

◇

That evening, Caelan sat with Lyra in the garden terrace behind the palace.

The moon was sharp above them. She leaned back on a stone bench, a glass of honey wine in hand.

“You look like you’ve aged ten years,” she said.

“I feel like it.”

She reached for his free hand. “They’re testing you. And you’re still standing.”

He gave her a tired smile. “For now.”

They sipped in silence for a moment.

Then he felt it — a tremor in his stomach. Then pain. Sharp. Sudden.

The goblet slipped from his hand.

“Caelan?”

He doubled over, gasping, his insides twisting.

“Guards!” Lyra screamed.

He collapsed onto the grass.

Voices surged. Footsteps thundered. Garrin’s boots. Marta’s hands.

Lyra cradled his head, her voice hoarse. “He’s been poisoned!”

A healer was summoned. Antidotes poured. It was close — but not fatal. Someone wanted him sick, not dead. Weakened.

But Lyra’s rage boiled.

◇

Three nights later, Lyra disappeared.

Caelan awoke in the healer’s wing, a guard beside him, and no sign of her.

He demanded answers.

They found her hours later, tied to a pillar in the crypts beneath the city.

Beaten. Bloodied. Alive.

She’d tracked the poisoner. Alone. Too far.

He held her hand in the healer’s chambers, guilt carving lines across his heart.

“This is how they play the game,” she whispered through cracked lips. “No swords. Just secrets.”

“You’re not a piece,” he said, throat raw. “You’re everything.”

But her words haunted him: No swords. Just secrets.

He wasn’t fighting a war of armies anymore.

He was fighting a war of whispers.

◇

When Caelan returned to the regent’s chamber two days later, he did not come alone.

He brought Lyra, bruised but upright, at his side. Garrin behind them. The healer who’d saved him. The baker who’d fed the sick. A village girl who had written him a letter of support, now read aloud before the council.

He looked every councilor in the eye.

“I will not fight this battle in the dark,” he said. “If I am to be judged, let it be in the light. Let the people see who tries to kill hope.”

Sareth nodded, unreadable. “Then we will call for the first open assembly in twenty years.”

“A public debate?” Lady Varell said, aghast.

“Yes,” Caelan said. “Let them all come. Let them decide who they want for a king.”

◇

And so, the city prepared.

The Great Assembly would be held in the amphitheater beyond the east gate — once a place of plays and festivals. Now, a battlefield of words.

Caelan stood beneath the stars the night before, staring toward the flickering torches in the distance.

Lyra came to him again, leaning on a walking stick.

“You know what tomorrow means?”

“Yes.”

“Even if they cheer for you — it won’t stop your enemies.”

“I know.”

She took his face in her hands. “Then why keep going?”

He leaned into her touch.

“Because the people never got to choose,” he said. “And if I’m to wear the crown — I want to know I earned it.”

She kissed him.

And for a moment, the war fell silent.