You take Margaret by the arm and hurry down the corridor, your steps echoing through the stone halls of Aldebryn like hurried prayers. The servants scatter at your approach, startled by the urgency in your voice. “Pack only what’s necessary,” you command. “Warm clothes, water, food that keeps. The rest—leave it.”
Margaret doesn’t ask questions. Her eyes already know the truth. She gathers her few treasures—the small wooden box her mother left her, a ring she wears only in secret, the letters you once sent her when exile was still a dream. The air feels thick with finality, as if every motion, every sound, carries the weight of goodbye.
“I’ll fetch the gold,” you tell her, your voice steadier than you feel.
She nods, her hands trembling as she folds a shawl. “Be quick. I’ll meet you by the carriage.”
You turn and stride down the narrow stairs, heart hammering. In the dim light of the cellar corridor, the scent of damp wood and iron fills your nose. The thought of seeing Aldebryn—your brief sanctuary, your fragile home—destroyed cuts deep, but there’s no time for nostalgia. Claudius’s ships are real, you tell yourself. They must be. You saw them on the horizon, black as omen, sails spread like wings of night.
Your men are already loading the carriage outside. “Everything of value,” you order, voice sharp. “The ledgers, the coins, the jewels—nothing left behind.”
They bow and obey, but your head spins. The air feels wrong—too thick, too warm, as if the earth itself exhales poison. You descend farther, into the basement vault, where the gold is kept. The torches waver strangely, the light sliding on the walls like liquid.
And then, suddenly, you cannot breathe.
The world narrows to a single pulse in your chest, hammering faster, faster. Your knees buckle. You clutch the wall, but the stone feels soft beneath your fingers, melting, twisting. A chill sweeps over you, followed by heat so intense you think you’re burning from the inside. Sweat beads on your forehead. Your mouth tastes of metal.
You try to call for help, but your voice dies before reaching your lips. The floor tilts; gold coins scatter around you like stars in the dark.
And then everything goes black.
When you wake, the ceiling above you is shrouded in shadow. The torches have gone out. You’re lying on your bed, though you have no memory of climbing back from the cellar. Margaret is beside you, fully dressed, her dress smeared with what seems to be blood. She is fast asleep, her breathing calm, though, as in a trance. You are scared out of your senses and want to wake her up.
You think it is all a nightmare—until you vividly see her.
The witch.
She stands at the foot of the bed, her figure half-obscured by candlelight. Her cloak hangs in tatters, her hair a tangled shroud. Her eyes glimmer faintly, cold and ancient, like something dredged from the bottom of a well.
You blink, sit up, your limbs heavy. “Who—”
But you know who.
You rise, or think you do. The world feels unreal, soft-edged, as though you’re moving through water. You follow her through the open door, down the stairs that no longer creak, across a hall that stretches too far. Am I dreaming? you wonder. Or dead already?
“No,” the witch says without turning, as if hearing your thoughts. “Not anymore.”
Her voice is both whisper and wind, curling around your mind. You stumble after her until she stops beside a table. A bowl rests upon it—plain wood, filled with strange, glistening shapes.
“You’ve been poisoned,” she says. “The fever took hold hours ago. You’re dying.”
You stare at her, throat tightening. “Poisoned… by whom?”
“By me,” she replies simply, almost proudly. “And by your own deeds.”
Your knees weaken. “Why?”
She draws closer, her expression unreadable. “Revenge. For Hiacynt.”
The name cuts like a blade. “Hiacynt is dead,” you whisper.
“Yes,” she says, “and you made him so. You and your loyalty to the crown. He bled because you decided that one man’s betrayal was worse than the sins of a nation.”
The room wavers, the floor rippling like sand. “He he wronged me and betrayed his nation,” you manage.
“Perhaps,” she says, “but you took his life. He could’ve lived. And now so might you—or not.”
You stare at them, heart pounding. The words stumble from your mouth. “Why give me a chance?”
Her smile is small, cruel, almost human. “Because I’d rather you live to suffer the knowing. You’ll wish I’d left you to die quietly.”
You stagger backward, gasping. Margaret still lies on the bed behind you, untouched by any of this, lost in peaceful dreams. You reach toward her, but your arm refuses to obey. The witch shakes her head.
“She cannot see us. She cannot hear you. To her, you’re still muttering in your sleep.”
Your pulse roars in your ears. “Then the ships… the invasion—”
Her grin widens, sharp as broken glass. “All of it,” she hisses. “Dreams born of poison. There are no sails on the horizon, no soldiers at your gates. You writhed in fever for hours, trapped inside your own dying mind. Now you’ve sleepwalked towards me, but you aren’t in control of your consciousness anymore. You’re more poison than mind right now.” She smirks.
The words strike like thunder. The vision of Claudius’s fleet, the panic, the rush through the halls—it was all a mirage. The war was never here. The enemy was never outside. It was always within you.
She gestures toward the bowl. Two mushrooms rest there, one pale, almost translucent, like a drop of frozen moonlight. The other is dark, dull, streaked with crimson veins that seem to move when you’re not looking.
She picks one and extends it towards you: “One holds the antidote,” she says. “The other, more poison. Choose wisely.”
You stare at them, heart pounding. The words stumble from your mouth. “Why give me a chance?”
Her smile is small, cruel, almost human. “Because I’d rather you live to suffer the knowing. You’ll wish I’d left you to die quietly.”
You stagger backward, gasping. Margaret still lies on the bed behind you, untouched by any of this, lost in peaceful dreams. You reach toward her, but your arm refuses to obey. The witch shakes her head.
The weight of your body feels distant now, as though you inhabit it only partially. You look again at the mushrooms, feeling your heartbeat slow. “If I die, will she—”
“She will wake,” the witch interrupts, “and find you dead. She will think you drank the poison in fear of Claudius’s ships. And perhaps, in her heart, she will forgive you. But you’ll be dead long before she knows the truth.”
A sob catches in your throat. “Please—if you have any mercy—”
She tilts her head. “Mercy? Mercy is for those who regret. You only fear. Even now, you think of saving yourself, not what your survival will cost.”
Your vision blurs. Sweat drips down your temples; your breath comes ragged. “If… I take the wrong one?”
“Then the pain will stop quickly,” she says. “And if you take the right one… perhaps you’ll live long enough to wonder why you bothered.”
You clutch the edge of the table for support. The surface feels slick beneath your palm; the bowl wavers before your eyes. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sea, the echo of the harbor, the cries of gulls—but it’s fading, fading, as though the world itself is slipping away.
You think of Margaret—her laughter, her strength, her stubborn refusal to bow to fear. You think of the dream you shared: a quiet life, a home untouched by power and greed. You see it again now, so close you can almost reach it—the morning sun over the fields, her hand in yours, the scent of bread baking in the hearth.
You realize, dimly, that all the wars, all the crowns, all the treasures were only distractions from what mattered most. You chased victory to protect love, and in doing so, turned love into another battlefield.
Your fingers tremble.
The witch watches you, silent, waiting. “What kind of life do you want?” she murmurs. “The one where you keep breathing, or the one where you finally see?”
Her words settle over you like frost.
You look once more at Margaret—her hair spilling over the pillow, her lips parted slightly in sleep. You want to wake her, to tell her you’re sorry, that you never meant to bring her into the heart of your wars. But your voice is gone. Only choice remains.
The mushrooms gleam faintly under the candlelight. One looks more like life than the other—but what kind of life?
You lift your hand.
…..
You pick the pale mushroom, feeling its faint warmth pulse under your fingers.
…..
You pick the dark mushroom, its cold, weighty form sending a shiver through your body.
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