The world narrowed to a tunnel of blurred light and muffled sound.

  Estelle's body had gone heavy, boneless. The numbness spread from her tongue to her fingertips to her legs. She tried to push herself up from the table, but her arms betrayed her.

  She slid sideways.

  Chair scraping.

  Then she crumpled to the polished floor.

  Shouts erupted around her.

  "Estelle!"

  Elizabeth's voice—high, panicked, breaking on tears.

  Francesca's sharp intake of breath.

  The Queen's stifled cry.

  The King's chair crashed backward as he rose.

  "Guards! Get the physician!"

  The doors to the dining hall burst open with enough force to rattle the chandeliers.

  Knights flooded in, armor clanking. But one moved faster than the rest—cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk.

  Alec stormed across the hall.

  He didn't hesitate.

  He dropped to one knee beside Estelle's collapsed form, fingers finding her wrist with careful precision. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his touch.

  "She's still breathing," he said, voice low but carrying across the room like a command. "We need the physician. Now."

  The King knelt on her other side, face ashen, hands hovering uselessly above his daughter.

  "Take her," he ordered, voice rough. "Get her to the royal doctor."

  Without another word, Alec slid one arm beneath Estelle's shoulders and the other under her knees. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing—close against his chest. Her head rested against the cool steel of his shoulder plate. Her pink hair spilled over his arm like silk.

  He turned and strode out, long strides eating the distance, leaving the stunned family behind.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Elizabeth stood frozen, tears streaking her cheeks, mouth open in shock.

  But she wasn't staring at her unconscious sister.

  She was staring at the knight carrying her.

  "My—my knight?" she whispered.

  The golden eyes. The dark hair. The way he moved.

  It was him.

  The knight from the marketplace. The one who'd saved her from the runaway cart.

  Francesca's eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Her fist clenched at her side.

  She looked down anxiously.

  This was not how it was supposed to happen.

  The Queen simply clutched the back of her chair, knuckles white, staring at the empty doorway where her stepdaughter had been carried away.

  The infirmary doors swung open with a bang.

  Alec carried Estelle straight to the nearest bed, laying her down with surprising gentleness. Her skin was already pale, lips faintly blue.

  He stepped back only far enough to allow the doctor room.

  But he did not leave her side.

  The palace physician—Doctor Schmichel, an older man with steady hands and tired eyes—hurried forward, already rolling up his sleeves.

  "What happened?" he demanded, pressing fingers to Estelle's neck, then lifting her eyelids.

  "Poison," Alec said. His voice was flat. Certain.

  The doctor's brows shot up. He turned Estelle's head gently, checking her pupils, then sniffed at her lips.

  "Paralytic toxin. Fast-acting. Possibly nightshade derivative, mixed with something to mask the taste." He moved quickly, reaching for a vial on the nearby shelf. "We have minutes before respiratory failure."

  The doors opened again.

  The King strode in, still in his dinner robes, face carved from granite. Behind him hovered the Queen and Elizabeth, both pale and wide-eyed.

  Francesca remained in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

  "Save her, Schmichel," the King said.

  It was not a request.

  "Of course, Your Majesty."

  The doctor worked swiftly—antidote poured into a small spoon, then carefully tipped between Estelle's slack lips, followed by a dropper of another clear liquid to force swallowing. He massaged her throat gently until she reflexively took it down.

  Alec stood like a statue at the head of the bed, eyes never leaving Estelle's face. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath the gauntlets.

  Minutes stretched into eternity.

  Then—

  A shallow, ragged breath.

  Another.

  Estelle's chest rose and fell more steadily.

  The doctor exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.

  "She'll live. But she'll be weak for days. The toxin did its damage—we'll need to monitor her heart and lungs closely."

  The King sagged slightly, one hand braced on the bedpost.

  "Thank you."

  Alec finally spoke again, his voice quiet but edged with steel.

  "Who prepared the soup?"

  The doctor hesitated. "The kitchen staff. But the spoons... they're kept in the royal silver vault. Someone would have had to switch them deliberately."

  Alec's gaze flicked toward the door—toward the corridor beyond, where servants still hovered in the shadows.

  "I'll find out who," he said simply.

  It was not a threat.

  It was a promise.

  The King looked at him. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, but he was helpless in this moment. Only the knight seemed capable of uncovering the truth.

  "Do what you must."

  Alec bowed once—sharp, formal—then turned back to Estelle. Then left.

  Outside the infirmary, the palace settled into uneasy silence.

  Somewhere in the shadows, Clara trembled.

  And Francesca began planning her next move.

  End of Chapter 11