The attempt had not been meant to kill.
That much was clear.
In the days following the banquet, the court teetered between panic and paranoia. But the physicians, quiet and precise, confirmed what Beatrice had already suspected. The poison had been designed to rattle, not ruin. Enough to seize the king's breath. Enough to collapse Beatrice in full view of every noble. But not enough to finish the job.
It had been a warning.
To the crown, to the court. To the world.
Beatrice spent three days recovering. The fever faded slowly, but the ache in her ribs remained. Her thoughts, tangled and slow at first, grew clearer with each hour. And with that clarity came resolve.
She had decided to tell the truth.
Not all of it, not the novel, not the timelines, not the fractured rules of whatever fate had dropped her into this world. But the part that mattered.
The Da Villes had orchestrated the attempt.
