The opulent ballroom of Volkov’s estate shimmered under the crystalline glow of a hundred chandeliers. A symphony of silver clinked against porcelain, a delicate counterpoint to the hushed conversations of Varaz’s elite. Jadwiga, resplendent in a gown the color of frosted cranberries, felt the heavy, silken fabric a cage around her simmering nerves. Countess Morawska sat across the grand, polished oak table, her smile a serene, unblemished mask, utterly oblivious to the innocuous-looking vial tucked into Jadwiga’s bodice. Not a neurotoxin, Stefania had assured her, but a potent, fast-acting extract of slumber-root designed to lock the limbs. Enough to incapacitate, never to harm. The Countess would merely slump gracefully, her face frozen in whatever pleasantry she was attempting, and then Jadwiga would have her. Volkov, seated at the head, observed her with an unnerving intensity that made the small hairs on her neck prickle. He knew the plan, of course. His grim, silent nod when she’d outlined it had been the only blessing she’d received all day. “The Volkov wines are truly exceptional this season, Duke,” Countess Morawska purred, her voice a low, melodious hum that always put Jadwiga on edge. She raised her glass, swirling the deep crimson liquid. “Proof of your estate's exceptional soil.” Jadwiga tracked the movement, her gaze glued to the polished crystal. This was it. The moment. She needed a diversion, a brief, chaotic interlude. She scanned the room, her eyes darting through the sea of noble faces, searching for her furry accomplice. Then, a sudden, guttural yowl ripped through the refined hum of conversation. Heads swiveled. A gasp rippled across the table. Mishka, a furry, lumbering shadow, had launched himself from beneath the adjacent draperies, a furious, mottled blur. He collided, with the force of a small battering ram, into the shins of the unsuspecting Baron Zygmunt. The Baron, a man of considerable girth and even more considerable pride, shrieked, tottering precariously. His meticulously arranged tray of spiced walnuts flew into the air, scattering like miniature projectiles across the polished floor, some ricocheting off the Duke’s ceremonial armor displayed nearby. Mishka, having accomplished his primary objective, then proceeded to make a theatrical show of chasing a terrified lap dog under a distant banquet table, his deep growls echoing through the sudden silence. “My apologies, Duke!” Jadwiga exclaimed, leaping from her seat with an exaggerated display of horror. “That beast! He has no manners!” Her voice was loud, attracting the very distraction she craved. Most eyes were now on the flustered Baron, or following Mishka’s destructive path. Volkov merely arched a brow, a flicker of something almost like amusement in his eyes. He didn’t stop her. In the brief window of chaos, Jadwiga moved. Her hands, usually so prone to clumsy missteps, became fluid, precise. She had rehearsed this. Her chair scraped back. She was at the Countess’s side, seemingly attempting to smooth the crumpled tablecloth. Her left hand made a show of wiping at an imaginary stain. Her right, concealed by the voluminous sleeve of her gown, plucked the vial from her bodice. A swift, practiced twist of the cap. A precise tilt. Two drops, no more, into the wine glass nearest the Countess’s empty plate. The clear liquid vanished, dissolving instantly into the rich red. She replaced the cap, tucked the vial away, and then, with another swift, almost imperceptible motion, she *switched* the glasses. The Countess’s designated glass, now laced with the tincture, was moved to the right, adjacent to the place setting of a minor Count who was currently engrossed in Mishka’s antics. The plain, un-dosed glass, intended for the Countess, was now directly in front of her. Perfect. Jadwiga straightened, a triumphant tremor running through her. The trap was set. The Countess would sip the plain wine, none the wiser, while Jadwiga would ensure the drugged draught found an innocent target, a casualty of war. A harmless one. She glanced at Volkov, who was now calmly addressing the Baron, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. He caught her eye, a ghost of a knowing smirk on his lips. Jadwiga returned to her seat, a breathless sense of relief washing over her. The worst was over. Now, to simply watch the tableau unfold. Just then, Teodor, bless his gentle, unsuspecting heart, rose from his own seat, a few places down the table. He had been released from his ordeal only that morning, and Jadwiga had insisted he attend, to project an image of normalcy. He walked towards the Countess, his polite smile radiating genuine warmth. “Countess Morawska,” he began, his voice soft, “Permit me. It seems our… spirited feline… has caused quite the stir. May I be of service?” He gestured towards the scattered walnuts. He then noticed her wine glass, currently sitting to her *right*, the one Jadwiga had *switched* to be the undosed one. Jadwiga’s mind screamed. No. Not that one. That was the safe one. She had slipped the drops into the glass to *her left*, then moved it to the Count’s spot. Before Jadwiga could even formulate a thought, let alone utter a warning, Teodor, with the most earnest, considerate smile, reached out. He picked up the plain wine glass, the one Jadwiga had designated *for* the Countess, and with a small, gracious bow, *switched* it with the glass to the Countess’s *left* – the very glass Jadwiga had earlier moved to the minor Count’s spot, the one containing the slumber-root paralytic. “A gentleman always ensures the lady’s glass is within easy reach,” Teodor murmured, completely oblivious, placing the tainted glass directly in front of the Countess, and picking up the innocent glass for himself, moving to help a nearby servant clean up. Jadwiga felt the blood drain from her face. Her perfectly executed plan had twisted itself into a grotesque knot of her own making. Her breath caught, a shard of ice in her throat. Countess Morawska, her serene smile never wavering, picked up the glass Teodor had so kindly presented to her. Her eyes, those intelligent, cunning eyes, met Jadwiga’s across the table. They held a glint of something unreadable, something ancient and cold. Ribs pinched hard around Jadwiga's lungs. The Countess raised the glass to her lips, a silent, benevolent toast to Jadwiga, just as Teodor, with a contented sigh, took a sip from the other, innocent glass. Jadwiga watched in frozen horror as the Countess tipped the poisoned wine towards her mouth. She was going to drink it. She was going to drink the extract. And it was all her fault. All of it. Every single drop.

A Feast for Traitors