Cold dread clung to Margaret, a physical weight beneath her ribs. The oracle's frantic scream echoed, a raw wound in her mind: "Protect him! Shadow, poison, steel!"
Every beat of her heart hammered out the warning. Paul. Always Paul. A chilling certainty settled over her, sharp and undeniable. Danger was not a distant threat, but a creeping shadow, already at their doorstep.
Her carriage rattled over the cobblestones, the familiar rhythm now an unbearable delay. She leaned forward, eyes fixed on the winding path ahead, willing the horses to move faster. The ancient stones of the castle walls, usually a comfort, loomed like a prison.
Thoughts of the oracle's words twisted in her gut. "Queen chosen by sorrow." "Love that defies fate." They were not prophecies of triumph, but of struggle. Her purpose, once vague, crystallized into a single, burning resolve: Paul would not fall.
Pushing the carriage door open before it fully stopped, Margaret spilled out onto the courtyard. A stable hand, startled, fumbled with the reins. She ignored him, her gaze sweeping the familiar grounds. A deceptive calm hung in the air, the afternoon sun glinting off the polished stones.
No time for pleasantries. No time for gentle inquiries. She needed to see him, touch him, confirm he was safe. Her steps were urgent, heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the paving stones.
Passing the royal stables, a glint of metal caught her eye. It was Paul's personal carriage, polished to a high sheen, standing ready for his afternoon ride. But something was wrong. A figure, hunched over one of the rear wheels, was not one of the usual stable hands.
He wore the plain, functional clothes of a palace servant, his back to her. His movements were precise, too deliberate for routine maintenance. A small wrench flashed in his hand, twisting at something near the axle.
A knot of ice formed in Margaret’s stomach. The oracle’s words roared back. *Shadow. Poison. Steel.* This was it. This was the immediate danger.
Her breath hitched. Protective fury surged through her, an unfamiliar, scorching heat. She moved without conscious thought, her instincts taking over. Each step was silent, fueled by a primal need to defend.
Closer. She saw him clearly now. His fingers, deft and quick, were loosening the nuts on the wheel. Not just one, but several. Enough to ensure a catastrophic failure at speed.
Her voice, usually soft, cracked like a whip. "Stop! What are you doing?"
The servant jolted, dropping the wrench with a sharp clang. His head snapped up, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise. He was young, barely out of adolescence, his face pale beneath a thin layer of grime.
He stammered, his gaze darting around the empty courtyard. "Your Highness! I… I was just… checking the carriage, as ordered."
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. "Checking? With a loose wrench on the wheel bolts? Who ordered you to do this?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. His hand twitched towards the dropped wrench, then hesitated. Panic contorted his features. He knew he was caught.
"Speak!" Margaret commanded, her voice low and dangerous. She didn't recognize this tone. It was hers, yet it belonged to a queen, not a princess.
He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes fixed on a point behind her, then he made his move. A sudden, desperate lunge for the carriage door, not to secure it, but to pass through the gap between the carriage and the stable wall.
He wanted to escape. He wouldn’t be questioned. He wouldn’t confess. This was not a misguided servant; this was an assassin.
Margaret lunged too, her fingers grasping for his arm, but he was too quick, too desperate. Her hand brushed against rough fabric, her nails scraping skin as he twisted away.
He sprinted, a blur of grey cloth, vanishing around the corner of the stable block. Her heart pounded a frantic drum against her ribs. She couldn't chase him; she had to secure the carriage, had to ensure Paul's safety first.
Dropping to her knees, Margaret examined the wheel. Two bolts were dangerously loose, barely clinging to the axle. One more turn and they would have been off. A cold sweat broke out on her brow. How close had they come?
She looked around, her gaze sweeping the now-empty courtyard. No one. The stable hand she'd seen earlier was gone, likely scared off by the commotion.
Rising slowly, her muscles trembling, Margaret’s mind replayed the servant’s frantic escape. His arm. Her fingers had brushed his wrist. A fleeting glimpse of something on his skin, just before he vanished.
She closed her eyes, trying to recall the image. It had been quick, obscured by the frantic movement, but it was there. A mark. A brand. Something dark against his pale skin.
Opening her eyes, Margaret scanned the spot where he had disappeared. No trace. But the image solidified in her mind, clear as if etched there by fire. A subtle, almost imperceptible scar shaped like a serpent’s eye on his wrist, identical to a mark she once saw on the Second Prince’s favored guard.