Remembers
"Some poisons take years to kill. Others are merely patient."
Despite his exhaustion—the nervous tension in his shoulders, the sensitivity evident in every gesture—Medea had to admit that Sissair cut a striking figure.
More importantly, she knew what history had already proven: he was one of the precious few who would remain loyal to Peleus until the very end.
She could sense his suspicion.
How could he not be wary? He knew nothing of what she had endured in her previous life, of the knowledge she carried like a brand.
But their goals aligned. That was what mattered.
To properly establish Valdina—Peleus's Valdina—she would endure any scrutiny, any doubt.
This troublesome charade of easing his concerns, of building trust word by careful word, was worth the effort.
"The only Valdina I want to protect belongs to Peleus."
Her voice was steady. Absolute.
It didn't matter whether her sincerity reached him now. She had a duty—to set this kingdom right and return it to Peleus, purified and whole.
Atonement
An obligation she would fulfill even if it consumed her entire existence.
Repentance carved into bone.
An impossibly deep well of regret shimmered in her pale features.
"It's fine if you don't trust me yet. In time, you will understand."
Her green eyes burned with determination so fierce they seemed to glow cerulean in the lamplight.
Sissair swallowed, taking refuge in his teacup to hide his discomfort.
No words passed between them until his cup ran empty.
Finally, Sissair set down the porcelain with a soft clink.
"I understand your intentions, Your Highness. However, Minister Etienne is no common upstart like Quiggin. His family has accumulated power across three generations. He controls the Inner Palace apparatus."
Medea remained silent, her expression unreadable.
"Moreover, the Prince Regent stands as his strongest ally. If Etienne falls, Prince Joaquin loses his grip on the palace entirely. He will never allow it."
Sissair's frustration leaked through his careful words.
That was precisely why dealing with the Prince Regent had proven so difficult. The Regent alone was formidable; combined with Etienne, Sissair found himself deflecting attacks from all directions, constantly off-balance.
Despite his warnings, the Princess's expression remained unchanged.
"What if they could be separated? Would you still counsel caution?"
Separate the Prince Regent from Minister Etienne?
Sissair shook his head reflexively.
"Do you think I haven't attempted that very strategy? Their alliance is ironclad. This isn't some temporary marriage of convenience that will crumble at the first sign of pressure."
In their current position, the wisest course was to shore up their own power base rather than waste energy trying to fracture an unbreakable bond.
"Sometimes a single drop of water is all it takes to divide a river from an ocean."
Medea's voice carried the weight of certainty.
"Don't concern yourself with how they'll be separated, Prime Minister. Focus instead on what comes after—how we'll topple a minister who has lost his patron's protection."
Her tone promised imminent action.
The opportunity will present itself soon.
Sissair studied her carefully.
"Your Highness... I was under the impression you wished to preserve the Claudio family."
"Only insofar as they don't threaten Valdina itself."
The implication settled like frost over the room.
Something fundamental had shifted during the riding accident. Some transformation had occurred that went far deeper than physical injury.
Where had the timid, fragile Princess disappeared to?
This woman bore no resemblance to her former self.
"Those who harbor treasonous intentions toward this kingdom must be rooted out. Even if they share my blood."
A slight smile curved her lips.
"It would be such a terrible shame, wouldn't it?"
Nothing in those measured words suggested any intention of saving her uncle.
Medea extended a folded parchment.
"Use this route next time. It's better they don't know we're meeting."
A small map was sketched on the paper—hidden corridors, blind spots, a path invisible to palace watchers.
Sissair blinked, caught off-guard.
Is she truly committed to destroying Claudio?
Can I trust this transformation?
A soft knock interrupted his racing thoughts.
"Your Excellency, I've brought fresh hot water."
"Enter."
While Sissair removed his monocle, attempting to regain his composure, the maid glided in.
The same woman who had served tea earlier.
She placed the refreshments on the table with practiced grace, her movements fluid and economical.
The Brewing
As hot water cascaded over the tea leaves, fragrance bloomed through the room—bitter, floral, intoxicating.
The maid's hands moved with unconscious expertise.
Sissair glanced at Medea, who hadn't touched her previous cup.
"Shall I have different tea prepared for you?"
This particular blend—bitter and delicate—suited his palate but would hardly appeal to a young princess's taste.
Ordinarily, he wouldn't have cared. But now, some unfamiliar concern prompted the offer.
"No need. The aroma is magnificent. I don't think I've ever encountered this scent before."
"It's a medicinal tea the maid prepares herself. She hand-selects each leaf personally. I drink it more out of appreciation for her dedication than anything else."
"I didn't realize the Prime Minister was such a sentimental soul."
"Are you trying to insult me?"
Medea laughed—a soft, genuine sound.
Sissair found himself startled by the radiant smile that transformed her delicate features.
Had the Princess always been capable of smiling so warmly?
"I'd like to continue drinking this tea as well."
"I'll arrange for a separate supply to be sent to you."
"My maids are inexperienced. I doubt they could handle the preparation with such skill."
Medea gestured to the maid standing beside the teapot.
"I'd prefer to borrow your maid for a while instead."
Sissair responded carefully.
"Actually, there's another girl who's even more skilled at the preparation. To save trouble, I'll assign her to you instead."
"No."
The Princess's face remained expressionless.
"I want this one."
Sissair studied her for a long moment, trying to read her intentions.
"She's someone I... value personally."
"Is she? Over a simple cup of tea, Prime Minister?"
The implication was clear: Don't overreact. Don't make this difficult.
As expected, this arrogant Princess's temperament grated on his nerves.
Sissair rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar pressure building.
"...Will she be returned when you're finished with her?"
Medea lifted her chin slightly.
The aristocratic gaze seemed to question whether he would truly tarnish his dignity over a single maid.
Sissair sighed in defeat.
"Very well. As you wish, Your Highness."
Several Days Later — The Princess's Palace
Gentle afternoon light filtered through silk curtains, painting everything in amber and gold.
The Prime Minister's maid had arrived at the Princess's palace bearing tea.
"Raise your head."
The atmosphere was deceptively peaceful—unchanged from any ordinary day.
Sweet floral fragrance drifting past. Soft carpets underfoot. Dreamy pastel colors washing over everything.
All the implements for tea preparation arranged on a small round table.
Medea's pale, delicate fingers held a measure of tea leaves—finely ground, almost powder-soft.
She placed a careful portion onto the tea strainer.
"Is this the correct amount? Or is it excessive?"
Silence.
Marieu, standing beside her, poured hot water over the leaves Medea had measured.
Steam began to rise.
The fragrant aroma of tea filled the chamber—almost oppressively dark and heavy.
"How long should it steep?"
The maid offered no response.
A slender hand tilted the kettle at a precise angle.
Golden-hued tea flowed into an exquisite porcelain cup.
Sissair's maid stared at the brew. The color had taken on an ominous depth—so dark you could barely see the bottom of the vessel.
"Perfect."
When the maid extended the teacup, Medea shook her head.
"You first."
"Pardon? I couldn't possibly presume to drink what's intended for Your Highness—"
"Drink."
The command was absolute.
"Please understand—this is an order, not a request."
The maid no longer bothered to hide her displeasure at such high-handed treatment.
"I don't understand why Your Highness feels compelled to persecute me in this manner. I have served the Prime Minister faithfully for years. If he were to learn you were tormenting me like this—"
"I don't know why everyone insists on performing theatrical displays of loyalty in my presence."
Medea cut her off, raising her gaze with visible boredom.
Then, expressionlessly, she looked down at Sissair's maid.
C R A S H
Her hand suddenly swept the entire canister of tea leaves from the table.
Leaves scattered across the floor in a fragrant cascade, their scent filling every corner of the space.
Perfect.
Suddenly, memories from her past life overlaid the maid's flustered expression like a double exposure.
The War's Final Days
The conflict between Peleus and the nomadic tribes had been nearing its conclusion.
Sissair, Valdina's young Prime Minister, began suffering from severe mania.
At the critical juncture where only final victory or defeat remained, he attempted to hide his deteriorating condition.
He locked himself in his tower, struggling to manage state affairs alone.
Then, one day—
"Your Majesty, Prime Minister Sissair has... he couldn't overcome his madness. He's taken his own life."
The report had been delivered like an administrative inconvenience.
His death had shaken the kingdom to its foundations.
Even Peleus's power base had trembled. Sissair had been one of the precious few loyalists supporting the King unconditionally.
Even Medea—who had known so little, who had understood so little—had felt the void his absence created.
Sissair was far too young to suffer from mania.
He had no other illnesses. No history of mental instability.
How could someone in the prime of life succumb to such a disease?
Mania typically manifested in wizards or swordsmen who had trained intensively for decades.
The question had haunted her.
Now, looking at the scattered tea leaves, the maid's practiced hands, the precise measurements—
Now she understood.
There had been a reason.
A very specific, very deliberate reason.
Medea's green eyes fixed on the maid with absolute clarity.
"Hallucinogenic compounds. Administered gradually over months, perhaps years. Symptoms indistinguishable from stress-induced mental deterioration."
The maid's breathing hitched—barely perceptible, but unmistakable.
"You weren't curing his headaches. You were methodically destroying his mind."
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
Medea took a single step closer.
"How fortunate that you came to me before you could complete your work."
The maid's composure finally cracked.
"Who... who told you—"
Medea smiled.
It was not a kind expression.
"That's precisely what we're about to discuss. In detail."
The door closed with a soft, final click.
On the table, the poisoned tea cooled, untouched.
End of Chapter Some deaths echo across lifetimes.
Some poisons take years to kill.
Some truths can only be learned twice.
What History Forgot
[ The Interrogation Begins ]
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