Page 45 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Eighteen

ELIZABETH

I huddled in the corner of my alchemist cottage, the scent of crushed herbs and minerals thick in the air, clinging to my skin like the ghosts of failed remedies.

Tears streaked down my cheeks, etching clean paths through the grime smudged across my face. I had tried not to cry. I tried to block out the echoes that slithered through the night, but Amir’s cries reached this far—my supposed sanctuary, deep within the woods.

Every sound from the dungeon was a brutal reminder of his suffering, his torment, and his slow unraveling at the hands of my father.

I pressed a shaking palm against the wooden worktable, peeling myself from the wall. Alchemy. I had to focus. I had to do something.

But as I reached for my tools, my body shuddered, a silent rebellion against the horrors unfolding beyond my reach.

My father had become more demanding.

Tasking me with poisons—day and night, new brews, stronger venoms, deadlier weapons.

And now—his latest command chilled me to my very core.

I was to craft a poison stronger than Belladonna—one meant for Amir.

I stared at my hands, at the trembling fingertips hovering over the mortar and pestle. I had the means to obey.

But I also had the means to raze everything to the ground.

The Noctyss flower.

Nestled within my grasp like a death sentence ready to be rewritten.

With it, I could obliterate them all. My father. His men. The entire wretched Timehunter society.

I reached for the pestle, but my hands trembled too violently. It slipped from my grip, clattering to the stone floor with a deafening crash.

I couldn’t do it.

Each motion felt like a betrayal.

The thought of harming Amir shredded what remained of my already tattered heart.

Memories flooded my mind, unwelcome but desperately clung to.

Amir shielded me from my father’s wrath that stormy night, his arms a fortress around me.

His body and soul had met mine in his sleeping chamber, searing away the cold fear with something raw, unbreakable.

The whispered vows of vengeance we had spoken in the dark.

The plans we had woven together, our rebellion a tapestry of justice and destruction.

But now…

Now, those plans felt like distant dreams.

Dreams torn from my grasp by the cruel hands of my father.

And by the man I was meant to marry?—

Lord Winston.

I was trapped. Caged.

The word circled like a vulture over carrion, persistent and suffocating. Trapped by duty. By blood. By love.

I was Elizabeth Alexander, daughter of Thomas Alexander—forced to choose between the man who gave me life and the one who made that life worth living.

No more.

With determination hardening in my bones, I brushed away the remnants of herbs from my hands and set to work. Grief could not save Amir. Despair could not change my fate. Action would.

Once unsteady with sorrow, my fingers now moved with tenacity honed by love.

“I love you, Amir,” I whispered into the silence of the alchemist’s cottage. “I don’t care about my father. I’m going to heal you. He won’t torture you anymore.”

The words, spoken aloud, solidified something within me.

I turned to my shelves, hands carefully selecting only the most potent healing agents—roots of renewal, elixirs of restoration, powders that could mend flesh and stave off infection.

I filled the vials one by one, sealing them with wax and setting them aside with the tenderness of a promise.

But healing him was not enough.

I needed a way to reach him.

The glass vials and dried herbs before me were no longer mere ingredients—they were allies of subterfuge, instruments of rebellion.

The soft grind of mortar and pestle became the drumbeat of my defiance.

A sleeping draught.

I worked quickly, combining elements with careful attention, adjusting the mixture until its consistency was perfect—potent enough to numb the most hardened man.

I was ready when the evening unfurled its dark cloak over the estate.

I moved like a wraith through the halls, invisible, unheard, the vials tucked carefully within the folds of my dress.

The smoking parlor awaited.

And so did the brandy bottle.

An unwitting accomplice to my silent rebellion.

With sure hands, I uncorked the decanter, pouring the clear liquid into the amber spirits, watching as my betrayal dissolved seamlessly into the depths.

A part of me marveled at the ease of it.

Another part quaked at the implications.

Retreating to the front parlor, I picked up my embroidery hoop, the delicate fabric stretched taut beneath my trembling fingers. The needle moved in and out—a mindless, rhythmic dance that belied the chaos within me.

Yet, my focus lay elsewhere.

Every sense was attuned to the sounds beyond the room, my pulse counting the moments until Lord Winston’s arrival.

And then—the doorbell tolled.

Deep. Ominous.

A knell rang out through the hollow silence of the house.

I forced myself to remain seated, my hands never ceasing their work, though the stitches grew erratic with anticipation.

Through the veil of my lashes, I watched the maid scurry past, her footsteps swift as she hurried toward the grand entrance.

Now.

I slid from the parlor, melting into the dimly lit hallway. The silk of my skirts barely whispered against the polished floors as I pressed myself into the shadows.

Then—his footsteps.

Heavy. Ponderous.

Each step echoed through the hushed halls, a dreadful cadence of power and arrogance.

Lord Winston had arrived.

“Ah, Thomas,” his low, crawling voice slithered through the air. “Let us retire to your esteemed smoking room.”

My father’s response was a murmur, indistinct, but their footsteps soon merged as they moved down the corridor. I did not need to see them to know what would follow.

I could envision the two of them settling into the leather chairs, brandy in hand, to discuss the ruin of lives.

Unaware that swift and unforgiving sleep was already curling its fingers around their throats.

I did not breathe.

I did not move.

I slipped away only after their footsteps faded, quick and quiet, no more than a shadow swallowed by the night.

Back in my bedchamber, I waited.

The heavy fabric of my gown lay around me, its folds closing in like the petals of a flower shrouded against the dark.

“Patience,” I whispered to the restless spirit within me.

“For Amir, you must be patient.”

Time trickled by, each second stretching into a cruel eternity. I paced back and forth, my breath shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The wooden floor beneath me groaned as though it strained under the weight of my thoughts.

Then—silence.

A profound, eerie stillness settled over the house, a hush so absolute it felt as if the world held its breath.

This was it.

With cautious steps, I slipped from my chamber, my fingers brushing along the cool banister as I descended. The touch anchored me in a sea of uncertainty.

The smoking parlor loomed before me, its door a silent sentinel guarding the truth of my actions.

I pressed my ear against the polished wood, my breath shallow, my heart a tireless drumbeat.

Nothing.

No murmurs. No shifting movements.

Just silence.

A tentative tap of my fingertips against the door yielded no response. Emboldened, I curled my fingers around the handle and opened it.

And there they were.

My father. Lord Winston.

Slumped across the chairs, tangled in their limbs, oblivious.

The brandy had done its work.

Their chests rose and fell in a slow cadence—the breathing of men too deep in the clutches of an enchanted slumber to dream, conspire, or stop me.

Relief surged through me, but I couldn’t bask in triumph. Not yet.

There was still so much to do.

Clutching a torch, its flame flickering in time with the urgency pounding in my veins, I moved.

Toward the dungeon.

Toward Amir.

The corridors twisted and darkened as I descended, the air growing colder and heavier. The shadows stretched toward me like hungry hands, reaching and grasping.

But my determination flamed brighter.

Brighter than the fear. Brighter than the dark.

And no shadow could quench the fire that raged within me now.

“Amir.”

His name left my lips in a whisper, barely more than a breath.

My knees hit the cold stone floor, the impact jarring but insignificant compared to the pain tearing through my chest. He was a ruin before me—bruised, broken, reduced to a mere shadow of the man I knew.

I gathered his battered hands in mine, holding onto him as if I could tether him back to life.

“Amir, I shouldn’t have left you yesterday. I should have come sooner.”

His eyelids fluttered, his breath shuddering from his lips. “Elizabeth… why did you return?”

“Shhh,” I hushed him, brushing damp hair from his fevered forehead. My fingers trembled against his clammy skin. “My father is under a sleeping draught. He won’t know.”

I reached for the vials I had spent the night crafting—my weapons of salvation, my last defiance against the cruelty that had left him in this state.

I administered them individually; each sip met with a wince, and each swallow a battle. His resilience, even now, left me breathless.

“Rest now,” I murmured, pressing a cool cloth against his burning skin. “Let these mend what cruelty has tried to break.”

His eyes drifted closed. For a moment, peace.

And then?—

His eyes snapped open.

Torches flickered, their unsteady glow casting jagged shadows across the torment carved into his face.

His breathing came fast, ragged, his fingers curling into fists. A war waged within him—against the pain, against me.

And then, in a voice hoarse with suffering and something far worse—regret—he rasped, “I was foolish to fall in love with you.”

The words sliced through me.

“You weakened me,” he gasped, every syllable wrought from agony as if each one tore from his soul. “You brought me to my knees. I should never have let you in.”

A choked sob clawed its way up my throat.

“No, no,” I whispered, my hands trembling as they cradled his face as if I could hold him together through sheer will alone.