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Orion developed a keen interest in poisons from an early age.

It was an easy curiosity to nurture, given the environment he was raised in—an environment where danger and death seemed to lurk around every corner.

The brothers Demetrius were surrounded by blights, creatures, and plants that killed in a myriad of ways, and from the moment they could walk, the boys were immersed in them.

The estate they called home was set among lush hills that rolled down to the coast, a place where the natural world seemed determined to remind them of its lethal beauty.

Spiders spun intricate webs in the corners of their rooms, only to be roused to frenzy by overzealous boy hands plunging in too eagerly when the family returned in the autumn.

The nearby forests were dense with ivy, oleander, and arum—poisonous plants that could kill at a mere touch or, in some cases, by proximity alone.

There was no escaping it. The estate, like the court they belonged to, was a web woven with danger, and Orion was drawn to its every thread.

Thorne, only four years old to Orion's eleven, didn’t remember much of that night—too young to fully grasp what was unfolding around him.

The dinner party had been a blur of light and noise, a whirlwind of clinking silverware, laughter, and conversations that seemed to echo off the marble walls.

He could barely recall how uncomfortable he had been in his stiff clothes, how nervous he had felt under the weight of all the people around him.

Most vividly, he remembered the loud, bright-haired boy sitting next to him, the one who kept trying to speak to him, asking endless questions that Thorne could never find the energy to answer.

But there was one thing Thorne could never forget.

It was the sound of Orion’s silverware clattering against the porcelain of his plate, sharp and jarring as the utensils slipped from his grasp.

The noise reverberated through the room, a prelude to the terrifying stillness that followed.

He could still hear it—the creak of the chair as Orion’s body swayed to one side, and then the thud, dull and sickening, when it hit the floor.

The gold button torn from his brother’s cuff, rolling across the floor with an eerie, metallic tinkling that seemed to echo off the walls, marking the moment when time seemed to stand still.

After that, Thorne could only remember the chaos that erupted.

Screaming, so much screaming, the hall filled with panic as the party collapsed into disarray.

The room became a stomach, a gaping mouth that swallowed them all whole.

The lights above seemed to flash and burn, turning the world into an unrecognizable blur.

The panic was like a living thing, and Thorne was swept away by it.

He recalled reaching down, his small hands trembling, and pulling the spent button from the marble crevice where it had fallen, but before he could make sense of anything, his mother had swept him up and ferried him away.

His father had pushed through the crowd, a figure of focused authority, and the party—the noise, the lights, the chaos—began to dissolve like water over his head as Thorne was pulled into the safety of his mother’s embrace. He began to sob uncontrollably, the only thing he could do as the world fell apart around him.

It was Harper, their father, who had been able to act quickly enough to save Orion’s life.

The poison that had been introduced into Orion’s food was weak in the face of Harper’s steadfast resolve, his will to save his eldest son stronger than any poison could hope to be.

Orion had made a full recovery, and though the attempt on his life had left him with a few harrowing memories of a numb tongue and a sudden, overwhelming cold, it did not kill him.

But the experience had changed him, irrevocably.

The morning after the party, Orion had woken up with an energy Thorne had never seen before—bright-eyed and ravenous, not for porridge or soup, but for something else entirely.

His hunger was not for food, but for knowledge.

He wanted to know what had almost killed him, what had come so close to taking his life the night before.

In his own, sharp way, Orion knew that he had been on the edge of death, even if he hadn’t been conscious of it at the time.

He could recall the sensations—the numbness that had spread over his tongue, the cold that had crept into his limbs—and these fleeting memories became the foundation for his obsession.

It was as if the brush with death had awakened something in him, a need to understand what could have taken him so swiftly from the world.

Orion threw himself headlong into the study of poisons, determined to unravel the mysteries of life and death.

He spent hours poring over their father’s medical books, studying diagrams of organs, mapping bones, learning the intricacies of the body’s fluids and how much of each could be lost before the body would give in to death.

He spent just as much time at their mother’s knee, reading through her legions of books on history, mythology, and the natural world.

His summers were spent roaming the woods and beaches, disappearing for hours only to return with his arms scratched up, red and spotted from encounters with poison sumac, carrying with him the carcasses of dead creatures—beasts pulled from the surf or fallen prey in the woods, eager to pick them apart and learn their secrets.

He studied the dangerous flora and fauna, learning how nature itself could become a weapon, and how these elements could be bent to his will.

Orion’s fascination with the natural world soon expanded into an obsession with the poisons that lurked in it.

He started working on developing his own toxins, concoctions made from the plants and animals that surrounded them.

It wasn’t long before he began testing these creations on himself—seeking to understand their effects firsthand.

Though Thorne didn’t witness the early tests, he became all too familiar with the aftermath.

Orion dosed himself repeatedly over the years, the consequences largely harmless but uncomfortable—headaches, stomach cramps, and once, a dark, spreading rash that had left his skin raw and inflamed.

But it was the one time that Orion pushed too far that Thorne would never forget.

Thorne hadn’t witnessed it directly, but he would always remember the moment he came charging into the room, heart pounding and wooden practice sword still clutched tight in his hand, his breath ragged.

The scene was chaos—a blur of limbs and panic.

Orion lay on the floor, his face ashen, his breath shallow and erratic, the familiar signs of poison wreaking havoc on his body.

Thorne had no idea how it happened, what had gone wrong, only that his brother was in trouble once again, this time in a way that was far more dangerous than anything they had faced before.

Thorne remembered his fourteen-year-old brother, pale and sweating, cradled in their father’s arms, a fragile and shuddering pair surrounded by an odd incantation circle of empty vials and dried herbs.

The room was heavy with the sickly smell of crushed leaves and burning incense as Harper, their father, unwrapped a lump of charcoal from a box of paper with shaking hands.

The scene was so foreign to Thorne, so incomprehensible at the time.

What could this box, with its humble, everyday paper wrapping, possibly be for? The charcoal seemed so simple, almost too rudimentary for the life-or-death drama unfolding before him.

He had been too young to understand the gravity of it.

All he could see was Orion, his brother, looking as if he were teetering on the edge of life and death, and his father’s frantic movements, trying to do something, anything, to bring his son back from the brink.

The two hours that followed felt like an eternity to Thorne, each second stretching into the next in agonizing slowness.

Orion’s violent sickness was a grotesque spectacle—his body wracked with convulsions as the poison coursed through him, threatening to take him from the world in a way that seemed both sudden and inevitable.

It was as if their very lives had been suspended in that moment, the house silent except for the sound of their father’s breath, harsh and jagged as he fought to save the son he loved.

After what felt like a lifetime, Orion finally began to settle, his body stilling, his breaths shallow but steady.

The crisis had passed, but it had left its mark.

The poison had burned through him, leaving him hollowed and exhausted, a faint, lingering trace of the danger that had nearly taken him.

Harper had pulled Thorne out of the room after that, his face pale and drawn, his voice quieter than Thorne had ever heard it.

He explained to Thorne, in simple terms that only partially made sense at the time, how the charcoal had purged the toxins from Orion’s body.

The substance, so innocuous on its own, had played a crucial role in saving Orion’s life, absorbing the poison and preventing it from continuing its deadly path through his bloodstream.

Thorne had been too young to grasp the full weight of his father’s words then, but as the years went by, the significance of that moment became clearer.

Harper’s quick thinking, the little box of charcoal wrapped in paper, had stood between Orion and death.

Thorne had not realized it at the time, but Harper had been carrying that little box for years, always half out of fear and half out of pride—fear of the day it would become necessary, and pride in the knowledge that he could save his family if the worst came to pass.

It wasn’t until much later, when Thorne began to notice the subtle ways his father always seemed prepared, always reaching into his pockets with an almost absent-minded assurance, that he began to piece it together.

Harper had always carried that small box with him, always ready for the moment when it would be needed.

Thorne had no idea just how many years it had been there, how long Harper had feared that his knowledge of life-saving remedies would one day be put to the test.

But the day had come—and he had been ready.

After that second brush with death, Orion had been forever changed.

The fear he had experienced during those long, agonizing hours when the poison had threatened to take him had humbled him.

He learned, perhaps for the first time, the true weight of his obsession.

No longer would he recklessly test his poisons without thought for the consequences.

He became as devoted to learning antidotes as he had been to concocting poisons, and over the years, he mastered both.

But it wasn’t just the knowledge that changed him; it was the experience, the narrow escape from death that stayed with him.

And Thorne—Thorne had learned to respect death in a way he never had before.

He had seen firsthand how fragile life could be, how a single misstep could alter the course of one’s existence forever.

The box of charcoal, and their father’s quick actions, had been the only things standing between Orion and death—twice now.

And while Orion had learned to be more careful with his craft, it was Thorne who had learned something far more profound: the importance of preparation, of readiness, of making decisions in an instant, even in the face of chaos.

He understood now that death was not some distant concept—it was always lurking, always waiting, ready to take whoever it wanted, however it wanted.

And it would strike at the most unexpected of moments, especially those who dared to wield it without proper caution.

He had learned it in the hardest way, by watching his brother nearly slip away twice, by witnessing the brutal reality of what could happen when one played too recklessly with the forces of life and death.

It was something that never left him, the lesson buried deep in his chest, growing heavier as the years passed.

Now, Thorne was certain that Harper still carried that box of charcoal, the same box that had saved Orion’s life so many years ago.

He could imagine his father’s fingers wrapping it in paper, the quiet motion that no one ever saw.

It had become part of him, part of the careful, ever-watchful side of Harper that Thorne had grown to admire even when he didn’t fully understand it.

And Thorne? He still carried that tiny gold button from that fateful dinner party, the one he had picked up from the marble crevice in the aftermath of Orion’s collapse.

As the years went on and his hands grew larger and more capable, he still kept that button in his palm, a quiet reminder of that night—of how close he had come to losing everything.

The button, worn smooth from the constant pressure of his hand, was a reminder of the fragility of life, of the delicate balance between life and death, and of the responsibility that came with living in the shadow of those who danced so dangerously with it.

That last poisoning was well over a decade ago now, a distant memory wrapped in the mist of a damp autumn day.

But the lessons learned, the scars left by those close calls, would stay with them forever.

And in that tiny box of charcoal, and in the quiet weight of that button, Thorne carried the knowledge of the razor-thin line between living and dying, a line that, for all their preparation, could never be fully bridged.

Thorne Demetrius was struck all over again, caught unprepared, just as he had been the day he’d seen Orion lying helplessly on the floor.

That same sinking, paralyzing sensation clawed at his chest.

The same sense of being utterly powerless, completely unready for what was happening.

It was as if he were a fool all over again, a damn fool, caught in the act of his own ignorance, unable to move, to think, to react in time.

He stood there, gaping, staring directly at the man upon the mezzanine.

The lumbering, fanged horror that had once been so terrifying, so monstrous, now stood before him—tall, golden, regal—transformed by the light and crystal.

The creature, once veiled in nightmare, had become a handsome lord, a prince, every inch the figure of nobility and power.

His eyes, a piercing blue so cold they could sting like ice, locked onto Thorne’s own amber gaze from across the room.

The connection was immediate, unwavering, and in that moment, the world around Thorne seemed to fall away, the sounds of the revelry fading into a distant hum.

It was only the two of them now, caught in a moment of undeniable recognition.

Kaelen Elenar Olivet, the Crown Prince of Erethos, the very man Thorne had been sent to murder.

His mysterious companion of the evening, the one who had led him into the heart of the celebration, who had smiled that insufferable, mocking smile that Thorne had once mistaken for nothing more than casual arrogance.

And yet here he was, standing tall, a vision of regal grandeur, and all along, Thorne had been too blind, too caught up in the swirl of the evening to recognize what had been staring him in the face.

He stood there, frozen amidst the tempest, as the masked revelry swirled around him, the partygoers toasting, cheering, delirious with joy at their prince’s spectacle.

“Long live the king!”

they shouted, their voices a chorus of adulation, their eyes adoring as they followed the prince’s every move.

But Thorne—he stood there, inert, utterly incapable of movement, as his mind spun in frantic circles, recontextualizing the events of the evening with this new, terrifying revelation.

Every indication, every subtle sign, had been on display, had been put before him with all the boldness of a banner in the wind.

How had he missed it? How could he have been so willfully blind to the truth?

Thorne’s gaze never left Kaelen as the prince waved over a servant and handed off his mask, his champagne flute still untouched, held only as a prop in his hand.

He had never taken a sip, had never bothered with the drink that had been prepared for him.

No, his lips had been far too occupied with that damned mocking smile, the one Thorne had so easily dismissed earlier.

Damn him.

Damn Kaelen for being so clever, so dangerous, so perfectly poised in his deception.

Kaelen then fluffed the edges of his regal cape, and with a fluid motion, he made to descend the stairs.

The first strike of his booted heel upon the marble floor was like a physical jolt to Thorne, a shock that snapped him from his stupor.

Cold raced up his spine, as if some invisible force had reached into his very bones.

He was frozen, standing still, breathing slow and shallow, holding each breath as if trying to freeze time itself, to hold off the inevitable collision that was about to unfold.

His heartbeat surged in his chest, erratic and intense, each thump an echo of his growing panic.

His body was tense, as though every muscle had seized in preparation for something he wasn’t yet sure how to face.

He could feel it in the air—the predator’s approach.

Ridiculous.

Thorne’s mind screamed at him to move, to do something, anything.

But he couldn’t—his body refused to obey.

He stood there like prey, unable to move as he watched Kaelen’s approach, each step growing closer, the space between them narrowing until the prince alighted on the ballroom floor.

The crowd surged around him, eager to be near their prince, to bask in his presence, to draw closer to the center of this moment of power.

The partygoers, too excited in their adulation, closed in on Kaelen like moths to a flame.

Even with his monstrous, beastly shape, in the frenzy of the crowd, he slipped easily below Thorne’s line of sight, like a shark disappearing into the depths of the waves.

But Thorne knew it was only a matter of time before Kaelen reemerged from the sea of bodies, and the hunt would begin in earnest.

The predator had claimed its prey, and now there was no escape.

Thorne didn’t think.

His instincts took over in an instant, and without a moment’s hesitation, he turned on his heel and bolted.

His body moved on its own, propelled by the primal need to escape, to put distance between himself and the man he had been sent to kill.

He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t calculating the risk, wasn’t considering the consequences of his actions.

All he knew was that Kaelen was a danger to him now, and the room had become a trap.

The people around him, their voices blurring into a rising, frenetic chant, were no longer just partygoers—they were obstacles, barriers to his escape.

The room around him seemed to melt into a blur of color and shape, each piece warping into distortion as Thorne tore away from the stairs, racing in the opposite direction.

Panic clawed at him, fraying his thoughts as he shoved past courtiers circling like vultures, the delicate, pretty girls who were out of their depth, the old men still trying to get their piece of the evening’s pleasures.

He shoved them aside with desperation, his elbows knocking into shoulders, his movements sharp and erratic.

He didn’t care, not now.

None of them mattered—not in this moment, not when the beast was so near.

He pushed through, every step propelling him further away from the presence that had started everything, that had altered everything with one look, one revelation.

He needed to focus.

He needed to think.

But even as he pushed forward, his mind was racing, each thought crashing into the next.

He couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe—not with Kaelen so close.

The wild rush of blood in his ears drowned out everything else for a few moments, the room, the people, the laughter—none of it mattered except the rising panic in his chest.

Get away.

Get away.

Think, think, think!

In his daze, his frantic pace carried him into someone, a sharp collision that made his heart leap into his throat.

For a brief moment, a phantom sensation gripped him—cold, clawed fingers closing around his shoulder, warmth at his neck, the heat of breath without teeth in the way.

He froze, terror surging through him, ready to fight, ready to scream, but it wasn’t Kaelen.

It was a servant, stumbling under the weight of a tray of champagne flutes, offering them to anyone within reach.

Thorne’s breath caught in his chest, a second too long lost to the pulse of fear.

Without thinking, he grabbed one of the flutes and downed it quickly, the sharp bite of the alcohol making him cough as it burned its way down his throat.