Page 64 of The Mad King and the False Queen

“It was poisoned.” The words escaped Dagmara’s lips before she had a chance to second-guess.

Was she sure? Did she see it correctly or was it all a slip of her imagination?

Claude’s expression darkened, his voice barely audible. “Poisoned?”

That’s when Dagmara felt the singe of pain. She looked down at her hand to see her glove coated in red wine and burning like hell. Wincing, she tore off her glove, throwing the fabric aside before wiping her hand on her skirt. She was familiar with the sting, but to anyone else who left it on a moment longer, it would easily leave scars.

Claude yelled what Dagmara could only assume was a curse word before tearing off his shirt, soaked in wine. Once it was off, everyone could see the inflamed skin on the center of his chest—the center of his very muscular chest.

Shouts rang across the terrace, and at one point Dagmara heard the word for ‘doctor’. There wasn’t time for all that. It just needed to be washed off.

Dagmara grabbed her glass of water and chucked it toward the king. The water splashed against his chest as the ice cubes bounced off in random directions.

Everyone went silent.

Claude froze, his expression indecipherable as his eyes flicked from Dagmara to the empty glass in her hand. His jaw ticked, anger flaring in his eyes. Beads of water ran down his chiseled body, over every divot in his abdomen. The water settled in the crevices between his taut muscles and low-rise pants.

She gave him an embarrassed grin.

In the silence, footsteps and panting were heard. The servant who had poured the wine was dashing up the terrace steps, the pitcher left behind on the ground, going for the escape. All of the guards had been too stunned by the outburst to grab him in time.

As if everyone jumped to action at once, the guards started making haste.

However, the guards didn’t overtake the servant before the earth rose from the ground. Directly in the servant’s path, the terrace split in a deafening crack, shooting upward to create a wall. The servant nearly collided with the wall, skidding to a halt and falling to the ground.

Dagmara gasped, stumbling back and catching herself against the table. She didn’t even feel the terrace vibrate. Who had Soul magic here?

As the servant scooted away from the wall, trying to find his escape, an ember of fire ignited at the base of his pants.

Fire magic?

The servant let out an ear piercing scream as the fire imploded, reaching up his pant leg.

“Who sent you?” Claude’s voice was louder than anything she had heard before. He started forward, silver magic dancing at his fingertips.

That’s when it clicked. None of this was real. It was all in the mind. Claude was projecting all of this with his mind? Dagmara didn’t even know that was possible.

“Who!?” Claude yelled, and the fire erupted, consuming the servant’s entire body.

Dagmara could only watch in sheer terror as the servant threw himself at the ground, screaming to put out the flames.

“Claude!” Annette screamed.

Sabien stepped forward and placed a hand in front of Claude. His Ilusaurian was too quick for Dagmara to pick up amid the chaos, but she heard something about taking the servant for questioning.

Everyone on the terrace was frozen, watching the servant scream and thrash on the ground.

“Your Majesty,” Sabien said.

With one wave of his hand, Claude dismissed the projections. In a blink of an eye, everything returned to normal. The terrace was untouched, no more wall of earth. The fire was gone. The servant’s clothes weren’t even burned.

It was all a mind game.

And it was terrifying.

Sabien was the first to move, charging toward the servant who was still squirming to put out the imaginary fire. A few guards followed, joining him to bring the servant to prison no doubt.

One servant mentioned something about grabbing the doctor, racing inside. Others crowded the table, asking if everyone was alright.

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