Chapter 4 Blood & Cyanide

# Chapter 4: Blood & Cyanide

"The court awaits your decision, Your Majesty."

I stare out the window of my private chamber, watching rain lash against the glass. Three days have passed since the fire. Three days of Thomas's fever dreams about my parents. Three days of Heinrich shadowing my every move.

"They can wait longer," I reply, not turning to face my lady-in-waiting. "Tell Lord Brandt I'll address the succession question when I'm ready."

"He insists the matter is urgent. The rumors about the boy—"

"Are just that. Rumors." I finally turn. "Leave me."

Alone, I remove the portrait fragment from my bodice where I've kept it hidden. The paint is still tacky in places where the heat warped it. My mother's eyes stare back at me—recent, alive.

A knock interrupts my thoughts.

"Enter."

Elias steps in, his bandaged hands now merely wrapped in light gauze. He looks better than he did after the fire, though exhaustion still shadows his eyes.

"The boy is asking for you," he says without preamble.

"His fever?"

"Broken this morning. He's lucid."

I slip the portrait fragment back into hiding. "And what is he saying in this lucidity?"

"The same thing. That he saw your parents imprisoned in a northern tower. That Heinrich has been keeping them alive as leverage."

"My parents died when I was six, Elias. I attended their funeral."

"Did you see their bodies?"

The question hangs between us. No, I never saw them. The coffins were sealed—a state funeral with all the pageantry but none of the proof.

"Why would Heinrich keep them alive all these years?"

"Insurance," Elias suggests. "Control over you. The same reason he's produced this boy now—to maintain his grip on power even after your coronation."

I move to my desk, pouring two glasses of wine. I offer one to Elias, who hesitates.

"It's not poisoned," I say with a bitter smile. "Not everything I touch is deadly."

He takes the glass but doesn't drink. "Thomas wants to prove himself. To you."

"How?"

"A blood test. In public."

I raise an eyebrow. "He's either very confident or very foolish."

"Or telling the truth."

I drink deeply, considering. A public blood test would settle questions about the boy's heritage—Habsburg blood has distinctive properties when exposed to certain reagents. A trait that helped identify our lineage for generations.

"Fine," I decide. "Tomorrow. The main courtyard. Let all the nobles witness it."

Elias studies me carefully. "You seem certain of the outcome."

"Aren't you? Or has the boy's performance convinced even the great revolutionary that monarchy has merit?"

He sets down his untouched wine. "I believe in truth, Adelaide. Whatever form it takes."

After he leaves, I summon my most trusted handmaiden. "Bring me my special kit," I instruct. "And find out which physician will conduct tomorrow's blood test."

---

The courtyard fills with nobility by mid-morning. They cluster like crows, eager for spectacle. Heinrich has arranged everything—a dais where the procedure will take place, guards stationed strategically around the perimeter.

Thomas sits nervously, his small frame nearly swallowed by a chair too large for him. He's dressed in Habsburg colors—a calculated choice by someone. When he sees me approach, he attempts to stand.

"Stay seated," I say, gentler than I intended. Despite everything, I find myself pitying the child. A pawn in someone else's game, just as I once was.

The court physician steps forward, displaying the ceremonial lancet that will draw our blood. "Your Majesty, if you'll permit me to explain the procedure—"

"I'm familiar with it," I interrupt. "My blood will turn the solution blue. Any true Habsburg will show the same reaction."

Heinrich watches from nearby, his expression unreadable. Bishop Alaric stands beside him, offering blessing for this "holy verification of divine right."

"The boy first," I command.

Thomas extends his trembling hand. The physician swabs his finger with alcohol, then pricks it swiftly with the lancet. Blood wells up—bright red against pale skin. The doctor collects it in a small glass vial, then adds the reagent.

The crowd leans forward collectively.

Nothing happens.

Then, slowly, the mixture darkens—not to blue, but to an inky black.

Gasps ripple through the courtyard. Thomas stares in confusion at the vial.

"Fraud!" someone shouts from the crowd.

"Imposter!"

The boy's eyes fill with tears. "I don't understand..."

"The test is clear," Heinrich announces, stepping forward. "The child is not of royal blood."

I watch Thomas's face crumple in genuine bewilderment. He truly believed he was Habsburg. Which means whoever placed him in this position lied to him as well.

"Your Majesty," the physician says, turning to me with a fresh lancet. "If you would..."

I extend my hand regally, allowing him to draw blood. The same procedure follows—my blood drops into the vial, the reagent is added.

The liquid turns a perfect Habsburg blue.

Applause breaks out among the nobles. The contrast could not be more dramatic—my royal blood against the boy's common stock. I've won this round decisively.

Yet Thomas continues staring at his vial in disbelief. "It's wrong," he whispers. "The monks told me..."

"The monks lied," I say, loud enough for all to hear. "As did whoever sent you here."

Heinrich steps forward. "The child should be removed from court immediately. Such a deception cannot go unpunished."

"No." My voice cuts through the murmurs. "The boy stays. He is a victim of manipulation, not its architect."

Heinrich's jaw tightens—the first crack in his composure. "Your Majesty, the succession—"

"Is secure in me," I finish. "Unless you have another puppet to present, Lord Brandt?"

The challenge in my voice is unmistakable. The courtiers fall silent, sensing the power struggle unfolding before them.

Thomas suddenly grabs the vial containing his blood. "This isn't right! Something's wrong with the test!"

"Restrain the boy," Heinrich orders the guards.

"Wait," Elias interrupts, stepping onto the dais. "Let me see the lancet used on the child."

The physician hesitates, looking to Heinrich, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Elias examines the small blade, then holds it to the light. "There's residue on this lancet. It wasn't properly cleaned between tests."

"Preposterous," the physician sputters. "I followed all protocols."

In one fluid motion, Elias draws his pistol and aims it directly at my heart. Guards immediately draw their swords, but Heinrich waves them back, curious to see how this plays out.

"What are you doing?" I demand, not showing the fear that spikes through me.

"Testing a theory." Elias's eyes never leave mine. "You poisoned the lancet, didn't you? You knew this test was coming and you prepared for it."

The crowd gasps. I laugh, pressing my chest forward against the barrel of his gun.

"Finally," I say softly. "A man who won't miss my heart."

For a moment, the world narrows to just us—queen and revolutionary locked in our deadly dance. I see the conflict in his eyes, the same struggle I've felt every day since he returned.

"Shoot me or put that away," I challenge. "Either way, make your choice."

Before he can respond, Thomas screams—a sound of pure terror. We both turn to see Heinrich gripping the boy by the collar, a small dagger pressed to his throat.

"Enough theatrics," Heinrich says coldly. "The test has spoken. The child is a pretender to the throne."

"Heinrich," I warn, "release him."

"Your Majesty still has much to learn about ruling," he replies. "Sentiment is a luxury monarchs cannot afford."

With clinical precision, Heinrich slices the blade across Thomas's neck.

Blood sprays across the white marble. The boy crumples, his small hands clutching futilely at the wound. Screams erupt from the crowd as nobles scramble backward, their finery splattered crimson.

I rush forward, catching Thomas as he falls. His eyes—those Habsburg eyes—lock onto mine in confusion and betrayal. I press my hands against the wound, but blood pulses between my fingers.

Heinrich leans down, his lips close to my ear as I cradle the dying child. "Your parents begged for death," he whispers, his voice cold as ice. "I made them wait."

The boy shudders once, twice, then goes still in my arms. His blood soaks through my gown, staining the Habsburg blue a deep, accusatory red.

I look up to find Elias staring at me, his pistol now aimed at Heinrich. The spymaster merely smiles.

"Go ahead, revolutionary," he taunts. "Show everyone your true colors."

Elias's finger tightens on the trigger. Our eyes meet over the body of the dead child, and in that moment, I see his decision form.

The future of the kingdom balances on the edge of a bullet.