The aroma of crushed mint leaves and rose syrup wafted through the air like a well-placed dagger.
The King preferred his tea sweet but not cloying. Just enough to mask the bitterness of the root blend favored by the court physicians. A servant poured the brew in silence, retreating behind heavy velvet curtains that muffled the world outside. Within the opulent chamber, only two remained.
Faye Silverclaw sat across from the King in a high-backed chair upholstered in dark green brocade, the color of money and poison. Her gown shimmered with tiny gold threads, a perfect echo of her carefully cultivated appearance: refined, untouched, and lethal beneath every practiced smile.
Her long black hair was waved with gold thread in a very complex pattern; she was one of the social queens, especially now that the real queen was dying. It was the right time for her to shine.
