The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and illusion, a sprawling chamber carved from obsidian stone and adorned with white serpent banners — a mockery of purity in a den of political filth. Velvet curtains masked narrow balconies where guards stood hidden in shadow. Musicians played soft, foreign strings while gold-robed nobles danced in slow spirals under the watchful eyes of the Western Courts of Veyr.
Kalen and Raelith moved like ghosts among them.
Silk masks obscured their faces. Their black robes had been replaced with borrowed finery stolen from a courier two towns back — tailored to mirror Veyron style, but stitched with hidden threads soaked in the scent of swamp blossom to suppress serpent aura. Their serpents — bone-white and black-scaled — remained coiled beneath their sleeves, dormant yet pulsing with venom.
Tonight was not for bloodshed. Not in the open.
Tonight, death would taste of wine.
They had arrived two days earlier, having studied the estate's routines from beneath sewer grates and dead rooftops. The bride-to-be — Lady Serinya Valthorne, daughter of the allied war clan — was to drink from a jeweled goblet during the ceremonial toast. That goblet, they now knew, was always passed to her last — a tradition, a sign of humility before royalty.
Poisoning the wine itself would be foolish. Someone else might drink from it first.
The serpent's fang had to touch her cup directly.
Raelith's crimson eyes locked with Kalen's beneath the mask as they passed through the crowd. He gave the faintest nod. The guards were positioned exactly as they'd observed. The high balconies were full of archers, but the focus remained on the prince — Thalen Veyron, clad in silver and black, smiling like a god carved from marble.
The prince laughed as he stood beside his bride, whispering promises of eternal alliance.
But tonight, the alliance would rot.
The High Priest's words echoed in Kalen's mind.
"Poison is not cowardice. Poison is purpose. A true assassin kills not to satisfy ego, but to alter fate."
Raelith moved first.
He drifted toward the serving corridor, weaving through dancers until he slipped past a velvet curtain. No one stopped him — servants rarely raised suspicion, especially during ceremonies. Once inside the hallway, he removed the small vial tied to his inner sleeve.
He whispered, "Uncoil."
The black serpent slithered from beneath his cuff, tongue flickering in the darkness.
Raelith removed a silver needle and touched it to the serpent's fang. One drop — no more. The venom was too potent. This was not meant to cripple, but to paralyze her heart mid-beat, silencing her before her body even struck the floor.
In the ballroom, Kalen had already taken his place beside the table where the ceremonial goblets waited, untouched and pristine. He glanced once at the ceiling — he could see the faint shadow of a hidden guard crouching. Timing had to be perfect.
Raelith returned.
In a single breath, Raelith brushed past the goblets, his hand hidden by a folded napkin. The serpent beneath his sleeve struck quick — a bite so small, so fast, no trace of it remained on the glass. Then Raelith vanished into the crowd once more.
They watched as servants brought the goblets forward.
One by one, each noble was handed theirs. Toasts were spoken. Vows were made. Applause rang out like silver rain. And then the final goblet — hers — was lifted.
Lady Serinya's smile was soft, uncertain. She was barely seventeen. A girl born into war politics, used as a pawn to seal an alliance. Her eyes flicked once toward Prince Thalen, seeking comfort, perhaps.
Then she drank.
A long pause. Nothing.
Then—
Her fingers twitched. Her spine went rigid.
Eyes widened in confusion, then terror, but no sound escaped her lips. She crumpled, the goblet falling from her hands, shattering across the marble floor. Gasps erupted. The music stopped.
The alliance was shattered in an instant.
Panic swept the hall. Nobles backed away. Guards surged forward.
Prince Thalen caught her before she fully collapsed — her lifeless body limp in his arms. He stared down at her with hollow disbelief. A scream rose in his throat but never left his lips. He looked around the room, searching for reason — or revenge.
The twins were already gone.
By the time chaos had consumed the ballroom, Kalen and Raelith had slipped into the deeper corridors of the estate, using forgotten tunnels mapped days ago. They moved like phantoms — silent, surgical, serpents in human skin.
They emerged into the night from a garden wall, leapt onto horses tethered in the dark woods beyond, and rode.
Not a word spoken between them.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rich wine and spilled fate. Kalen's bone-white serpent hissed softly beneath his sleeve, as if pleased. Raelith's serpent pulsed with shadowy warmth.
Mission complete.
But the ripples were only beginning.
---
By dawn, word had already spread across Veyr.
The daughter of the Valthorne clan — the last political heir of a mountain empire — had died mysteriously at the very ceremony meant to unite her with Prince Thalen. Whispers of poison danced on every lip, though no trace could be found. The wine had been tested. The food untouched. No blade, no mark, no curse sigil.
And yet — she was dead.
Some accused her of weakness. Others of secret enemies. A few nobles quietly abandoned the alliance that very morning.
The Western Courts of Veyr had been sabotaged from within.
Prince Thalen did not speak to anyone that day. He remained in his private chambers, his hands bloodied from trying to revive her. He did not weep. But something in him had cracked.
And far beyond the city, in the black valleys below the Serpent's Spine, the twins stopped to rest by a riverbank.
Raelith crouched beside the stream, washing dried blood from his sleeve. Not hers — but from a panicked guard who had tried to follow them in the corridor. A quick strike had ended that man's breath.
Kalen stood silent, eyes scanning the tree line.
Then he finally spoke.
"She was scared. At the end."
Raelith didn't answer.
"Did it matter?" Kalen asked, eyes not moving. "She was just a piece on the board."
Still, silence.
But Raelith's serpent coiled tighter around his wrist, and his fingers clenched.
Eventually, Raelith replied, voice low. "It matters. But not enough to stop."
They rode again.
Behind them, the Western Courts began to unravel — suspicion blooming, alliances fraying. The Valthorne clan would demand answers. The prince would thirst for vengeance. And somewhere, deep in the highest chamber of the Coiled Night Clan, the High Priest would be offering a silent prayer to the Serpent God, thanking it for blood spilled in silence.
This was no longer a simple assassination.
It was war by poison.