Pain was the first data point.
It wasn't the dull ache of a hangover or the sharp sting of an injury. It was a systemic, corrosive burning that started in the gut and radiated outward, dissolving the nervous system.
I opened my eyes. I expected the acoustic ceiling tiles of my apartment or the fluorescent hum of the engineering lab. Instead, I saw heavy velvet curtains and a ceiling painted with cherubs.
Location: Unknown.Physiology: Critical.
I tried to inhale, but my lungs hitched. My heart was beating in a frantic, irregular staccato—arrhythmia. I tasted copper and bile.
Poison.
The conclusion arrived with the cold speed of a logic gate closing. I wasn't me. Or rather, I was me, but the hardware was different. This body was younger, softer, but currently crashing.
A movement beside me drew my attention. A woman. She was huddled under the silk sheets, naked, her knees pulled to her chest. She wasn't sleeping; she was vibrating with terror.
I sat up, the room spinning like a gyroscope knocked off its axis. I grabbed the woman's shoulder. It wasn't a romantic gesture; I needed a stabilizer.
"You," I rasped. My voice sounded wrong—higher, unused to command. "What... did we drink?"
The woman—a maid, judging by the discarded rough-spun dress on the floor—flinched as if I'd struck her. Tears streaked her pale face.
" The... the fertility tonic, Your Highness," she sobbed, refusing to look at me. "The Advisor said... he said it was to ensure the line. To make the seed strong."
Fertility tonic. I analyzed the inputs. She was fine. I was dying. Logic path: She didn't drink it. She was the delivery system, or I drank it alone. Conclusion: Arsenic or a heavy alkaloid. The "Advisor" didn't want an heir; he wanted a corpse.
"Listen to me," I gritted out, gripping her chin to force her to look at me. Her eyes were wide, expecting me to strangle her. "I am not going to hurt you. But if I die, they will kill you to bury the evidence. Do you understand?"
She nodded frantically.
"Good. Now, I need you to be my hands. My system is compromised."
I closed my eyes, turning my focus inward. I didn't pray. I didn't panic. Panic is inefficient. I visualized my own anatomy.
Suddenly, the darkness behind my eyelids shifted. A blue wireframe grid overlaid my proprioception. It was like a CAD drawing of the human body, transparent and rotating. There it was—a jagged, crimson stain spreading from the stomach lining into the bloodstream.
Alert: Toxicity at 88%. Organ failure imminent.
"Bucket," I ordered, leaning over the side of the bed.
The maid scrambled, grabbing a brass basin from the vanity and shoving it under my face.
I focused on the red zone in my mind. I couldn't magic the poison away, but I understood hydraulics. I imagined the sphincter at the top of my stomach. Open. I imagined the diaphragm contracting like a piston. Pressure.
I retched violently. It was agony, a physical purge that felt like turning my body inside out. I emptied the stomach contents into the basin—sour wine and bile. But the burning remained. The absorption had already started.
"Not enough," I gasped, wiping a string of saliva from my mouth. I looked at the fireplace. It was cold, filled with the remnants of last night's fire.
"The fire," I pointed, my hand trembling. "Bring me the charcoal."
"My... Lord?" The maid stared at me, paralyzed by confusion.
"Carbon!" I shouted, the engineer in me overriding the dying prince. "The black wood! Bring it here!"
She ran to the hearth, grabbing a handful of cold, charred wood. She brought it to the bed, her hands staining black.
"Crush it," I wheezed. "Into the water pitcher. Crush it into dust. Maximum surface area. Do it now!"
She didn't ask questions. She grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick and smashed the charcoal on the bedside table, grinding the chunks into a fine black powder. She swept it into the silver water pitcher and swirled it.
"Drink," I told myself. Adsorption. The carbon lattice traps the toxin molecules.
I grabbed the pitcher and chugged the sludge.
It was vile. It tasted like swallowing a burnt forest. The grit coated my teeth, my tongue, my throat. I forced it down, gagging, fighting the body's urge to reject it. I visualized the carbon particles acting like millions of tiny magnets, latching onto the red poison markers in my blood.
I slumped back onto the pillows, the pitcher clattering to the floor.
"Lock the door," I whispered.
The maid—Lena, I recalled a name surfacing from the dead prince's memories—rushed to slide the heavy bolt home.
We waited. Minutes passed. The fire in my veins began to cool into a dull, throbbing ache. The red warning light in my mental vision receded to orange, then yellow.
System stabilized. Reboot successful.
Then came the knock.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
It was polite, rhythmic. The knock of a man who expects no answer.
"Prince Valian?" A smooth, oily voice came through the wood. "It is Advisor Corvin. I have come to... check on your health."
Lena froze. She looked at me with the eyes of a trapped deer. She knew that if that door opened and I was dead, she would be dragged to the dungeons.
I sat up. My body felt heavy, drained of fuel, but my mind was razor-sharp. I swung my legs off the bed and walked to the tall mirror in the corner.
I looked like a nightmare. My skin was the color of old parchment. Sweat matted my dark hair to my forehead. But the most terrifying feature was my mouth. The charcoal slurry had stained my lips, teeth, and tongue a deep, void-like black.
I bared my teeth at the reflection. I looked like a demon who had chewed its way out of hell.
"Perfect," I murmured.
I walked to the door. I placed a hand on Lena's shoulder. She was trembling violently.
"Stand behind me," I said quietly. "You are not a suspect anymore. You are my property. And no one touches my property."
I threw the bolt back.
I yanked the door open.
Advisor Corvin stood there, flanked by two guards. He was already reaching for a handkerchief, expecting the smell of a corpse. His face was composed in a mask of fake mourning.
The mask shattered when he saw me.
He took a stumbling step back, colliding with a guard. His eyes bulged.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I smiled, revealing the jagged, pitch-black rows of my teeth. The contrast against my pale skin was horrific.
"Good morning, Advisor," I said. My voice was rough, like grinding stones, but perfectly steady.
"My... Prince?" Corvin stammered, his gaze unable to leave my blackened mouth. "You are... awake."
"I am," I said. I ran my black tongue over my black teeth, savoring his fear. "The tonic you sent was a little... rich for my taste. But as you can see, I managed to digest it."
Corvin went pale. He knew. He knew that I knew. And he knew that by all laws of nature, I should be dead.
"I... I see," Corvin swallowed hard. "I will... inform the King you are well."
"Do that," I said, my black smile widening. "And tell him I'll be coming to the morning council. I have some structural changes to propose."
I slammed the door in his face.
The lock clicked. I turned to Lena. She was staring at me with a mixture of horror and absolute, terrifying awe.
"Clean this up," I said, gesturing to the vomit and the coal dust. "We have work to do."