Seraphina slipped into her father's study before sunrise, lantern in hand. Dust motes danced as she crossed the room to the glass cabinets that held her father's pride and joy—vials of his finest work. Tonight's feast demanded his special tonic for the prince's coronation toast.
But one vial stood empty. Her chest tightened. She'd remember that pale-green liquid—gentle enough to charm the palette but deadly if twisted. Someone had stolen it.
That was the betrayal.
She lifted her father's crimson-bound notebook from the desk and flipped to the recipe. Each ingredient was listed in her father's neat script: crushed nightshade, wolfbane extract, dawn-bloom petals. In the margin, a warning she'd only just noticed: "Handle with care—antidote must be ready."
Her pulse quickened. She couldn't let the prince to be poisioned again. She had to recreate the antidote first.
Moving swiftly, Seraphina gathered fresh herbs. In the moonlit alchemy wing, she measured petals and roots, distilled essences, and added the stabilizer she'd discovered in her second life. The liquid shimmered pale gold—fragile, potent, perfect.
She tested a single drop on her wrist. No sting. No numbness. Relief bloomed in her chest.
Clutching the tiny vial of antidote, Seraphina knew what she would do at the feast tomorrow: protect the prince, expose the thief, and rewrite her family's fate—one careful step at a time.