the timid bride

# Chapter 57 – Poisoned Roses

The applause still echoed in Zara's ears long after she stepped down from the royal balcony. The warmth of the people's cheers had wrapped around her like armor, but she knew better than to mistake it for safety.

Love from the people was a double-edged sword—it inspired loyalty, but it also invited jealousy.

She sat in her chamber that evening, carefully removing the jeweled pins from her hair as her maid, Amara, folded away her gown.

"You looked like a queen today, my lady," Amara said softly, pride in her voice.

Zara smiled faintly. "Let's hope the kingdom agrees."

There was a knock at the door. A palace guard entered with a velvet box.

"A gift, my lady," he said. "Delivered anonymously."

Zara raised a brow. "Anonymous?"

The guard nodded. "Left at the gates."

She dismissed him with a wave and opened the box carefully.

Inside lay a single bouquet of roses. Blood-red, with a strange silver sheen along the edges of the petals. They glistened unnaturally in the candlelight.

"How strange," Zara murmured.

There was no note.

Amara leaned closer. "They're beautiful… but I've never seen roses like that before."

Zara stared at them, suspicion tightening her chest. "Send for the herbalist. I want the flowers examined."

—

By morning, the herbalist confirmed her fears.

"They're laced with belladonna," the old woman said gravely. "Enough to kill with a single touch if the oils seep into the skin."

Amara gasped.

"Someone sent me poison wrapped in petals," Zara whispered. "Disguised as admiration."

The herbalist nodded. "You've made powerful enemies, my lady. And they do not like a woman who speaks louder than her husband."

Zara's mind whirled. The address. The posters. The audit. It had all happened so fast—but she hadn't expected an attempt on her life this soon.

She stood slowly. "Burn them. And tell no one. Not yet."

—

In the throne room, Damon listened without interrupting as Zara relayed everything—the bouquet, the poison, the absence of a note.

He didn't explode with rage. He didn't bark orders.

Instead, he stood and walked to the nearest window, his back to her.

"That's how they do it," he said quietly. "Whispers. Shadows. A knife disguised as a compliment."

"I know."

He turned to her, his eyes hard. "From now on, you don't go anywhere without two guards. Not even to the gardens."

"I won't be caged."

"You won't be dead either," he snapped.

She flinched but didn't back down. "Then teach me how to protect myself. Let me train. Let me fight."

Damon blinked. "You want to learn combat?"

"I want to survive," she said. "I don't want to be the story they whisper about—how the prince's wife died in her sleep."

A long pause.

Then he nodded. "Fine. I'll assign you a trainer. But don't expect mercy."

"I wouldn't dare."

—

The next morning, she met her trainer—Commander Varek, the captain of the royal guard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from stone and eyes that missed nothing.

"You're smaller than I expected," he grunted.

"And you're grumpier," she shot back.

He chuckled. "Good. You'll need that fire. Let's begin."

The training yard was cold and unwelcoming, its stone floor hard beneath her boots. Varek wasted no time, tossing her a wooden sword that nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

"First lesson," he said, circling her, "don't expect your enemies to go easy because you're royal."

She swung clumsily, and he blocked it with ease.

Again. And again.

By the end of the hour, her arms ached and her legs shook, but her eyes were brighter than they had been in days.

"Come back tomorrow," Varek said gruffly. "You're not terrible. Yet."

She nodded, breathless. "I will."

—

That night, Damon joined her in the bathhouse, a rare act that caught her off guard.

"You stink like sweat," he said as he slipped into the steaming water beside her.

"Thank your commander for that," she murmured, wincing as she stretched.

He handed her a cloth. "So this is your idea of safety?"

"It's mine," she said, voice low. "It might not look like much now, but it's the first time I've felt strong on my own."

He watched her in silence, then reached forward and gently took her hand.

"You're not alone, Zara. Even if I don't always show it—I'd tear this kingdom apart for you."

She looked at him, truly looked, and for the first time, saw not just a prince—but a man slowly learning how to love.

"I know," she said softly. "And maybe that's what scares them."

—

Two days later, Zara's investigation team returned with troubling news.

The grain thefts were being orchestrated from within the castle—and one of the trusted court scribes had forged signatures to cover up missing shipments.

Damon flew into a quiet rage.

"I trusted these people," he muttered, pacing the chamber.

"They were never loyal to you," Zara said. "Only to what you represent."

He slammed his fist against the table. "Then we root them out. All of them."

She handed him the list. "Start with these names. The scribes. The warehouse masters. And…"

He looked up. "And?"

She hesitated. "Lord Ryle is protecting someone."

"Are you sure?"

"He's delaying my requests. Dodging. Smiling too much when I speak. He's hiding something."

Damon's face darkened. "Then we squeeze him."

—

That night, another letter arrived at Zara's chambers. This time, not anonymous.

It was signed only with one initial: **K.**

> *You've lit a torch in a room full of oil, my lady. And soon, it will all burn. I suggest you leave before the flames find your hem.*

She read it three times, then calmly tossed it into the fire.

Amara watched it burn.

"My lady… are you afraid?"

Zara's eyes stayed on the flames. "Of course."

"Then why do you keep pushing?"

She smiled bitterly. "Because they're more afraid of me. And they should be."

—

The next morning, the castle buzzed with chaos.

Lord Ryle had been arrested in front of his men, dragged through the halls under Damon's orders. Zara hadn't expected such a public scene, but she understood it was necessary.

She watched from the upper balcony, expression unreadable.

When Damon returned hours later, he didn't speak right away. He simply poured himself a drink and sat across from her.

"You were right," he said finally. "Ryle was protecting Kael's nephew. He was skimming gold from war tax collections."

"And the boy?"

"Missing."

Zara leaned back. "They're cleaning their tracks."

Damon nodded. "But we're getting close. And they know it."

The room fell into heavy silence. A storm was coming—one no crown or title could stop.

She stood and walked to the window, watching the horizon.

"We're not fighting for control anymore," she said. "We're fighting for survival."

Behind her, Damon stood as well, moving to her side.

"Then we do it together."

She didn't look at him.

But she reached for his hand.

And this time—he didn't pull away.