The Poisoned Cup
"Do you know what love is?"
For the first time ever, a crack split Lysian's smile—one that had never once wavered.
No answer came. Only crimson eyes wavering, pupils trembling at their rims—it was panic, plain and unmistakable.
"…Your Highness, the Fourth Prince?"
Cesare called to him again, but still there was no reply. The man simply stared back, face frozen solid—until, at that very moment, the orchestra music that had been flooding the hall cut off all at once. By sheer coincidence, the piece had reached its end.
"…Ah."
Lysian faltered for the space of a breath, then recovered with remarkable speed, smoothing his expression and drawing the corners of his mouth back up.
"It has been an honor, Duke."
He laid one hand over his chest and bowed with flawless courtesy.
"…The honor was mine."
Cesare returned the bow in kind—but beneath his lowered lashes, his eyes had sunk into cold stillness.
The man had never answered his question, after all. Not to the very end.
"Hah…"
Out on the terrace, Cesare breathed in the cold night air and let out a small sigh of relief.
Well, whatever the reason, I got out of that one cleanly.
He couldn't begin to say why, but Lysian hadn't pestered him or so much as spoken to him since. The man must have taken quite the shock—which, as far as Cesare was concerned, was a small mercy.
"Now, then. Time for the next stage…"
Cesare drew two glass vials from the inner pocket of his suit, sitting snugly side by side. Under the moonlight, the transparent liquid within shimmered with a chilly gleam—a wretched little drug that did exactly what it promised, setting the body ablaze and leading it straight to bed.
One for Leoneld, and one for Lysian.
That was the scheme Cesare had devised: a masterstroke to bind the two of them together and let himself step one pace back from this omegaverse world. He tucked the vials back into his breast and turned his gaze toward the banquet hall. Now came the business of finding Leoneld—the drug's next target, and the protagonist of the original story.
He had just started toward a quiet corner of the hall, near the rarely visited imperial family's private lounge, when his brow knit without warning.
"Leoneld, you gave us quite the dazzling showing at your last bout. Who knew my little brother had it in him?"
A manufactured voice—ridicule dressed up as praise. A pack of men had ringed Leoneld in layer upon layer, and at the center of them all stood the Crown Prince, smiling a smile with venom in it.
"Come now, take the cup your brother offers you. Consider it my congratulations."
The Crown Prince held out a wine goblet with sly, unhurried grace—but even at a glance, the thing was unmistakably a poisoned cup. A black miasma seethed inside it, gloomy and alive.
…This scene wasn't in the original.
Cesare's face went stiff. Nowhere in the original was there a moment like this—no one being fed a poison so lethal that a single swallow could kill, and this early in the story, no less.
Don't tell me… did my interference knock the plot off its rails?
Still, he won't actually drink that… right?
Leoneld was a man consumed by vengeance. He hadn't even finished it yet—there was no way he would drink that.
He was watching from a distance when it happened.
"…As you wish."
With a face carved out of anguish, Leoneld accepted the goblet.
Cesare, who had read the original dozens—no, hundreds—of times, knew that expression all too well.
…Huh?
That was a face of dreadful resignation.
He remembered the words the original Leoneld had spoken once his revenge was complete and he ascended the throne.
…It was all for nothing.
The man had reached his goal, and it had brought him precious little happiness. His vengeance was done, but the thing he had truly wanted slipped through his fingers all the same.
And that thing was…
Cesare knew the one thing Leoneld craved above all else. At the same time, he knew perfectly well that there was no need for him to step in now. If Leoneld obligingly did away with himself right here, it might even work out in his favor—the dangerous menace to his virtue would be removing himself from the board of his own accord.
But for all his rational calculation, his body was already striding toward Leoneld.
"…Duke Valois?"
At the sudden arrival, the Crown Prince's eyes wavered with unmistakable alarm.
There was no reply. Cesare was hardly a paragon of justice—and yet he did not wish to see Leoneld die like this. Without sparing the Crown Prince so much as a glance, he stepped up to Leoneld.
"Your Highness, the Thirteenth Prince. I have a matter to discuss with you. Would you care to step outside?"
"One moment, Duke Valois. As you can see, my dear brother and I were in the middle of a warm little chat."
The Crown Prince hurriedly barred his way.
"Why don't you collect him once he's finished emptying this cup?"
Cesare flicked him a sidelong, frost-glazed look, as though the man were not worth the breath it would take to answer.
Swish—
A hard grip clamped down on Leoneld's wrist, white as death.
And then—
Crash—!
Glass burst into razor-edged shards, and the black liquid poured out in a miserable spill across the marble floor. The poison-laced fluid soaked into the ground, foaming a ghostly white. In an instant, the hall went dead silent, as though a bucket of ice water had been flung over the crowd.
"Duke Valois…! What in the world is the meaning of this—!"
The Crown Prince cried out in alarm, but Cesare didn't so much as blink. He merely looked down at the spilled liquid with dry detachment and murmured,
"A poisoned cup, I see."
Perhaps he had been angry, come to think of it. Though even he couldn't have said exactly why.
The Crown Prince's eyes shook beyond all control. Leaving the ashen-faced man behind him, Cesare slowly turned his head and looked at Leoneld—the man who might, one day, come to threaten his virtue.
The reason I saved him is…
Cesare labored over the thought, deliberately, inside his own head.
…Yes. It's for my sake.
If Leoneld died here, pairing him off with Lysian would become a great deal more difficult. Which meant this was pure, cold calculation—nothing more, nothing less.
Cesare curled the corner of his mouth at Leoneld, who had gone rigid as stone.
"Rather than this bitter poisoned cup, wouldn't black tea loaded with sweet sugar cubes suit you far better?"
Leoneld had no words for him.
"Follow me, Your Highness."
Every last bit of this was… purely for his own sake. Nothing else.
Drink it, and you die.
And even if fortune spared his life, it was plainly a poison that would leave him a broken man for the rest of his days.
"…Brother."
Leoneld's hand reached out and hovered in empty air, never quite closing around the cup. It was a trap he could see through plain as day—but against the Crown Prince's power, a mere prince like him had no means of resistance at all.
"What's the matter, Leoneld? Surely you don't mean to refuse your brother's kindness?"
The Crown Prince narrowed his eyes as he pressed the question. It was a threat, naked and unashamed.
"A refusal that heartless would wound me deeply, you know. And should that happen… something very unfortunate might befall the knights who keep watch at your side."
"…Brother."
"Drink. Then nothing will come of it."
Leoneld's jaw locked tight. Under the Crown Prince's pressure—a lifeline seized and shaken for all to see—the fingers curled around the poisoned cup trembled violently.
There was no retreat. None, save swallowing this filthy game whole.
"…As you wish."
Drowning in a wretched, crawling humiliation, Leoneld finally closed his eyes in resignation and was raising the poisoned cup to his lips—
"Your Highness, the Thirteenth Prince."
A cool voice drifted in through the dead silence. Crown Prince and Thirteenth Prince turned their gazes to the same point at once. The figure walking out from the corridor was none other than Duke Valois—Cesare.
"I have a matter to discuss with you. Would you care to step outside?"
Their eyes met, and Leoneld was swept up in a strange emotion he could not name.
…Why?
Why on earth would he help me?
His mind went cold. It was a gesture he could not comprehend, no matter how he turned it over. True, the Duke had of late been clinging to him to the point of begging—but no one knew better than Leoneld himself that there was no true feeling behind it.
Hadn't the man said as much with his own mouth? That all he wanted was Leoneld's body.
Even if it had sprung from genuine affection, nothing would change. His brother would never stand idly by while anything turned out in Leoneld's favor.
"One moment, Duke Valois. As you can see, my dear brother and I were in the middle of a warm little chat."
Right on cue, the Crown Prince stepped forward.
"Why don't you collect him once he's finished emptying this cup?"
…Right. There is no escaping this after all.
The reality before him would not change, and if this was the fate written for him, then all he could do was accept it.
It was the very instant Leoneld tightened his fingertips, once more preparing to tip the cup—
Swish—
A hard grip snatched up Leoneld's wrist.
Cesare, still holding his wrist in one hand, wrenched the poisoned cup away with the other.
And then—
Crash—!
The glass shattered to pieces, and the black liquid poured out, ruined, across the marble floor. The poison-laced fluid soaked into the ground, foaming a ghostly white. In an instant, everything went silent, as though doused in ice water.
"Duke Valois…! What in the world is the meaning of this—!"
"A poisoned cup, I see."
Cesare slowly turned his head and held Leoneld's gaze. Then, at the man frozen solid before him, he tilted his lips into a lopsided smile.
"Rather than this bitter poisoned cup, wouldn't black tea loaded with sweet sugar cubes suit you far better?"
Leoneld had no words for him.
"Follow me, Your Highness."
Gripping Leoneld's wrist without a shred of mercy, Cesare strode away, radiating such a killing frost that the Crown Prince and his pack dared not give chase.
A firm hand, warm through and through, wrapped around his wrist.
Leoneld's heart dropped with a heavy thud, then began to pound, rough and wild. His blue eyes churned with violent turmoil.
It was a sensation he had never once felt before—something wholly foreign, as though his heart were burning away to ash.