For hours, Julian did not move. But as the dawn broke through the Blackwood canopy, his hand twitched. He let out a long, agonizing gasp, his lungs burning as they took in air for the first time in a day. He looked at Isolde, his eyes slowly returning to their normal, clear hazel.
"If your will is weak," Isolde warned, holding the dark glass vial up to the firelight, "the third drop will keep you. You will be a living statue, trapped forever in a cage of your own memories." 👁️ Into the Dark Julian took the glass with a steady hand and drank. nightshade
His heart would slow to a crawl. To any physician or guard holding a hand to his chest, he would feel as cold and lifeless as stone. For hours, Julian did not move
Julian pulled back his collar. On his neck was the brand of the High Inquisitor—a mark reserved for those who had committed treason. He had seen the corruption in the capital, tried to expose it, and was now a hunted man. He didn't want to forget his life; he wanted to fake his death. 🧪 The Three Drops of Belladonna He looked at Isolde, his eyes slowly returning
Hours later, the King's riders hammered on Isolde's door. They burst inside, their swords drawn, demanding the traitor. Isolde simply pointed to the cold body lying on the stone floor. The captain of the guard knelt, pressed two fingers to Julian's neck, and peeled back his eyelid. Seeing only a vast, empty black void and feeling no pulse, the captain spat on the floor and declared him dead.
Isolde waited until the sound of horse hooves faded entirely into the night. She knelt beside Julian and forced a paste of charcoal and vinegar down his throat, praying his spirit could still hear her voice in the void. "Come back, boy," she muttered. "The monsters are gone."
He had survived the nightshade. He was free, but his eyes would forever remain slightly too wide, and his skin slightly too pale—a permanent reminder that to buy a new life, one must always walk hand-in-hand with death.