CHAPTER 44: UNMISTAKABLE

Levan did not linger in the corridors once he left Ilaria’s chambers. The faint rattle of the glass jar in his hand marked his purposeful pace. The chocolate sweets inside shifted with each movement, glinting faintly under the torchlight.

He glanced at it as he took a detour towards the palace kitchen. At least the ingredients were not dangerous in the fatal sense. Still, it would have been troublesome had he not known the proper way to temper the unwelcome heat they had caused in the princess’ body.

His thoughts drifted back to his wife. Ilaria had no idea how she had looked earlier, and he was left to shoulder it alone. Perhaps it was fortunate she did not have to endure the weight of embarrassment, but for him, the misfortune lingered — her warmth pressed into his palm, a sensation that would not vanish until it chose to on its own.

"...Troublesome," he muttered, feeling a slight headache.

When he reached the kitchen, the smell of simmering broth and roasted herbs greeted him. Dinner for the royal knights for late night training has yet to be served. The room was warm, alive with the sound of chopping knives and clattering pans. The moment his figure crossed the threshold though, the bustle slowed.

The Head Chef, who was stirring the soup looked up at once. His surprise quickly gave way to practiced composure, and he set aside his ladle to bow deeply. "Your Highness."

Levan inclined his head in a restrained greeting. "Head Chef."

Formalities passed between them. A brief precise exchanges of courtesy that fit Levan’s manner as neatly as his posture.

Not wanting to waste time, he held up the jar slightly as he noted the hint of recognition in the Chef’s eyes, saying, "My wife has been eating these."

The Chef’s expression warmed with fondness in an instant. "Ah. Her Highness does have a fondness for sweets."

That made Levan pause for a moment. It seemed like he was already aware of this. "You knew of her venture?"

The Chef chuckled lightly. In fact, the whole palace knew. "The first day she arrived six months ago, before even exploring much of the palace, she came straight here. Said she wanted to know where the kitchens were stocked. I daresay I see her more than most of the household staff."

Levan’s gaze lowered for as something in his chest pulled faintly at that revelation. Six months ago...so the first corner she sought for comfort had been here. He would not have known. He literally vanished from the palace grounds right after the marriage ceremony ended.

The thought suddenly irked him, not towards her, but he decided not to dwell on it.

"Where does she usually spend her time?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were searching.

The Chef pointed toward a small corner of the kitchen, near the shelves where jars of sugar and dried fruits were neatly lined. "There. She lingers there often, especially when she wants to restock her macarons, though there were times when she would just sit here—" he pointed at the counter between them, "—and waited for her meals."

Levan’s eyes followed the gesture, his stare resting on the unassuming space. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply picturing her there, hands busy, expression brightened by her little indulgence. The image was so painfully hers that it lingered. Then he shifted his gaze back on the counters between them.

He may not see her often, but the image that came to his mind was instant. He could already picture the princess sitting here, her chin propped in her palms, feet swinging idly as she watched the cooks stir pots and toss flames as though it were a grand performance. No doubt she had clapped or gasped at the sparks, praising them as if they were sorcerers rather than weary kitchen hands.

Levan exhaled slowly. "...You’ve indulged her too much."

The Head Chef gave a chuckle, low and good-natured. "Have I? Hardly. Her Highness never asks for anything unreasonable. A few sweets, extra cheese now and then, and always with such delight as if it were a feast fit for kings. Honestly, it brightens the whole kitchen when she comes here. Even the apprentices stand taller under her gaze."

His voice softened as he recalled. "The princess treats us like her friends. She thanks us, Your Highness, for every plate. Once, she even tried to help chop fruit for her pastries though I confess, I had to chase her out before she hurt herself."

There was an affection in his tone that was unmistakable: a staff’s fondness for a mistress who had won them over without even realizing it. Well, she has always had a bright spirit, that he could ensure. Ilaria was the only one who ever looked at him with bright eyes as if she was infatuated instead of horrified after all.

Levan said nothing for a moment, his expression steady, though inwardly something tugged at him again. He looked back at the corner the Chef had pointed out earlier, lingering there as if he could almost see her small figure perched on the stool.

For some odd reason, he do wanted to see it with his own eyes. And that fact itched at him to no end.

"Bring me the list of groceries she has requested in the past months. All of them," he ordered at last, his tone brooking no delay. "There is something I need to inspect. My wife...has eaten something that made her unwell."

The Chef’s jovial expression faltered at once, replaced by a crease of concern. "Unwell? Forgive me, Your Highness but— The princess only ever requested the simplest of things. I would never allow anything harmful to reach her plate." His worry was genuine, his hands already wringing against his apron. Still, with a deep bow, he quickly left to fetch what was asked.

Levan stood silently, waiting with a patience that was deceptively calm. He could have easily turned the kitchen upside down, interrogating every trembling servant until someone confessed, but chaos brought little truth. In his line of work, he always thought that order and silence yielded more.

Moments later, the Chef returned with a bound ledger, its pages thick with neat records. Levan accepted it without a word, his gaze already sliding toward the corner that had been described to him earlier. The small stool, the jars stacked neatly upon the shelves, the faint scent of sugar still clinging to the air. This was where she spent her hours, unguarded and content.

He set the ledger aside for now and began to inspect. One by one, he lifted the jars, unsealing the lids, sniffing the contents with a discerning sharpness. Dried fruit, sugar, flour, ground nuts — They were all ordinary. His eyes flicked over textures, weights, even the faint residue along the glass, leaving nothing unchecked.

Then his fingers stilled on a jar that seemed unremarkable at first glance: a fine, dark powder, easily mistaken for cocoa. He tested the powder with his fingers and brought it closer to his nose, inhaling lightly. The scent was subtle, but unmistakable to him, bringing back awful memories that made his jaw tightened.

"Aphrodisiac..." he muttered quietly, just as he thought, already having the gist that would bring him closer to the possible culprit.

The jar clicked shut beneath his steady hand before he turned then to the ledger, flipping through with precision as he scanned through the papers. Dates, amounts, suppliers — They are all meticulously recorded. The surprising thing? Nowhere did "chocolate powder" appear. Not even once.

His gaze returned to the jar he had fetched without permission from Ilaria’s bedside table. A small jar containing a single macaron, innocent in appearance, its delicate shell dusted faintly with sugar. He lifted it carefully, holding it up against the light as his thoughts sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Since Ilaria said she had consumed it right after baking it, it would explain the restlessness she felt in the garden. And since she had mindlessly consumed a whole damn jar for God knows why after returning to her chamber, then it would explain the heightened sense of discomfort.

Despite already knowing what it was, he took the sweet into his mouth and chewed slowly, the flavour coating his tongue in an instant — sugary and light, betraying nothing of the poison it carried. When he swallowed, it was not recklessness. It was proof of what had been given to his wife and a burden he would carry in her stead.

Levan’s thumb traced the rim of the glass jar, his jaw flexing once. He was familiar with this powder. The bitterness beneath the false sweetness, the faint undertone that clung to the nose. It was a potent aphrodisiac, one strong enough to overheat the body until sense blurred into desperation. Though the effect might have been slightly delayed after being mixed with sugar and batter.

This was not the first time he had crossed paths with such a substance. A childish trick disguised as play, but one he remembered all too clearly from a certain pair of hands. And for the first time since stepping into the kitchen, he felt anger strain against the careful control he wore like a second skin.

"...Discard it," Levan ordered vehemently. "Clear everything from this table and replace them all with new supplies. I’ll inspect the stock once it arrives."

The Head Chef flinched at the command, but Levan’s gaze remained sharp. He could not allow even a shadow of risk near her again. And though his words sounded harsh, beneath them lingered a quiet consideration: If Ilaria returned here tomorrow, she would find her little corner intact, restocked, and untouched by poison.

The chef bowed deeply, already moving to gather the tainted jars.

By the time he left the kitchen, his presence had shifted entirely. The quiet composure he wielded now carried the weight of something far more dangerous, like the ominous pressure of a storm before it broke. The servants who glimpsed him in the hall instinctively lowered their gazes as though scorched by something they could not endure.

Marion, his Chamberlain, was waiting at the antechamber when the doors burst opened, betraying nothing of the prince’s foul mood. He straightened at once, somehow startled by the unexpected outburst, even his spine stiffened when the prince’s eyes cut toward him.

It was seldom to see any expression crosses his sclupted features, but this time, there was no mistaking it. Someone has the gall to really piss him off.

"Arrange a meeting with House Dorovian."

Marion faltered for half a second, but nodded with a regality of a man who had stood by the prince’s side for a long time. "At once, sire, Lady Seraphine had just visited—"

"No." The single word struck like a blade, final and cold. The golden orbs in his eyes flaring dangerously, enough to silence the entire room. "I will speak with the head directly. Her presence is no longer tolerated in the palace."

Marion hesitated, but did not dare question his unexpected claim. "Tonight? Forgive me, Your Highness, but it is unlikely to summon the Lord himself at this hour."

Levan’s gaze shifted toward the corridor, shadow pooling across his expression. He was not a man who made decisions rashly, nor one to be swayed by trivial disturbances when greater matters demanded his attention. Yet there were lines that, once crossed, could not be ignored.

"Then let him find it unusual. I am finished entertaining Seraphine’s games. If she wishes to test me, they will answer to me in full."

The air thickened until silence itself seemed to strain beneath it. Marion bowed, wisely holding his tongue, and carried out the order.