Twain pushed the porridge away. “That’s enough for me.”

Cel inspected the bowl. “You barely ate any.”

“You try some, and tell me how much you want to eat,” Twain groused.

Cel reached up to tighten his hand again, but he caught her hand. “Wait. Bring my trunk over.”

“Your trunk? Why?”

Twain nodded at it. “I want to see if I can concoct something for this illness of mine. We’re good at poisons. Sometimes those poisons turn out to be potions, too.”

“I don’t know that’s a good idea. Where would you even start?” Cel asked.

He gave her a pleading look. “Please, Cel. It’ll give me something to do. I sit in this bed all day, I’m chained up, I can’t do anything… I’m going to actually go nuts if you keep me like this.”

She hesitated, then went and fetched the trunk. “Alright. But I’m going to sit right there, and if you show any signs of going nuts, the trunk goes away.”

“Exactly what I was going to ask you to do. There’s expensive ingredients in there. I don’t want to destroy them,” Twain agreed. “Oh, and while you’re here… oil, water, and a few bowls?”

“What am I, your servant?” Cel grumbled.

“I mean, technically…” Twain grinned.

She shot him a sour look and drew the trunk away. “I’ll be right back. You can have free access to your ingredients when I get back.”

Twain stared after her, then sighed and leaned back on his pillows. His left hand drawn over his head, right hand laying uselessly in his lap, he closed his eyes.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

His eyes snapped open. Inflamed, magenta flesh hung from his bedposts. Dripping with blood, fresh bone held up the fleshy drapes. Something dripped onto his face. He touched his cheek. Fresh, warm blood smeared over his fingertips.

Strange groans from the doorway. A twisted, hunched creature dragged a corpse in, a disgusting smirk on its face. He looked over, holding his breath, and forced a smile. This isn’t real. None of it is. That’s Cel, and this is my bed in the palace.

Unless… this is reality, and that is the dream.

“…Twain? You there?”

Cel stared at him, her brows furrowed. Curtains hung from mahogany posts.

“Of course. Did you bring the materials?” he asked, sitting upright. Casually, he snuck a glance at his hand. Nothing stained his fingers. With effort, he managed to resist wiping his cheek again to be sure.

She nodded at the foot of his bed, where bowls and the other materials laid in a pile on the comforter beside the opened trunk. “As requested.”

“Thank you.” Twain drew the bowls closer and dug through the trunk. Absorbed in his work, he added one material after another, stirring, agitating, mixing.

Cel sat back. She stifled a yawn, bored.

Time passed. Occasionally, Twain’s brews let off smoke, or steam, or bubbled loudly, but for the most part, it remained quiet. Cel nodded off more than once, but always jolted awake before she fell out of her chair.

Around noon, Cel stood. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”

“Really? Just another minute…” Twain begged.

She shook her head. “I’ve got other duties, and Dayander’s slated for dinner today. If you remain this lucid, Dayander will be more than happy to let you work with the poisons, but I can’t leave our prince playing with dangerous materials without supervision. Dayander would kill me.”

“Fair enough,” Twain said. He sat back and let her take the materials out of his reach.

“Show me your hands,” she demanded.

He opened his curled palms. One was empty, but the other clutched a handful of leaves.

Cel quirked an eyebrow.

Twain laughed. “Caught me.”

“What were you going to do with those, anyways?” Cel asked, stealing them from his hands.

Unresisting, Twain smiled. “They have a mild hallucinogenic effect when chewed. Something to pass the time.”

“You don’t need more hallucinations,” Cel grumbled.

Twain shrugged. “Better than napping for another few hours.”

She patted his head. “Hang in there, Twain. You stay this lucid, you’ll be out of those chains in no time.”

He sighed, ears drooping. “I know, I know. It’s just so boring. Thanks, by the way, Cel.”

“No need to mention it.”

The door swung shut. A key clicked in the lock.

Twain gagged and manipulated his throat, brows twitching in concentration. A vial popped onto his tongue. He turned his head and spat it into his hand.

I’m sorry, Cel.