Seasonal Poisoning
Orm awoke with a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. It was sore—an unfamiliar feeling. He suspected foul play.
Mentally listing all the foods he had eaten in the past 24 hours, he immediately recalled the tea and honey. Growing more apprehensive, he began to wonder if the food had been poisoned in some way that (Y/N) would be naturally resistant to, in some way that had been designed to harm him. He moved about his room mechanically, slowly donning his lightweight armor. He wore the set that glistened like pearls as the light moved across it. If I'm going to die, I might as well die wearing something nice, he thought.
Instead of walking along the pallid hallway into the main throneroom, as was his morning custom, Orm lingered in his room. He stalked to a window with a view opposite the city, which looked out onto the massive crater walls surrounding Atlantis, and the massive sleeping canons atop them. Pain creeped its way through his temples, settling around his eyes, until he could feel the sockets behind them.
Am I really going to die? The thought arrived in his mind with as little gravity as a thought of when to eat his next meal, or what to wear. Experimenting with his muscles, he clenched his fist as tight as he possibly could, which lessened the pain in his head a little, but did nothing to alleviate the pain in his throat. Was it a muscular toxin, then? But what about the pain in my throat?
He slouched over the windowsill, hanging his head low and peering down at the courtyard below. Schools of fish swarmed past, somewhere below him, and the sunlight glinting from their silver scales dizzied him. He paced to his door and knocked weakly on the smooth surface. He requested the guard, perpetually stationed just outside, to fetch the doctor. Then he went back to bed.
The pain was worse when he laid back. The pillow felt like stone against his skull, offering no comfort. Tossing and turning, his thoughts ran the same circle over and over: (Y/N) had poisoned him—she must have. Was it a suicide mission, since she drank the tea too? Possibly—although chances were strong that the poison was a toxin she had built a resistance against. The only motivation she would have to poison him was clear: she must know his brother. The bastard half-breed must want my throne, he thought. This is Vulko's fault.
Vulko had betrayed the throne—Orm had known this for several months now. He had planned on leveraging this knowledge to use in his favor, when the right opportunity arose. Was he wrong to hesitate? Could Vulko have been grooming his brother to take the throne? And then recruited a surface girl to ensure the throne would be empty for him?
The pain associated with Vulko's betrayal had lessened over time, until the knowledge had become just another fact of life for Orm. His anger towards his half-brother had never lessened, but he had come to accept it as constant. And yet, this train of thought upset him deeply. Disappointed, he realized that his pain could only come from the idea of the girl's treachery.
In the name of objectivity, he searched for anything about this theory that might make it untrue. One thing that had bothered him was that the timing of this poisoning seemed odd. Orvax was still alive, making any attempt on the throne futile; another heir could be produced in such extreme circumstances, or a trusted official selected as his benefactor. It was possible that the scheme was originally going to play out over a longer period of time, but was hastened so that Orm would not have time to grow suspicious. Or perhaps Vulko had urged the girl to poison him sooner rather than later, if Vulko knew that Orm was aware of his treachery. Perhaps the entire thing was motivated by simple malice. In any case, Orm had been taken for a fool, and he despaired.
At this moment, a sharp rap on the door shook him back to reality, the sound shooting pains through his skull.