THE PRINCE SHE POISONED: I returned as her brother-in-law

THE TOAST THAT KILLED ME

Evelyn’s pale fingers pressed the crystal glass into Cale’s palm, her diamonds catching the golden glare of the grand chandeliers above.

"Drink with me, Cale," she whispered, her quiet voice cutting cleanly through the roaring applause of three hundred elite guests. "Before the wolves line up to tear off their pieces of your empire."

Cale didn't hesitate. He looked down into her dark, calm eyes, the same eyes that had grounded him through every ruthless dock takeover, and raised the crystal to his lips. The deep red vintage went down heavy and sweet, smelling of crushed blackberries and old oak.

Then, right at the back of his throat, the metallic bite of raw copper struck his tongue.

The glass shattered against the marble floor before the toast could even clear his lips.

An agonizing, suffocating heat exploded behind Cale’s sternum. His vocal cords seized into a rigid, paralyzed knot. Blood—dark, thick, and boiling with iron—bubbled up over his tongue, spilling past his lips and staining his crisp white wedding collar.

Through the blur of his watering eyes, Cale dragged his gaze upward, expecting horror.

Expecting tears.

Evelyn stood precisely two feet away, watching his convulsive thrashing with the cool, detached interest of a scientist inspecting an insect under glass.

Slowly, she turned her right hand over. The stone on her platinum ring hung hinged open, revealing a microscopic, hollow needle dripping with poison.

She leaned down, her face inches from his ear, her breath smelling softly of berries and copper.

"You worked so hard to build everything, Cale," she whispered, her voice entirely devoid of warmth, pity, or love. "Thank you for putting it all in my name."

A cold, terrifying rage took root in Cale’s chest—a hatred so fierce it burned through the frost of the venom.

If there is an afterlife, Cale screamed silently in the dark cavern of his dying mind, his fingers locking into a rigid claw against his own blood, I will drag you to hell myself!

His heart gave one last, violent shudder. Then, the world snapped into pitch black.

The dark didn't last.

Cale gasped—a desperate, violent lungful of ice-cold air that felt like swiping razor blades down his throat.

He didn't wake up on polished marble. He woke up lying on a thin, damp straw mattress, staring at a decayed stone ceiling leaking rainwater.

"Gah—!" Cale clutched his chest, his hands trembling wildly as he searched for the gaping wound, the poison, the blood-soaked collar.

There was no blood. But when he looked down at his arms, a fresh wave of horror struck him.

These weren't the broad, calloused hands of a man who had built a shipping syndicate from the gutters. These fingers were thin, sickly pale, with dark purple veins standing out starkly against translucent skin.

A flood of alien memories violently slammed into his brain, tearing through his consciousness like white-hot needles:

The Valerian Empire. The South Annex tomb.

Cale von Valerius—the discarded Third Prince.

Born with shattered mana channels. A crippled, coughing invalid left to rot by the royal family.

"A prince...?" Cale choked out, his voice thin, raspy, and weak.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp, agonizing throb shot through his left femur, forcing him back down with a grimace. He was stuck in the body of a dying, pathetic royal discard.

Then, a heavy wooden tray slammed onto the rickety table beside his bed.

"Drink it, Your Highness," a harsh, mocking voice snapped.

Cale snapped his head sideways. Standing over him was a broad-shouldered imperial steward in tarnished gray livery, staring down at him with unfiltered disgust. On the tray sat a clay bowl filled with a murky, foul-smelling green sludge.

"What is this?" Cale rasped, his eyes narrowing.

"Your medicine," the steward sneered, resting a heavy hand on his hip. "Though if you ask me, the Emperor is wasting good herbs on a dead boy. Drink it all. I have better things to do than nurse a royal trash bin."

Cale stared at the dark liquid. As a former merchant king who had survived three separate poisoning attempts on the docks, his instincts immediately screamed.

He leaned closer. Underneath the bitter herbal scent was a faint, metallic bite. A tiny prickle at the back of his nose, like raw copper.

Poison.

The realization ignited the dark, dormant furnace in Cale’s chest.

They were poisoning this frail prince. They were killing him slowly, day by day, expecting him to die quietly in a cold room so no one would have to pay for his upkeep.

Just like Evelyn.

The phantom taste of the red wine rushed back onto Cale's tongue. His vision turned crimson as the absolute, raw hatred he had carried across death flooded his veins.

"You..." Cale's voice dropped low—so cold, so laced with venom, that the steward actually took a half-step back in surprise.

"What did you say?" the steward growled, recovering his arrogant posture and stepping closer. "Don't get high and mighty with me, boy. You're a cripple who can't even stand—"

Before the steward could finish, Cale acted.

He didn't use mana. He didn't use physical strength he didn't have. He grabbed the heavy iron walking stick leaning against the bed and rammed the blunt metal tip directly into the steward’s throat with every ounce of momentum his body could muster.

CRACK.

The steward gagged loudly, clutching his crushed windpipe as his eyes bulged in shock. He stumbled backward, knocking the table over. The bowl of poisonous sludge crashed onto the floorboards, sizzling ominously against the wood.

Cale dragged his weak, aching body off the bed, using the iron stick to support his weight. He stood over the writhing steward, his dark eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying intelligence that belonged to a monster, not a fragile boy.

He planted the tip of the iron stick directly onto the steward's chest, right over his heart, leaning his weight onto it.

"Who sent you?" Cale whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the man's suffocating wheezes like a razor. "Answer me, or I will push this rod through your ribs."

The steward looked up into Cale’s eyes—and froze. The pathetic, whimpering Third Prince was gone. Standing before him was a predator.

"The... the Chief Steward..." the man choked out, tears of pain leaking down his face. "He... he said... His Grace wanted the Annex cleared before... before the banquet..."

"What banquet?" Cale demanded, pressing down harder.

"The... the Imperial Welcome Banquet!" the steward wheezed desperately. "For... for the Crown Prince’s new betrothed! Lady Evelyn of the Northern Marches!"

The air in the cold stone room froze solid.

Cale’s heart stopped. Evelyn.

The name echoed in his head, pulling the thread of memory from the Third Prince's mind. The northern noblewoman. The cold beauty who had just arrived at the capital to seal an alliance with his older brother, Crown Prince Cassian.

She is here.

A slow, terrifying smile spread across Cale’s pale lips. It wasn't a smile of joy; it was the twisted, ruthless mask of a demon returning from the grave.

She didn't know he was alive. She thought he was dead on the marble floor of Earth. She had no idea he was standing in this dark fantasy world, breathing the same air, sharpening his knives in the dark.

Cale lifted the iron stick off the steward's chest and pointed toward the door.

"Get out," Cale said softly. "Tell your master that the Third Prince is feeling much better. And tell him..."

Cale's eyes flashed with a cold, ruthless promise.

"...I will be attending my brother's banquet."