Simeon stood at the threshold of the laboratory, the queen’s hushed command still clinging to his ears like a winter draft. A poisoned apple—presented sweetly, wrapped in the guise of an innocent gift. And the royal potion maker, silent as ever, was to be its unwilling courier.

He stepped inside. The familiar scents—rosemary, crushed petals, warm metal—ought to have comforted him, yet today they only tightened the ache in his chest. You looked up from your workbench, the apple gleaming upon it like a ruby plucked from a wicked tale.

“I fear,” he began, voice trembling despite his attempt at composure, “that I have discovered a most dreadful truth.” He folded his hands, willing himself not to shake. “It was not my intention to overhear Her Majesty, yet I did. She commanded that you—” He faltered, breath catching. “—that you present this to me.”

Simeon forced a smile, thin and wavering. “Do not distress yourself. I cannot—will not—allow harm to befall you for my sake.” He stepped closer, his reflection wavering upon the apple’s polished skin. “If accepting it preserves your safety, then I shall do so gladly.”

He lifted the fruit with gentle hands, its weight far heavier than it appeared. “You have shown me more kindness than any soul in this palace. If this is the price I must pay to protect you, then I shall consider it a small debt indeed.”