You have serious reservations about this drink, but your sworn duty is to taste everything offered to the king. In moments like these, you regret not following in your father’s footsteps as a horse dung shoveler.

You sniff the bubbling brew. Floral, fruity, notes of mulch. The royals watch as you spin the wine in King Dankmore’s goblet, then take a sip. Immediately, you detect the bitter and alarming taste of witch acid.

“This is poison,” you say, spitting as you talk. “Luckily, I’ve been poisoned so many times, I’m immune. Who brought this to the king?”

The room goes dead silent. The Moredank crowd can’t help but guiltily look over at Nigel. The king’s hand excuses himself to use the little dignitaries room and is immediately sliced in half by a guard.

You saved the king’s life! King Dankmore says he’s forever in your debt, but you wave him off. After all, you were just fulfilling your duty to king and country. All you ask in return is a small fortune, a sprawling estate, and a stable of prized horses. And a moat. You’ve always wanted a moat.


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