A TASTE OF TREACHERY

I try all the Prince’s food first. It is my duty, as his loyal taster, to guard against the invisible poisons and enchantments that fill his table. So many seek to influence his choices through magic, slipping their wills into the meals he consumes, hoping to bend his mind. Not a week goes by without bread that tastes of bloodlust or a sip of wine that carries the bitter taste of forgetting.

Today, the feast is lavish, as always. Silver platters gleam under the flickering light of chandeliers, laden with roasted meats, glistening fruits, and honeyed pastries. The scent of thyme and rosemary weaves through the air, mingling with the earthy smell of the Prince’s personal wine: an ancient blend stored deep in the cellars, untouched by time. The table groans under its bounty, but all I see are traps, laid by unseen hands.

Tonight, as the feast begins, I steady my breath and take the first bite. A slice of roast pheasant, its skin crisp and golden, glistens on the plate before me. The smell is enticing, smoky and rich, but I have learned not to trust what the senses offer. I close my eyes as I chew, waiting for the feeling to unfurl.

At first, there is nothing. The meat is tender, the flavors complex, earthy herbs mixed with the sweetness of wild berries. But then it comes, slow and subtle: the feeling of rage, like embers catching flame. It stirs in my chest, a flicker of heat behind my ribs, then spreads through my veins like wildfire. My hands clench, my heart pounds against my ribs, and for a moment, all I can think of is destruction. The urge to shatter the platters before me, to scream, to destroy everything in reach, nearly overwhelms me.

But I force it down. I swallow hard, forcing the fury back into the pit of my stomach, where it simmers, waiting to strike again. I glance at the Prince, who watches me from across the table with that familiar, careful gaze. I give a slight nod, and the plate of pheasant is swiftly removed. He will never know the battle I’ve just waged for him.

The next course arrives: a bowl of delicate soup, the broth shimmering with golden oil, flecked with herbs that float lazily on the surface. The scent of rosemary fills the air, and I take a sip. Immediately, I feel it: despair, so deep and heavy it’s as though the weight of the world presses upon me. It steals the air from my lungs, turning the soup to ash in my mouth. My heart sinks, pulled into some vast, unending sorrow, and for a moment, I feel I might drown in it.

My hand trembles as I set the spoon down. This sorrow isn’t mine, but it clings to me like a shroud, seeping into my bones. The bowl is taken away, and I exhale slowly, willing the despair to pass. I am only the vessel. This sadness is not mine. It is not mine.

But each time, it becomes harder to separate the feelings from my own. The meals blend into my being—anger, grief, lust, joy—all mingling with who I once was. A tapestry of emotions that do not belong to me, yet weave themselves into my heart nonetheless.

...

The next course is presented: a perfectly roasted quail, its delicate body adorned with a sprig of thyme and nestled beside a bed of saffron-infused rice. The aroma wafts towards me, a symphony of spices and savory goodness. I swallow hard, my resolve battling the urge to resist this next test. It is only fair that I give the Prince a chance to enjoy his meal as well, after all the sacrifices I make for him.

I take the quail, placing a piece on my fork. The skin is crisp, and the meat glistens under the candlelight, begging for my approval. I raise it to my lips, expecting the usual turmoil of emotions to surge within me. Instead, as I take a bite, I am met with an overwhelming sensation of peace. The flavors are bright, yet soothing, wrapping around my senses like a warm embrace. The rice complements it perfectly, a soft undercurrent of spice that lulls my thoughts into a gentle calm.

Surprised, I close my eyes and savor the moment, feeling a glimmer of hope bloom within the shadows of my heart. Perhaps this dish is pure, untouched by the malice of unseen hands.

I look up at the Prince, who watches me intently, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features. I offer a small smile, nodding slightly, and he raises the same piece I just tasted to his own lips. I hold my breath as he takes a bite, waiting for his reaction.

At first, there is silence, his expression inscrutable. But then, a smile spreads across his face, genuine and bright.

Another dish is placed before me: a fruit tart, its surface glossy and bright. The sweetness hits my tongue, the juices of ripe berries spilling across my palate, and with it comes a wave of euphoria. For a moment, I am weightless, light as air, drifting on a cloud of joy. The laughter bubbles up from deep within me, warm and pure, filling my chest until I feel I might burst with it. My skin tingles, the colors around me seem to glow, and for an instant, all is right in the world.

But I know this is a lie. It is too perfect, too easy. The joy is a trap, meant to lull the Prince into a dream where nothing is real and everything is beautiful. I push the plate away, and the tart is removed, but the lingering sweetness clings to me, stubborn and seductive.

The Prince says nothing. He never does. His face is a mask, serene and detached, but I can sense the tension beneath it, the way his fingers tap ever so lightly against the edge of the table. He knows, just as I do, that the war is fought not with swords, but with every bite, every sip. I am his shield, but the blows I take on his behalf are invisible. The wounds fester in secret.

And then, the wine. A deep red, almost black, poured into a goblet that gleams in the candlelight. I lift it to my lips and take a careful sip. The taste is heavy, like iron and earth, and with it comes the sense of forgetting. It creeps into my mind like a shadow, erasing memories with each heartbeat. The faces of my parents blur, the voice of my childhood friend fades into silence. I can no longer recall the name of the street where I grew up, nor the color of the sky on the day I left home.

The wine is dangerous, I know this. It would take everything from the Prince, leave him hollow, an empty vessel to be filled with whatever thoughts and desires his enemies would plant in his mind. I put the goblet down, but the forgetfulness lingers, like a fog that will not lift.

I look at the Prince again, and this time, I see it. Concern flickers in his eyes, the faintest twitch of his brow. He has seen the toll these meals are taking on me. Perhaps he knows that the more I taste, the more I lose of myself. The anger, the sorrow, the joy, they do not fade as they once did. They cling, stubborn and insistent, turning my heart into a battlefield.

As the wine is set aside, I feel the weight of the Prince’s gaze upon me, an anchor in this sea of treachery. I inhale deeply, centering myself before the next course arrives. It is a platter of roasted vegetables: carrots, parsnips, and beets glistening with a sheen of honey and herbs. The vibrant colors burst like jewels on the tablecloth, and I can almost hear them whispering promises of safety.

I take a piece of carrot, the sweet scent tantalizing me as I lift it to my lips. I close my eyes once more, allowing the flavors to envelop me. The first bite is warm and earthy, with a subtle sweetness that dances on my tongue. I feel no malicious intent, no dark undercurrents threatening to drown me in unwanted emotions. Instead, a wave of serenity washes over me, soothing the tension that has coiled tightly within my chest.

I look up, meeting the Prince's curious eyes. I smile, a genuine expression of relief flooding my features. With a cautious yet eager expression, he takes a piece of the roasted carrot for himself, mirroring my earlier movement. I hold my breath, watching as he chews thoughtfully.

His face softens, and I see the edges of a smile begin to form. “Delicious,” he says, his voice rich with satisfaction. A small victory.

The final dish is a simple one: bread, warm and soft, steam rising from its surface. It should be innocent, but I know better. I tear off a piece and place it in my mouth, bracing myself for the onslaught of emotion. But this time, it is not anger or grief or joy that floods me. It is fear. Cold, unrelenting fear, wrapping its icy fingers around my throat, squeezing until I can barely breathe. My pulse quickens, my hands grow cold, and the room seems to shrink around me, the walls closing in.

I force myself to chew, to swallow, but the fear lingers, a weight pressing down on my chest. My vision swims, and for a moment, I think I might faint. The bread is taken away, and I sit back in my chair, fighting to steady my breath, to still the racing of my heart.

The Prince watches me closely now, his eyes narrowing as if he can sense the cracks forming in my resolve. I have tasted too much tonight, too many emotions, too many poisons. The line between what is real and what is crafted grows thinner with each passing day.

He rises from his chair, signaling the end of the feast. The room falls silent as he steps down from his dais, moving with the grace of someone who has always known the weight of power. He pauses by my side, his hand resting on the back of my chair for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes meet mine, and for the briefest instant, I see a flicker of something. Gratitude, perhaps, or maybe just understanding.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, so that only I can hear.

I nod, unable to find words. There is nothing more to say. This is my duty, my burden to bear. I will taste his food, drink his wine, and take the magic into myself to protect him. But with each passing day, I feel myself slipping further away, piece by piece.

I rise slowly, my legs trembling beneath me. The candles flicker, casting long shadows across the walls, and for the first time, I wonder: who will taste the food when there is nothing left of me to taste?

As I walk away from the table, I can still taste the fear on my tongue. It will not leave me.