Threads of Destiny

Part 1 - Eridu - Chapter 4: Embroidery and poison

Celestia

The warm glow of candles flickers across the tapestry-lined walls of Mother's sitting room, casting dancing shadows that seem to bring the woven scenes to life. Several evenings a week, Eva and I join Mother in this cozy sanctuary for what she fondly calls our "girl time." Tonight is special – with the flurry of impending events surrounding Eva's coming-of-age festivities, Mother has insisted on squeezing in this cherished ritual on an already overloaded day.

I settle into my usual spot, the velvet cushion beneath me worn smooth from years of use. The familiar scent of beeswax and lavender hangs in the air, mingling with the delicate aroma of brewing tea. As I pick up my embroidery hoop, my fingers trace the intricate pattern I've been working on – a delicate rendition of Eridu's royal crest.

Eva, ever the rebel, has long since abandoned embroidery. She sits cross-legged on the floor, her honey-brown hair braided and pinned up in an intricate style that somehow already has wisps escaping to frame her face. Her brow furrows in concentration as she bends over her sketchbook. The soft scratch of her charcoal against paper provides a soothing counterpoint to the quiet clink of Mother's embroidery needle.

As the comfortable silence stretches on, I notice Mother's eyes flick towards the ornate cabinet, a familiar mix of anticipation and dread settles in my stomach. I know what's coming next – the other half of our "girl time" ritual, born from Mother's painful past in Valoria. She rarely speaks of it, but we know the stories: the constant threat of poison lurking in every cup of tea, every ornate comb, every seemingly innocent pot of rouge. It was a world where political maneuvering often ended with a quiet, untraceable death.

Right on cue, there's a soft knock at the door. "Enter," Mother calls, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of authority.

The door opens silently, and Mother's personal maid, Mara, glides in. She carries an ornate silver tray laden with delicate porcelain cups, a steaming teapot, and an ornate wooden box. The sight is as familiar as it is unsettling – a grim reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows of royal life.

Eva and I exchange knowing glances. My sister's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her charcoal, leaving smudges on the parchment.

Mara sets the tray on the small table near Mother, curtseys deeply, and retreats from the room without a word. As soon as the door closes behind her, Mother opens the wooden box, revealing a selection of small, innocuous-looking vials. As she begins measuring drops into our cups, I can't help but think of the story she once told us – how she herself had been poisoned while carrying me, by a seemingly innocuous gift from a visiting relative. It's why she believes I'm more petite than my siblings, the poison having interfered with my growth even before I was born.

"What shall it be tonight, my dears?" Mother asks, her tone deceptively light as she begins measuring drops from the vials into our cups. The pungent scent of the poison fills the air, momentarily overpowering the soothing scents of beeswax and lavender, but it quickly dissipates as it blends into the aromatic tea.

Eva grimaces, setting aside her sketchbook. "Must we, Mother? The solstice ball is in just a few days. What if I end up feverish again?"

Mother's laugh is gentle, but there's steel beneath it. "All the more reason to keep up with your tolerance, my love. You must be prepared for anything – even at a ball."

I watch as Mother carefully measures drops from a vial into our cups. The ritual is familiar, but it never fails to send a shiver down my spine. Poison resistance – a grim but necessary part of our royal education.

"Now then," Mother says, passing us each a cup, "who would like to guess tonight's mixture? Remember, small sips. We're building tolerance, not testing the limits of the antidotes."