Stolen by the Rebel King
Chapter 335: Make Heads or Tails II

Chapter 335: Make Heads or Tails II

"Holy fucking shit."

The expletive slipped from Nathaniel’s lips before he could even control himself. His hands slapped themselves over his mouth, his eyes wide with horror as he stared back and forth between the severed head and the Vramidians present in the room. He was never one that enjoyed such a vulgar choice of language but this time, he couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t every day he would see a decapitated woman, especially one that looked so much like his ex-fiancée.

"But... She... Princess Daphne..." Nathaniel looked to the head, his face paling several shades. He then turned to look at Daphne, who was still lying unconscious on the bed, perfectly intact other than the fact that she looked a little worse for wear.

"My apologies for the lack of a trigger warning," Atticus said rather nonchalantly, clearly finding great joy in watching Nathaniel squirm. It was a little too funny seeing how Prince Nathaniel could barely stomach any gore.

"Somehow, I sense that your apology is as insincere as it can get," Nathaniel mumbled under his breath, his thoughts confirmed by the silent smirk Atticus threw his way.

"He was making replicas of Daphne," Sirona observed, tilting the head back and forth. She surveyed the body part as if it were nothing more than a piece of bread served at the breakfast table. Mentally, Nathaniel applauded this insane woman’s calm. "Why?"

"If he’s working with Jean Nott to get his hand fixed, he will surely need to pay a price," Jonah said.

"And the payment is Daphne?"

"Most likely," Atticus said with a shrug. "But Jonah must’ve told you as well that Alistair sent Drusilla to seduce me. She had Daphne’s face."

"That could’ve been his original plan," Prince Nathaniel said, still grimacing as Sirona poked and jabbed at the head’s features. "And should it fail, Drusilla would be used as a pawn to be exchanged for more medication."

"Speaking of medication," Jonah started, walking forward to pick up some vials and syringes from the table. "Alistair must’ve gotten these from Jean Nott. Could you figure out what’s inside?"

"If it can heal small wounds, there’s a high chance it can help heal Daphne as well," Atticus said.

Prince Nathaniel frowned. "If there really is cinnabar in this thing, it wouldn’t be a good idea to use it on her," he said. "It’s a deadly beauty and is too toxic to use as a medicine."

"It could be," Sirona murmured. She pulled out a set of tools and began to experiment. Under a magnifying glass, she squinted and observed the properties of the bright liquid. "Nott is great at this. It’s perfectly refined."

"It still cannot be used on Princess Daphne," Nathaniel insisted. "Cinnabar is addictive. If she is to ingest it, she would have to depend on it for the rest of her life."

"Yet, Nott still gave it to Alistair to use," Atticus said with a snort. He shook his head, his dark grin filled with mockery.

It seemed like Jean Nott had never planned on helping Alistair without a proper price. It wasn’t going to be as simple as gold or women. Jean Nott wanted Alistair’s life.

Well-refined cinnabar potions weren’t easy to find― it was nearly impossible. It was rare even in the black market, much more in normal trade; without Jean Nott, there was no way Alistair would’ve been able to feed his addiction even after his hand was cured.

"It is highly likely," Sirona said as she fiddled with her test equipment, "Jean Nott refined this himself."

"Most likely fairly recently too," Nathaniel added. He walked over to Sirona’s work table, gesturing to the items the two men brought back. "May I?"

When Sirona nodded, he picked up a different tube, flicking at it to collect the remaining drops left over. Of all the tubes, Alistair had squeezed nearly everything out of what he had. Nathaniel barely managed to gather a few drops of it to work with and had to be scarce with his research.

"If it’s an old invention, he would’ve already sold it on the black market for a good amount of money," Nathaniel continued. "My guess is that Prince Alistair is also an unknowing test subject."

"How ironic," Atticus scoffed. "The circle of life."

"Is this what you’ve brought me here for?" Nathaniel asked, looking away from the tubes and herbs. "To figure out whatever it is Jean Nott has got inside his little vials?"

"Sirona will handle that," Jonah answered. "As a highly skilled healer, we were hoping that you have an idea of what may help Queen Daphne."

All three men looked at the woman who was silent and still, almost as though she was a marble carving. If it weren’t for the weak and slow rise and fall of her chest, they would’ve thought she was dead.

"Sirona was able to prevent her condition from worsening," Atticus said. "That’s not enough."

Prince Nathaniel was unable to suppress the ghost of a smile that had spread his lips. Sirona immediately caught it, rolling her eyes and scoffing.

"Don’t get too cocky," she warned. "It’s not like you’ve done anything useful yet."

"I’ve said nothing, Healer Sirona," Nathaniel serenely replied.

His expression then turned a little more serious as he walked to Daphne’s side. The carnelian brooch he wore glowed as he ran a hand over Daphne, his magic pulsing in a rhythm. When the light faded, he took in a deep breath and exhaled before turning to face Atticus.

"I’ll see to it that Princess Daphne is healed," he promised. He then said in a much softer voice, "I owe her at least that much."

"I will most likely have the results of the experiment ready in a few days," Sirona said. She flicked the glass a couple of times, watching as the added herbs caused the cinnabar mixture to turn into a dull shade of green before blackening into a murky, dirty gray. "There’s something odd about this mixture. I don’t know how to describe it yet."

"Princess Drusilla must’ve no doubt escaped in the commotion," Jonah said, frowning. "Prince Alistair would’ve brought her to Jean Nott by now. When he finds out that he’s been given a fake, who knows what hell he might unleash about Reaweath?"

"Easy," Atticus said. "The puppeteer will cut the strings of his broken puppet."