Sirella’s POV The game had begun. Damien thought he was winning. He believed I had softened, that I still had feelings for him. He didn’t know that every smile, every hesitant touch, every lingering look was a carefully placed piece in the trap I was setting. Step one: weaken him. I started with small doses. Nothing strong enough to raise suspicion—just enough to make him feel off. It was tasteless, scentless, and dissolved easily into his wine. The first night, he didn’t even notice. The second, he frowned as he rubbed his temples. By the third, I saw the exhaustion creeping in, the slight hesitation in his steps, the flicker of confusion in his eyes. Good. But I couldn’t rush it. If he collapsed too quickly, they would investigate. I needed it to seem natural—like stress, like fatigue, like the weight of running a pack was finally getting to him. While the poison worked on his body, I planted doubt in his mind. It started subtly. A misplaced scroll, an altered report,
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