A Taste of Their Own Medicine

The dim light of the candle flickered as Mara carefully poured the dark liquid into the crystal glass. The potion shimmered with a faint, sinister glow—an elixir of death, as potent as it was undetectable. She had spent weeks acquiring the ingredients, each more rare and dangerous than the last. Tonight, her plan would come to fruition.

Across the grand dining hall, the sound of laughter and conversation filled the air. Guests in elegant attire mingled, oblivious to the deadly plot unfolding in the shadows. Mara’s target was seated at the head of the table—Lord Rylan, a man of immense wealth and influence, and the object of Mara’s deep-seated hatred. He had wronged her in ways the world would never know, but she had not forgotten, nor forgiven.

Mara glanced at the glass in her hand, her heart pounding with anticipation. Just one sip, and the poison would work its way into his veins, bringing about a slow and painful death. She could already see the moment in her mind’s eye—Lord Rylan clutching his chest, his face contorted in agony, and finally, the life draining from his eyes.

She approached the table, her face a mask of calm as she moved through the crowd. Her fingers tightened around the glass, her nerves steady. This was the moment she had been waiting for. With a gracious smile, she offered the drink to Lord Rylan.

“A special vintage, my lord,” she said smoothly, bowing her head slightly as she extended the glass.

Lord Rylan looked at her with mild interest. “Ah, Mara, you always know how to bring the finest to the table,” he said, reaching out to take the glass. But just as his fingers brushed against the crystal, a sudden wave of dizziness overcame Mara.

She faltered, her vision blurring as the room seemed to spin around her. The glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor with a sharp crash. The guests turned in unison, their conversations halting as they watched her sway on her feet.

“Mara?” Lord Rylan’s voice cut through the haze, but it sounded distant, as if he were speaking from the end of a long tunnel.

Mara’s heart raced in panic. This wasn’t part of the plan. She clutched the edge of the table for support, but her legs buckled beneath her. She gasped for breath, but it felt as though her lungs were filled with lead. The poison—how had it…?

And then it struck her, the horrible realization washing over her like ice water. The poison had seeped through her skin, absorbed as she had poured it. The faint, sinister glow she had admired was now coursing through her own veins.

“No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she crumpled to the floor. The guests gasped in shock, some rushing to her side, but Mara knew it was too late.

Her vision darkened, and she could feel the cold creeping through her body, numbing her limbs. Lord Rylan knelt beside her, his face filled with confusion and concern, but she could see no malice in his eyes. He didn’t know. He would never know the truth.

As the darkness closed in, Mara’s last thought was of the bitter irony. In her quest for revenge, she had become her own victim, undone by the very poison she had intended for another.

The candle flickered once more, casting long shadows across the room, before finally guttering out. The dining hall fell silent, the laughter and conversation forgotten, as the guests stood in stunned disbelief around the lifeless form of Mara, who had tasted the true cost of vengeance.