“Needle-flower tincture,” she said. “A dose like this would kill you. Small doses, over time, will destroy you. And there will be doses, brother. To be placed in your wine. Your meals. You will die in slow increments, your mind rotting in your skull. The poison will kill you unhurriedly, and by the time you face the kings and warriors of Parijatdvipa—by the time I drag you before the court—you will be a shadow of your old self.” She leaned forward. “I will allow you your old princely finery, so that all the men who once bowed to you will be able to see how emaciated you have become. You will
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