Poison and Politics

The next morning, the sun rose over the terracotta roofs of Venza, bathing the University in golden light that belied the rot beneath.

Elara sat in the back of the lecture hall for *Poison Detection 101*. The professor, a retired assassin with an eyepatch, was droning on about the subtle differences between arsenic and hemlock.

Elara wasn't listening. Her eyes were glued to the ancient scroll unfurled on her desk, concealed behind her textbook. She and Enzo had spent half the night in the library, stealing scrolls and smuggling them out. They had found nothing but legalese and dusty proclaimations.

"Lady Vance," a sneering voice whispered from the bench to her left.

Elara ignored him. Marco Medici. A brute with more money than sense, and a grudge against anyone associated with the Valentis.

"I heard the news," Marco snickered, leaning closer. "Your pet lion is getting a leash. Giulia Grecco is going to eat him alive. What will you do then, little brain? Who will protect you when Enzo is busy warming his wife’s bed?"

Elara tightened her grip on her quill. "Focus on your studies, Marco. Unless you plan to taste-test your father’s dinner tonight."

Marco scowled. He reached out and knocked her inkwell over. Black ink flooded across the desk, ruining the scroll she had been studying—a potentially vital text on betrothal annulments from the 14th century.

"Oops," Marco smirked.

Elara stared at the ruined parchment. The ink dripped onto the stone floor like black blood. Heat rose in her cheeks—not anger, but the familiar, crushing shame of helplessness. She was smart, yes. But here, in a world of violence, intelligence felt like a paper shield.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over Marco.

"Pick it up," a voice said. It was low, pleasant, and utterly terrifying.

Enzo stood in the aisle. He was dressed in his University blacks, his rapier hanging at his hip. He looked relaxed, leaning against a pillar, but his eyes were fixed on Marco like a hawk sighting a field mouse.

"It was an accident, Valenti," Marco muttered, shrinking back.

"I didn't ask how it happened," Enzo said, stepping closer. "I said pick it up. And apologize."

"I’m not apologizing to a servant’s daughter."

The class went silent. The Professor stopped speaking.

Enzo moved. It was a blur of motion, too fast to track. One moment he was standing; the next, his dagger was driven into the wood of Marco’s desk, vibrating between the boy’s index and middle finger.

Marco shrieked, falling out of his chair.

"She is the daughter of the Consigliere," Enzo said, his voice deadly calm. "She is the mind of my House. And if you disrespect her again, Marco, I will carve an apology into your forehead."

Enzo yanked the dagger free and sheathed it. He turned to Elara, his expression softening instantly. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab at the ink on her sleeve.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, ignoring the staring class.

"You’re making a scene," Elara whispered, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "Your father will hear about this."

"Let him," Enzo shrugged. "If I’m going to be sold off like cattle next week, I might as well enjoy my last days of freedom terrorizing the Medicis."

He looked at the ruined scroll. "Was that the one?"

"No," Elara lied. "Just a treatise on tax law."

"Good." Enzo winked. "Meet me at the Bell Tower at sunset. I found something in the archives. Something about 'Prior Claims.'"