Chapter 224: Sparing the Lion

The Archbishop’s Bedroom, Salzburg Palace.

Archbishop Wilhelm lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the canopy above his bed.

He already knew exactly where he was, and more importantly, he knew how close he had come to crossing over into the afterlife.

His battle-hardened body felt hollow, as if someone had drained all the blood from his veins and replaced it with freezing river water.

Slowly, and with grueling effort, Wilhelm raised his heavy hand and wiped it across his pale face. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the grim memory that kept replaying in his mind.

"I am so sorry, Peter..." Wilhelm whispered into the quiet room, his voice breaking with crushing sorrow.

The fourteen-year-old cupbearer was dead. And Wilhelm had merely watched it happen.

The memory was burned forever into the Archbishop’s brain. It was the night of the royal feast, just days before the grand jousting tournament was to begin.

Little Peter, always so proud to serve his Lord, had taken the traditional first sip of the Swabian wine to test it for poison.

Wilhelm saw everything clearly. He saw the boy swallow the red liquid. He saw the brutal spasm that tore through little Peter’s chest, throwing him against the stone table.

And he saw the naked panic in the boy’s eyes when black blood suddenly spilled from his pale lips.

Wilhelm had barely consumed a single drop from his own silver cup before alarm bells rang in his mind, but even that tiny drop was too much.

The concentrated poison instantly paralyzed his spine. He collapsed onto the floor of the Great Hall right beside the dying boy.

He had dozens of chances to reach out. He could have held the boy’s hand. He could have offered some comfort in his final moments. But his poisoned muscles betrayed him entirely.

Wilhelm could not move a single inch. He just lay there on the cold floor, trapped inside his own body, forced to watch his loyal servant choke to death.

Had it been an assassin with a drawn sword, Wilhelm would have fought like a cornered bear. If the killer had targeted his generals across the table, the Archbishop would have found the strength to rip the man’s throat out. But against a cowardly, invisible poison?

What a humiliating, pathetic weakness.

*Knock. Knock.*

"My Lord? Are you awake inside?"

The booming voice that echoed through the heavy oak door instantly pulled Wilhelm from his spiral of guilt.

He took a long, heavy breath, forcing his lungs to expand.

"Enter, Stefan," Wilhelm rasped.

The iron latch clicked, and the door was pushed open.

Captain Stefan, Commander of the Palace Guard, squeezed his broad shoulders into the room. His polished steel breastplate caught the dim candlelight.

"Praise the Maker..!" Stefan exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his rough, bearded face as he hurried toward the bed. "It is a glorious thing to hear your voice, my Lord! Do you need help sitting up? I can bring some fresh water, or perhaps a whole roasted pheasant!"

"..." Wilhelm tried to push himself up on his elbows but failed miserably. He sank back into the soft pillows with a heavy sigh. "Just the water will do, Stefan."

Stefan poured water from a clay pitcher and brought it to the Archbishop’s lips, supporting Wilhelm’s head with a surprisingly gentle hand.

Though Wilhelm was known across the Austrian Empire as a fierce political warlord, he was now just an exhausted, broken man.

Surviving the poison had stripped him of his strength. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale as snow, and he had lost ten pounds of muscle while sweating out the brutal fever.

"How long have I been asleep?" Wilhelm asked, his voice returning slightly after drinking the cool water.

"Four days, my Lord," Stefan answered, taking a respectful step back. The strained smile slowly faded from his face, replaced by a look of profound fury.

"Stop staring at the floor, Stefan," Wilhelm chuckled weakly, waving a tired hand. "I am not dead yet. It takes more than bad wine to put an Austrian Archbishop in the dirt."

Despite that, the Commander of the Guard did not laugh.

"I apologize, my Lord," Stefan whispered, his low voice heavy with shame. "I failed you. I was standing right behind your chair at that feast... yet I could not protect you."

"Do not be a fool," Wilhelm said firmly, shaking his head. "You are a halberdier, not an alchemist. You cannot cleave poison in half with a steel blade."

"..." Stefan suddenly snarled, his armored fists clenching at his sides. "...Standing there, watching you turn pale and collapse to the floor while I could do nothing to fight back... it was torture."

Hearing these words, a genuine, warm smile touched Wilhelm’s tired face.

He knew how much his loyal guard was suffering. Stefan was a man of action, and feeling entirely useless was the ultimate insult to a true warrior.

"Your time to swing that blade is coming, Stefan," Wilhelm promised quietly. "Whoever poisoned me is highly ambitious. They are making their move. And when they finally step out of the shadows, I promise you will be the first man to greet them."

"As it should be," Stefan grinned ferociously. "I will go down to the Great Hall and gather your royal advisors. They must know the Archbishop is awake."

"Go," Wilhelm nodded.

The door clicked shut, leaving the Archbishop alone in the bedroom.

However, the moment the room fell silent, Wilhelm’s sharp mind began to race. He stared at the flickering candle near his bed, wholly ignoring the lingering aches in his body.

Something about the assassination attempt did not make sense.

If an enemy truly wanted him dead, why use a poison that kills a young boy but only paralyzes a grown man?

If they wanted to eliminate him from the political board, why not plunge a dagger into his ribs while he slept in his own bed?

Why target him on the very night before the gates opened for the grand jousting tournament?

If King Konrad of Swabia wanted him dead, the Iron King would have simply marched his artillery to the border and blown the palace walls to dust. Swabians did not use poison; they used fire.

If a rival Habsburg noble wanted him dead, they would have hired a silent assassin to slit his throat in the dead of night.

Thus, the horrifying truth slowly began to take shape in his mind.

The poison was never meant to kill him. It was meant to cause panic within the royal court.

What happens when the Archbishop falls gravely ill right before a grand public event? Wilhelm asked himself, piecing the puzzle together.

The Palace Guard panics. They cancel the tournament. And they lock down the fortress, sealing the heavy iron gates to prevent the invisible assassins from escaping.

Someone wanted to seal off the royal palace from the rest of the city. Someone wanted the fortress entirely isolated, with no civilians or foreign nobles wandering the grounds.

But who? And how did they slip the poison into the Archbishop’s personal wine supply in the first place?

Only one man had access to those specific wooden barrels before they were brought up to the Great Hall.

The Master of the Royal Cellars.

*Creeeak...*

Wilhelm turned his head toward the corner of the room. The small, hidden door used by the cleaning servants was slowly being pushed open.

Stepping out of the shadows was Gregor, the Master of the Royal Cellars himself.

The man looked frightened beyond belief. He was sweating, his hair was a mess, and his hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold onto the doorframe.

"I... I heard you were awake, my Lord," Gregor whispered.