The next morning, Lyra walked down the hushed corridor to the Crown Prince’s private wing. Tobias stopped respectfully at the archway, his arms crossed. "I will wait here, Lyra. It is too quiet."

  Lyra nodded, gripping the handle of her satchel. She reminded herself of the clinical data: Languor Cordis, chronic respiratory distress, aggravated by stress and isolation. She prepared her most efficient, professional demeanor.

  She was admitted by an attendant wearing a black silk mask. The air in the chamber was oppressively warm and heavy with stale incense.

  "Lady Bellrose," the attendant whispered. "His Highness is awake."

  Lyra stepped around a lavish screen, and her professional composure immediately dissolved into a puddle of disbelief.

  The man sitting propped against the pillows was not the sickly, stern leader Lyra had expected. Prince Alaric was ethereal, possessed of a gentle, quiet grace that seemed too fragile for the heavy palace air. His hair was the soft color of white linen—a rare trait that had been carefully hidden from the public eye—and framed a face of perfect, delicate features. His eyes, the startling deep crimson of autumn maple leaves, regarded her with a soft, perceptive curiosity. He looked less like a powerful prince and more like a gentle spirit trying to remember the warmth of the sun.

  He was breathtaking. And no one, no one, knew he looked like this.

  Lyra, the notoriously cold, pragmatic healer, felt her cheeks warm. Her mind, usually a fortress of logic, went completely blank.

  "Your Highness," Lyra managed, the standard court greeting leaving her tongue stiff and dry. She realized she was staring.

  Alaric offered a weak, polite smile, the effort initiating a small, painful catch in his chest. "Lady Bellrose. Please, come closer. I confess, I am glad to see a fresh face—even if I cannot remember the last time I saw an attendant without a mask."

  Lyra forced herself forward, her hands trembling slightly as she opened her satchel. She spoke to the chart, not to the dazzling, fragile man before her.

  "I—I am Lyra Bellrose, Your Highness. I am here to treat the Languor Cordis."

  Lyra forced her brain to restart, focusing on the task. She took his wrist, her cool fingers resting gently on his faint pulse. The difference between handling his fragile skin and the rough, chapped hands of the poor was profound.

  "The persistent cough is merely a symptom," Lyra stated, her voice finally regaining its firmness, though its tone remained softer than usual. "Your Highness is suffering from severe isolation. The constant heat, the heavy incense, the fear of contagion, and the masks... it suffocates the spirit as much as the lungs."

  Alaric listened patiently, his crimson eyes tracing her movements. "I admit, the masks are the hardest part. I feel like I am fading from memory."

  Lyra took a deep breath, making a radical decision. "Then we change everything. Starting now. I am the Crown Private Physician. I have absolute authority. My first order is: Open the windows."

  The masked attendant gasped audibly. "Lady Bellrose, the cold air—"

  "The cold air is sterile," Lyra snapped, her old authority flickering back to life. "The stale air is poison. Remove all the masks. The contagion risk is minimal; the isolation risk is terminal. I need your eyes and your honesty, not your fear."

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  Lyra turned back to the Prince, her gaze earnest. "Your Highness, the Languor Cordis will not heal until your spirit is allowed to breathe. I am prescribing twenty minutes of natural sunlight on the balcony per day, and fresh, cool air, even if it requires a cloak. Do you trust me?"

  Alaric smiled, a genuine, beautiful expression that made his tired eyes sparkle. "You are the first person in months to talk to me about my spirit. Yes, Lady Bellrose. I trust you."

  Lyra was scheduled for an immediate follow-up with Lord Cassian, and the shift in atmosphere was jarring. The moment she left Prince Alaric’s room, the cold shield of her professional demeanor slammed back into place.

  She found the Duke of Winterfell wrapped in his finest silk dressing gown, pacing furiously in his suite. Cassian’s silvery ash hair and sharp amethyst eyes seemed aggressively arrogant in the morning light.

  "Bellrose! You are two minutes late! And this," he gestured dramatically to a small, nearly devoured bowl of rice porridge on a silver tray, "is an outrage! It tastes of sadness and despair! I ordered a simple saffron omelet, and your steward—a royal barbarian—informed me I was 'medically restricted'! Do you enjoy inflicting misery?"

  "Lord Cassian," Lyra said flatly, pulling out a small magnifying glass to inspect his arm. She ignored his complaints entirely. "The Soothe-Root Salve has successfully managed the surface inflammation. The redness is receding. This confirms that the rash is a direct manifestation of internal heat and chronic stress. We have achieved initial, temporary relief."

  Cassian sighed dramatically. "Temporary? Does this mean I must continue this vile diet?"

  "The chronic nature of your ailment means we are in the earliest stages of a long, sustained recovery," Lyra confirmed, her voice utterly devoid of sympathy. "If you deviate from the diet—even a sip of wine or a single rich pastry—the rash will relapse immediately and painfully. Your choices directly affect your skin, Your Grace."

  Lyra picked up the empty porridge bowl, noting his failure to hide the evidence. "You will maintain this regimen. If I find any evidence of disobedience, I will be forced to prescribe a tincture that makes the consumer incapable of coherent speech for six hours. That would certainly hinder your presence and wit at the Grand Ball."

  "You wouldn't dare!" Cassian scoffed, but his expression was now a comical mix of fury and genuine caution.

  "Try me, Your Grace," Lyra replied, setting the bowl down. "Your body is now my territory. And I do not tolerate insubordination." Lyra noted that, despite his fury, the Duke looked far less stressed than yesterday. Managing the symptoms was one thing; managing the chronic arrogance was the real battle.

  The Cute Return

  Lyra returned to Prince Alaric's wing for her afternoon check-up. The change was remarkable. The windows were wide open, and the cold, crisp air had flooded the room. The attendants, though still uncomfortable, were now unmasked.

  Alaric was wrapped in a thick, simple wool cloak and sitting on his balcony, breathing deeply. He looked slightly chilled, but noticeably less strained.

  "The air is wonderful, Lady Lyra," he whispered, turning to her. "I feel... less like a ghost."

  Lyra immediately felt the softness return. She walked onto the balcony, her voice gentle. "You shouldn't whisper, Your Highness. It strains the throat. Try to speak only in a low, steady tone."

  She reached out and gently adjusted the thick collar of his cloak around his neck. When her fingers brushed the pale skin of his jaw, she pulled her hand back instantly, her heart giving an unwanted, sharp thump against her ribs.

  Alaric smiled. "My apologies. I have forgotten how to use my voice. My conversation skills are rusty."

  "Then I will prescribe practice," Lyra said, quickly moving to a nearby desk to hide her flushing cheeks. "I require you to read aloud from a simple book for ten minutes, twice daily. It strengthens the diaphragm without stressing the lungs. Do you have a preferred subject?"

  Alaric pointed to a small, worn volume on a nearby stand. "I enjoy poetry. Especially those concerning the changing of the seasons, and the solitude of travel."

  Lyra took the book. She watched his beautiful, fragile hands tremble slightly as he reached for a blanket. Lyra quietly moved to assist him, tucking the blanket carefully around his legs.

  His hands are so delicate, she thought, her cold, pragmatic exterior completely forgotten. He is trying so hard.

  "The first steps are successful, Your Highness," Lyra said softly, “the air is better. Your isolation is broken. But the Lanquor Cordis is chronic. The recovery of your strength will take many weeks of dedicated effort”

  She looked at his gentle, kind eyes, knowing that her role here was not just physician, but fierce protector. She had to cure his body so his gentle spirit could endure the chaos of the court.