The air in the diplomatic wing was colder and more rigid than the previous day. Lyra, back in her professional armor, found Prince Everard in the same, silent salon. His storm-grey eyes were intensely focused but strained. The migraine had returned, compromising his ability to focus on the treaty negotiations.

  Sir Valerius, Everard’s silent knight, stood in the shadow, radiating an intensified threat.

  "Lady Bellrose," Viscount Desmond murmured, stepping forward. "The Prince signed the treaty, but his pain is unrelenting. He cannot attend the follow-up briefings. His stability is crucial."

  Lyra approached Everard, who nodded curtly, acknowledging her presence with silent dignity. She noted the tension in his powerful jaw.

  "Your Highness, I managed the symptom yesterday; today, we address the cause," Lyra stated. She reached into her satchel for fine, specialized needles. "The Quiet-Mind Tincture provides relief, but your stress is chronic, driven by external pressure. The peace treaty itself is making you ill."

  Ignoring the prince's stoic gaze, Lyra began placing the needles along his scalp and shoulders with practiced, meticulous precision—a skill few court-trained physicians possessed. The action was purely clinical, yet deeply intimate.

  "Your Highness," Lyra said softly, her voice barely audible, "your opponent at the table is using delay and manufactured urgency to wear you down. Your body is reacting to the political manipulation."

  Everard’s eyes snapped open, a flicker of genuine surprise replacing the pain. "You are diagnosing politics, Lady Bellrose?"

  "I am diagnosing the migraine," Lyra corrected. "And the migraine is compromising the treaty. Viscount Desmond, the Prince's daily schedule must include a guaranteed hour of non-negotiable solitude, preferably after the midday meal. Furthermore, I prescribe a complete blackout of all rival diplomatic reports until 8 AM tomorrow."

  Viscount Desmond looked appalled at the intrusion into state affairs. "Lady Bellrose, that is a matter of foreign policy, not health."

  "It is a matter of chronic stress , which will lead to the Prince's complete incapacitation if not managed," Lyra retorted, pulling the last needle. "You will not have a treaty without a functioning Prince. My prescription stands."

  Everard, feeling the pain receding slightly, offered a faint nod of approval. Lyra had treated his body, but the core political conflict remained, ensuring her continued involvement.

  The visit to Lord Cassian's suite immediately returned Lyra to the realm of high-status absurdity. Lyra felt a faint throb start behind her own eyes—a sympathetic reaction to the sheer, demanding volume of the court.

  The Duke stood before her, slumped melodramatically on a velvet sofa. His silvery ash hair was ruffled, and his amethyst eyes were wide with self-pity. The worst sign: a visible new flare-up of the chronic rash on his neck.

  "Bellrose! You are a fraud! A tyrant!" Cassian declared, throwing a delicate pastry—a forgotten saffron omelet—at the wall. "Your rice porridge tastes of despair, and your salve makes my finest silk stick to my skin! Does this mean I must continue this vile diet?".

  Lyra stared at the pastry smear on the silk wallpaper, then at the Duke, who was sincerely pouting over his health crisis. The sheer, ridiculous scale of his first-world problem—a chronic rash caused by excessive arrogance—was so absurd that, despite her mounting headache, a fleeting, almost helpless smile touched her lips.

  Cassian noticed instantly. He pushed himself off the sofa, abandoning his melodrama for predatory curiosity.

  "Ah," he murmured, his sharp eyes pinning her. "The famed ice-queen physician actually smiles? Tell me, Lyra—for you permit me to call you Lyra, don't you?—do you find my misery so very entertaining?"

  The smile vanished instantly, wiped clean by panic and self-reproach. Lyra’s cold shield slammed back into place.

  "You ate the saffron omelet, Your Grace," Lyra stated flatly, pointing to the new flare-up. "The rash has relapsed because you broke the regimen. The cure relies entirely on discipline. Since you lack it, the remedy must become your sole focus."

  Lyra pulled out a vial of dark, viscous liquid. "This is Blackroot Bile. It is intensely bitter, foul-smelling, and will coat your tongue for six hours. You must consume the entire vial immediately, twice a day, before any food. It is non-negotiable."

  Cassian stared at the vial with horror. "I could give you a diamond necklace to forget you saw that pastry!"

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  "My reverence is reserved for the effective treatment of disease, Your Grace," Lyra replied, holding the vial steady. "Bribery will only earn you an extra vial."

  Just as Cassian reluctantly took the vial, a low, steady voice cut across the room from the doorway.

  "Lyra. We are running late." It was Tobias.

  Cassian looked up, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark, imposing figure of Lyra's companion. The Duke’s aristocratic contempt warred with a primal sense of territorial threat. He glared at Tobias—a look that promised future confrontation—before reluctantly uncorking the foul vial.

  "Try me, Your Grace," Lyra finished, ignoring Tobias's warning and Cassian's glare. "Your body is now my territory. And I do not tolerate insubordination."

  Lyra returned to Prince Alaric's wing for her afternoon visit, and the emotional shift was immediate. The cold shield she wore for the rest of the court dissolved, replaced by a consuming gentleness.

  She found Alaric sitting by the window, cloaked, his white linen hair touched by the afternoon sun. He held the volume of poetry and was following her prescription to read aloud. His voice, now low and steady, was no longer weak, but still carried a breathy frailty.

  He reached a complex passage concerning the solitude of travelers and, focusing too hard on the rhythm, his voice caught, initiating a small, dry cough. He closed his crimson eyes in frustration.

  Lyra immediately walked closer, her professional instinct overriding her shyness. She stood right beside his chair, her hip barely grazing his shoulder.

  "Too fast, Your Highness," Lyra murmured, her voice barely a breath. She reached out and placed one finger on the open page next to the challenging line, drawing his gaze to the words. "Breathe deeply, anchor the diaphragm. Think of the words not as poetry, but as simple facts."

  His shoulder was warm beneath the heavy cloak. Her finger was inches from his own delicate hands resting on the page. Lyra realized her heart was beating an erratic, sharp rhythm against her ribs. Her cheeks, usually so cool and pale, began to heat intensely, threatening to give away the disarray of her professional facade.

  Alaric turned his head slightly, his mesmerizing crimson eyes meeting hers in close proximity. He seemed to look past her clinical exterior, directly into her sudden, embarrassing panic.

  "Lady Lyra," he whispered, his voice gaining depth. "I confess, your proximity is a better prescription than the cold air. But your dedication is… humbling." He then glanced down at her hands, which smelled faintly of dried sage and chicory. "You use those hands to touch the lowest, yet you devote their considerable skill to curing this fragile heart."

  Lyra’s blush intensified, feeling like a physical burn. He was genuinely seeing her work and her soul, not her status. To hide the sudden, profound rush of feeling, she quickly knelt down to adjust the heavy wool blanket around his legs, a small, intimate act of care.

  "I prescribe this only for your strength, Your Highness," Lyra managed, her voice thick. "We must restore the warmth to your spirit. Continue with the reading. And the sketching."

  She rose, needing distance to regain control. Alaric smiled, a gentle, genuine expression that reached his eyes.

  "Thank you, Lady Lyra. For the warmth. For the courage."

  Lyra nodded stiffly, the pragmatic physician barely holding the line. She knew she had to cure his body so his gentle spirit could endure the chaos of the court, but now, her reasons felt intensely personal, tinged with a dangerous, burgeoning affection. The road to recovery would be long, and she suddenly dreaded—and secretly hoped for—every single visit.

  Later that night, Lyra was finally alone in her room. The heavy silence of the Inner Court was oppressive. She pulled out the detailed political map Seraphina had given her.

  She traced the noble houses, the alliances, and the rivalries, linking them to her patients: Prince Everard's political rival was a primary ally of a faction opposed to Princess Isolde. Lord Cassian's social pressures were tied directly to the public perception of the Crown's stability. Prince Alaric's frailty was the ultimate vulnerability, threatening the entire state.

  Lyra realized she was not just curing three separate illnesses; she was managing three interconnected political crises. Her Quiet-Mind Tincture influenced the treaty signing. Her Blackroot Bile controlled the Duke's presence at court.

  "This isn't healing," she muttered, tracing a line from Cassian's house to Everard's treaty. "This is a full-time circus, and I am the only one holding the reins."

  Just as Lyra closed the map, a quiet knock preceded an attendant delivering a sealed letter bearing the seal of the Bellrose Barony. Lyra opened it instantly, recognizing her father's strained, formal script. It was a demand from Baron Eamonn Bellrose , requiring Tobias to return home immediately for an unspecified, urgent family matter.

  Lyra sighed, the tension in her forehead returning. She knew her father's obsession with appearances meant he would use his authority to interfere, even from afar. The Baron's order, though stemming from trivial priorities, was ultimately one she had to obey.

  Tobias, who had been standing rigidly by the door, sensed the change in the atmosphere.

  "It is an order from the Baron," Lyra informed him, her voice low. "You must return to the manor for a few days."

  Tobias's dark eyes narrowed, sweeping the corners of the opulent room. "Lyra, the palace is too shiny. Too many corners. I heard a noise above the tavern roof a moment ago —this entire structure feels dangerous. I cannot leave you without protection."

  "You cannot defy the Baron’s order, Tobias," Lyra said, respecting his vigilance. "I will be fine. I have a royal title now. I am not completely defenseless."

  She walked to her desk and pulled out three small, pre-written envelopes. "Give these to my mother, and this one to Aveline and Seraphina. They are letters explaining my prescriptions for them—my mother needs more sleep, Father needs less claret, and the girls need to stop thinking of duchess titles."

  Tobias took the letters, his jaw set in rigid reluctance. He gave the room one last, intense, disapproving sweep before bowing stiffly. "I will return the moment the Baron permits it, Lyra. Until then, stay near the wall and trust no one."

  Lyra was left utterly alone in the immense, silent palace. She was the only one in charge of the chaos, with no one left to guard her.