The Inner Court was a gilded maze, and without Tobias's imposing, silent presence, Lyra felt acutely exposed. She gripped her medical satchel, navigating the polished marble corridors on her way to Prince Everard’s diplomatic wing.

  She almost made it.

  Lord Cassian burst out of a nearby archway, moving with the exaggerated stealth of a predator who knows he's being hunted. He looked impeccable, despite the faint residual rash on his neck, but his amethyst eyes were wide with paranoia.

  "Bellrose! You are an agent of chemical warfare!" Cassian whispered dramatically, pulling Lyra into the dubious privacy of a heavy velvet curtain alcove, forcing her close to his designer silk robes.

  "Your Grace," Lyra replied, her voice dangerously flat. "I am late for a consultation concerning a treaty that will prevent the deaths of thousands. This is not the time for theatrical whining."

  "The Blackroot Bile! It is a vile, heinous liquid! It tastes like burnt despair mixed with the earth itself! And my tongue is still coated! How am I to attend the King's banquet this evening? I will be unable to adequately sneer at my rivals!"

  Lyra felt the familiar, sympathetic throb of a stress headache begin. She sighed, her lips twitching with annoyance, though she successfully fought the urge to smile this time.

  "It is meant to be unpleasant, Your Grace. It is an aversion therapy designed to make you hate your current diet, thereby forcing you toward a healthier one. It's working. The rash is receding."

  Cassian ignored the logic. He leaned closer, his silvery ash hair falling perfectly over his brow, his amethyst eyes narrowing in a playful, dangerous tease.

  "Ah, but I see the treatment is uneven, Lyra. When I saw you leave Alaric's wing yesterday, you looked like a doe startled by sunlight—all softness and blushes. Yet for me, you prescribe vile poisons and cold scorn. Tell me, is your regimen designed to cure the Prince's lungs, or perhaps..." he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial purr, "...to win his heart?"

  Lyra felt her cheeks heat instantly. "My prescription is purely clinical, Your Grace. Your condition requires discipline; the Prince's requires gentleness."

  "I am merely offering feedback," Cassian said, stepping back with a flourish, enjoying her discomfort. "Perhaps a small dose of that gentleness is what I truly need to cure my chronic arrogance."

  Lyra stepped out of the alcove, her hand already reaching for a small vial in her pocket. "Your Grace, if you continue this insubordination, I will not hesitate to double your dose of Blackroot Bile. Now, excuse me. I must attend to a Prince who actually attempts to follow instructions."

  Lyra reached the diplomatic wing, finding Prince Everard seated at a table, rigid with the effort of concentration. The migraine had intensified, causing him to massage his temples with hands that looked powerful but were trembling slightly.

  "Your Highness, we need two minutes," Lyra stated.

  Just as Lyra reached for his temples, the door burst open. Duke Galen, a rival diplomat, marched in, his voice booming.

  "Everard! I need your confirmation on Clause Seven immediately! This cannot wait!"

  Everard flinched violently. Lyra moved instantly, but Sir Valerius, the Prince’s formidable knight, blocked her path. Lyra froze, acknowledging the limit of her medical title against the knight's duty.

  "Your Highness," Lyra commanded sharply, speaking over Duke Galen's noise. "Place your thumbs precisely on the two points I showed you yesterday! Press firmly!"

  Everard, trusting her authority, obeyed. He gasped as the pressure provided a temporary block against the searing pain.

  "Sir Valerius," Lyra commanded, her voice steady and sharp. "Remove Duke Galen and his entourage. The Prince is medically indisposed."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Duke Galen stopped shouting, his face twisting in offense. He strode toward Lyra, pushing past a startled Viscount Desmond. "Remove me? At the command of a semi-noble commoner smelling of weeds? I am a Duke, girl! My business is the stability of the realm, not your rustic remedies!"

  Lyra refused to back down, her chin raised in defiance. "The stability of the realm requires a functional Prince, Duke. You are actively endangering his health."

  Suddenly, Everard rose, leaning heavily on the table. His storm-grey eyes, usually controlled and stoic, were now blazing with an intensity that cut through the pain and the diplomatic tension.

  "Enough, Galen!" Everard's voice was low, sharp, and entirely devoid of the required diplomatic restraint. "Lady Bellrose is my Crown Private Physician. Her word is my command on all matters of health. You will obey her order and vacate this chamber now. I will not tolerate anyone impeding my treatment."

  Galen, startled by the sudden, raw fury from the Prince, took a step back. The Prince had broken his carefully maintained composure, sacrificing political advantage to defend Lyra.

  Galen's composure returned, his voice turning cold and sinister. "Very well, Your Highness. I will leave the healer to her work. But the fragility of a Prince—be it physical or political—is always noted, and always leveraged." Galen gave Lyra a look of pure malice. "Rest assured, Lady Bellrose, your unconventional meddling has earned you a place on my ledger."

  As Galen retreated, Lyra returned her full attention to Everard, who was trembling, both from pain and the exertion of his confrontation.

  "Your Highness, the pain is relentless," Lyra whispered, her voice filled with professional concern. "We are masking the symptom, not curing the root. This is more than political pressure."

  She realized the necessity of a complex, long-term solution. "The treatment is insufficient. I will not compromise my duty. I must return to my laboratory tonight. I will create a new, stronger medicine tailored precisely to this chronic resistance."

  Everard, breathing heavily, gave a curt, trusting nod. The Prince had defended her, and now she was obligated to cure the persistent ailment that left him so vulnerable.

  Later, as Lyra moved between the wings, Princess Isolde intercepted her in an otherwise empty gallery, her sapphire gown a startling contrast to the pale stone.

  "You are doing well, Lady Bellrose," Isolde admitted, her tone grudging. "The Duke is terrified of you, and Everard is functioning. You managed the diplomatic bully effectively. But your methods are crude. Blackroot Bile? Rice Porridge? It sounds like a peasant cure. Are you sure you are worthy of the title I secured for you?"

  "Your Highness," Lyra said, holding her gaze steadily. "My goal is effectiveness, not elegance. The Duke's ailment is caused by excess; the Prince's by tension. My prescriptions are designed to target the root cause, not mask the symptom. Crude medicine is often the most sincere."

  Isolde raised an eyebrow, a slight, feline smile touching her lips. "Sincere? A curious word for a physician. I suppose if you succeed, you will have cured the three most troublesome men in the kingdom. Now, go. See my brother. He is the only one who truly matters."

  Lyra reached the Crown Prince's wing at sunset, feeling the heavy exhaustion of the day settle over her. The door closed behind her, silencing the clatter of the court, and she instantly relaxed.

  Alaric was sitting up, having just finished his reading. The warm glow of the candles made his white linen hair seem luminous and turned his crimson eyes into deep pools of kindness.

  He was waiting for her with two simple teacups on a side table.

  "Lady Lyra," he said, his voice low and steady. "I was reading your chart notes. You prescribed a soothing tea for my evening. I took the liberty of brewing a second cup."

  Lyra's fatigue melted away in a profound rush of gratitude and shyness. He was the only person in the entire palace who had offered her comfort, not demands. She felt the familiar, uncontrollable warmth rise in her cheeks.

  "You shouldn't have, Your Highness," Lyra managed, walking to the chair opposite him.

  "But I did," Alaric said gently, handing her the cup. "You look weary. You spend your day battling my family's excesses and diplomacy's cruelty. You need the medicine more than I do."

  Lyra took a large, grateful sip. The tea was warm, earthy, and soothing. She looked at his beautiful, kind face, realizing the intensity of her feelings. With Cassian, there was a challenge; with Everard, there was respect; but with Alaric, there was an aching, quiet devotion.

  "I finished the sketch, Lady Lyra," Alaric confessed, sliding the pad toward her. It was a depiction of his balcony view, but he had included a small, precise drawing of a single sprig of feverfew, perfectly rendered.

  "The Feverfew?" Lyra whispered.

  "It is the first herb you mentioned," Alaric explained, his eyes sincere. "The sign that you are always busy protecting others. A small tribute to my protector."

  Lyra swallowed, unable to form words. She realized she was deeply, irrevocably starstruck and soft for this ethereal, gentle Prince. The cure for the Languor Cordis would take many weeks, but she knew now she would fight the entire court, the diplomatic corps, and the Duke's appetite just to keep having these quiet, shared moments.

  "The recovery is slow, Your Highness," Lyra finally said, her voice husky. "We must be patient."

  "I am in no rush, Lady Lyra," Alaric replied, his crimson eyes holding hers. "Not if it means your presence is required daily."