As the first rays of a cold, grey dawn bled through the stained-glass windows, the Royal Wing became a theater of silent war.

  Following Prince Everard’s iron-clad orders, the Northern guards had barricaded the doors to Alaric’s chamber from the inside. They had moved heavy oak wardrobes and iron-bound chests against the entrance, turning the bedroom into an impenetrable cell. Outside, a crowd of Valerius physicians and palace staff stood in a state of frantic confusion.

  "Open this door immediately!" Lady Serena’s voice shrieked, echoing through the marble hallway. She hammered her fist against the wood, her mask of elegance shattered to reveal a snarling, desperate fury. "The Prince is being denied his sacred cleansing! This is kidnapping! This is treason!"

  From behind the door, the muffled, steady voice of a Northern sergeant rang out. "By order of the General, this room is under quarantine. No one enters. No one leaves. Any attempt to breach this threshold will be met with bared steel."

  Everard, watching from the shadows of a nearby pillar, felt a grim satisfaction. He had already whispered a promise to his men: “Hold until noon tomorrow. I will take the King’s wrath upon myself. You will not be abandoned.”

  Seeing the guards wouldn't budge, Serena turned on her heel and stormed toward the King’s private chapel. Her silks hissed against the floor like a serpent. She intended to wake the King and have the "rebels" dragged to the gallows.

  However, she was met with a wall of stone. Two of the King’s personal Royal Sentinels stood at the chapel entrance, their halberds crossed in a silent 'X'.

  "Move!" Serena hissed, her eyes wide with rage. "The Prince has been compromised! The King must be alerted!"

  "The King has entered the Great Holy Silence," the guard replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "He has decreed that he shall not be disturbed for any reason—not even the fires of hell—until the sun reaches its zenith tomorrow at twelve. He is atoning for the 'witchcraft' in this house."

  "Do you know who I am?" Serena threatened, stepping into the guard’s space. "I can have your family stripped of their names!"

  The guard didn't even blink. "The King’s decree is the only law in this hallway, My Lady. Wait for the bells."

  Defeated and shaking with a silent, murderous rage, Serena retreated to her chambers. She felt the control slipping through her fingers. She wanted to burn the palace to the ground, but for now, she was as much a prisoner of the King’s religious fervor as Lyra was of the stone walls.

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  While the palace above was a powder keg, the Hidden Infirmary was a world of quiet, fragile peace.

  Prince Everard and Lord Cassian slipped through the rotating bookshelf, their hearts hammering. They found Prince Alaric submerged in a deep, natural sleep. His skin was no longer the color of wet ash; though the shadows of illness still lingered, there was a faint, healthy glow to his cheeks. He looked peaceful—the first true rest he had known in days.

  Then, they looked at Lady Lyra.

  The "Famed Physician" was a complete disaster. Her hair was a bird's nest of loose pins, several dark curls clinging to her damp forehead. Her eyes were rimmed with deep purple shadows, and her eyelids were still puffy from her earlier breakdown. She sat slumped in a chair by the bed, looking like she had been dragged through a hedge.

  "Lady Lyra," Cassian whispered, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. "I’ve seen battle-worn soldiers after a week in the trenches who looked more presentable than you do right now."

  Lyra snapped her eyes open, her hand instinctively jerking away from near Alaric's shoulder. "Lord Cassian... Your Highness," she stammered, trying to stand and smooth her rumpled gown at the same time. "I was... monitoring the Prince's respiratory rhythm. It is a very delicate process."

  "Is that what we're calling it now?" Lady Isolde chimed in from the corner, leaning back with a wicked grin. "Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were staring at him as if he were the only star in the sky."

  "Princess, please," Lyra hissed, her face turning a shade of pink that was almost neon. "I am a physician. My interest is purely... anatomical."

  "Anatomical?" Isolde giggled, nudging the Duke. "Cassian, you missed it! Earlier, when he woke up, the look on her face... I thought she was going to melt into a puddle of rosewater. And our dear Alaric! He couldn't take his eyes off her."

  "Is that so?" Cassian leaned in, grinning at Lyra’s discomfort. "Tell me, Lady Lyra, does the 'Calculus of Control' account for a heart rate that doubles whenever the patient breathes? Or is that a new symptom we should document?"

  "It is the humidity in this room!" Lyra declared, her voice squeaking slightly. She looked at Prince Everard, hoping for a reprieve, but the General was leaning against the wall, his usual grim expression replaced by a faint, unmistakable twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  "You too, Your Highness?" Lyra gasped, feeling completely cornered. "I have risked my life and my reputation to save your brother, and you all treat me like... like a character in a romance novel!"

  "Because you are, darling," Isolde teased, reaching over to pat Lyra’s burning cheek. "You’re the messy-haired, red-faced heroine. Now, sit down before you fall over. You look like a very stressed tomato."

  Lyra let out a huff of pure exasperation, glaring at them all, but she couldn't hide the small, genuine smile that finally touched her lips. For the first time, she wasn't just a physician under contract; she was part of their circle. In that hidden room, amidst the treason and the danger, they finally felt like a family.