The palace was no longer a home; it was a hunting ground. By mid-afternoon, Lady Serena had unleashed her personal guard and the Valerius acolytes to scour every public corridor and servant’s passage. Her eyes were sunken, fueled by humiliated rage.

  "Find the Bellrose girl," she hissed to her captain. "And find the Duke. They are the rot in this palace. I want them found before the King breaks his silence."

  To maintain the illusion of normalcy, Prince Everard, Lord Cassian, and Lady Isolde had been forced to return to their respective chambers. To stay vanished would be a confession of guilt. However, they did not leave the "Ghost Prince" unprotected. Lord Cyrus remained phased into the shadows of the library, while Everard’s most lethal Northern lieutenant stood watch behind the rotating bookshelf, his hand never straying from his blade.

  The afternoon took a sharp turn when Serena burst into Isolde’s sunlit afternoon room. "Where is she, Isolde? Where is the girl you’ve been hiding?"

  Isolde didn't even look up from her embroidery. She pulled a gold thread through the silk with infuriating slowness. "The girl? You mean the physician our father hired? I imagine she’s wherever people go when they grow tired of being screamed at by vultures, Lady Serena."

  "Don't play games with me, you spoiled brat," Serena snarled, leaning over the table. "The Prince’s room is barricaded, and the girl is gone. It smells of a coup."

  Isolde finally looked up, a sharp, cryptic smile playing on her lips. "Perhaps she’s simply gone to find a cure for your personality, Serena. Or perhaps... She's closer than you think, waiting for the sun to hit the zenith. You look tired, dear. Maybe you should try some of those 'cleansing' tonics your doctors are so fond of. You look positively... ashen."

  Serena let out a sound of pure, strangled fury and stormed out, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the paintings. Isolde’s smile faded instantly, her hands beginning to shake.

  In the quiet, golden warmth of the Hidden Infirmary, the world was peaceful. Prince Alaric woke not to the sound of screaming, but to the soft clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl.

  "Your Highness," Lady Lyra whispered, her face brightening. "You're awake."

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  With Lyra’s steady hands supporting his back, Alaric managed to sit up. He was still weak, his muscles protesting the movement, but the crushing weight on his chest had lifted. Lyra had prepared a light, warm grain porridge infused with honey and a dash of the stabilizing herbs from her satchel.

  "Eat, Alaric," she said softly, forgetting the formal title for a brief moment as she blew on a spoonful. "You need strength."

  He ate wholeheartedly, the simple food tasting like a banquet after days of Serena’s bitter purgatives. Between bites, he watched her. The light of the oil lamp caught the stray curls of her messy hair, and Alaric reached out, his thumb gently brushing a smudge of ink from her jaw.

  "You stayed," he murmured, his voice stronger now, though still husky. "Even after the King threatened you. Even after the world turned dark."

  Lyra paused, her eyes meeting his. The "Calculus of Control" suggested she should remain professional, but the heart had a different math. "I couldn't leave the only person who ever looked at me and saw something more than just a tool for the Crown," she confessed, her voice trembling. "I was terrified, Alaric. Not of the executioner... but of a world where you weren't in it."

  Alaric took the bowl from her hands and set it aside, taking both of her hands in his. "The stars must have been aligned when you walked into that ballroom," he said, a quiet, intense heat in his crimson eyes. "I am a Prince of a crumbling house, but if I have you, I feel like a King."

  Lyra’s blush returned in full force, her heart doing a frantic dance against her ribs. She couldn't find a witty retort or a logical explanation; she simply squeezed his hands back, anchored by the man she had pulled back from the brink.

  As night fell, the "Shadow Council" reunited in the hidden room. Everard, Cassian, and Isolde arrived through the secret passage, their faces grim. The deadline was approaching.

  "The King breaks his silence at noon tomorrow," Everard stated, looking at Alaric, who was now standing, though leaning heavily on a cane Cyrus had provided. "Serena is already whispering 'kidnapping' into the ears of the Council. If the King goes to your room at 12:01 PM and finds a decoy, we are all dead by 12:05."

  "We will move him back tonight," Cassian agreed. "Under the cover of the 3:00 AM guard rotation. We have to reverse the switch."

  "Can you do it, Alaric?" Isolde asked, her eyes full of concern.

  Alaric looked at Lyra, then back at his siblings. He straightened his shoulders, the regal authority of the Valerius line returning to his posture. "I will be in that bed when my father walks through the door. And when he sees me not as a ghost, but as a son, Serena’s reign over his mind will end."

  Lyra checked his pulse one last time, her expression a mix of professional worry and deep, personal pride. "I will be right behind you, hidden in the servant's gallery. If your heart flutters, if you feel faint..."

  "I'll look for you in the shadows, Lyra," Alaric promised. "You are my stabilizer now."

  The plan was set. They were walking back into the lion’s den, betting their lives on the hope that one hour of health could undo years of lies.