I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, second prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia—my allies and I have just arrived in the fortress city of Astradel, Capital of the Hyperion Kingdom to meet with their King.

"And what do you accursed vulture-Arcadians want now?" roars King Thaddeon as he storms into the throne room through a rear entrance. His long grey hair hangs in frayed strands beneath his crown, as if he had readied himself in a hurry.

I stand at the center of the vast, empty hall, with Maribel, Shadow, and Willow at my back. Our Hyperion escorts flank us on both sides, dropping to their knees in deference to their king. The castle guards lining the walkways between us and the throne snap to attention as Thaddeon rounds it, his eyes fixed on us.

He wears an expression of unbridled contempt. His aged face, sunken eyes, and the dark circles beneath them speak of a man worn down by advancing age. His clenched fists, furious gaze, and bared teeth suggests he is a man under immense pressure—and we may be the final straw.

"Their last envoy left just two days ago. I found them their damn elf terrorist—now what do they want?" he spits. "They were vile and rude, but at least they gave us prior warning of their arrival."

"He doesn't seem to like Arcadians very much," Shadow remarks telepathically.

"And what's this?" Thaddeon snarls, gesturing at me while glancing toward the castle guards lining the walkway. "Does that bastard Edric intend to insult me further by sending a child to issue his demands?"

It would seem, thanks to my dear father, this is going to be a lot more difficult…

"He is Ren Drakemore, Prince of Arcadia... Edric's son," Daniels says nervously, still kneeling with his head bowed.

"And you!" Thaddeon rounds on Daniels, voice rising with fury. "Which of my military officers is so traitorous that he dares to bring armed men—and a child—before me without prior vetting or approval?"

"I—I'm Captain D-Daniels, Your Majesty," Daniels stammers, beginning to shake and sweat like a man facing death itself.

"And where is your post?" Thaddeon presses, his glare so intense our four Hyperion escorts tremble under its weight.

"F-Fort Trentwood, on the border with Arcadia, sir," Daniels replies meekly—then adds in a rush, "The prince has brought you thousands of high-grade healing potions."

"And what proof did they provide that this is indeed the Prince of Arcadia?" the king snaps, ignoring Daniels's attempt to calm his fury.

Daniels flinches at the question. He opens his mouth, then hesitates—his brow furrowing as the realization hits him. We never gave him any proof. I can see it in the way his eyes dart, the panic rising behind them.

"N-no official documents, Your Majesty," he admits, his voice tight. "But I swear, he's the real thing. He healed—"

"So you abandoned your post," Thaddeon cuts him off, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You left the soldiers under your command to escort someone who could just as easily be an assassin—straight to your king." His tone is cold and accusing.

I watch the exchange unfold, confused and increasingly uneasy by how quickly it's escalating. Skepticism toward us would be natural—but the king's visible frailty, the sweat beading on his brow, and the irrational level of anger and paranoia suggest more than just a man under severe stress. He may be unwell.

Then his piercing gaze shifts to me. At his words, the royal guards turn in unison, hands drifting to the hilts of their blades and the grips of their firearms. His voice drops to a chill-inducing whisper.

"You know... I've met Edric's real son before," Thaddeon says, stepping back with a smirk curling across his face. A cold shiver races down my spine. "And he has blond hair."

A heavy, tense silence follows. Daniels slowly turns his head toward me, the terrifying realization etched across his face.

At the same time, the royal guards fan out, encircling us. Every path of peaceful retreat is now sealed.

"Was this part of your brilliant plan, Ren?" Shadow quips in my head.

"Good luck talking your way out of this one, kid."

Don't panic. I can figure this out, I think to the others. Though, if I'm being honest, I have no idea how... yet. Still, there's always a solution—the trick is finding it. There has to be something I can say or do to defuse the situation. Some weakness to exploit... or a problem I can solve that turns this to my advantage.

I scan the room desperately for inspiration—something I can use.

I rapidly cycle through different enchantments, shifting how I see the room and the castle beyond it. Threat detection offers no new insight; I can already see the twenty Hyperion guards surrounding us with weapons at the ready.

Magic sense is no better. It's mildly interesting that the king is one of only two people in this entire castle with any magical capacity. The second is a young man, currently lying in bed in another wing of the castle. Not exactly helpful.

A material analysis of the fortress's construction offers a few critiques of their building methods, but nothing I can use. Leveling the royal castle is unlikely to improve our situation. My mind races ahead, grasping at anything—no matter how improbable—in a desperate search for a solution.

Willow, to her credit, remains utterly unconcerned, while Maribel and Shadow instinctively shift to cover our flanks.

"Mend this issue as you see fit, young master," Willow says quietly, her calm smile unchanged. "But I will not allow us to be detained."

Her words, though delivered gently, carry an immense and chilling weight. If I allow this situation to turn violent, she will leave none of these men alive.

And she could. Among them, only the king is a mage—and not even a particularly powerful one. None of these men wear armor that could withstand fae magic, nor wield weapons that could harm her. She would slaughter them with ease.

But that's not why I came here.

I came to make allies. Not to assassinate one of my father's enemies.

"Hang those traitors," Thaddeon says, with the dismissive tone of a man ordering garbage to be thrown out.

"No! Please, my king!" Shiro cries.

"Punish me, not my men!" Daniels begs.

"Have mercy, we didn't intend—" Thalen starts, but he's cut off.

"There is no mercy for traitors and deserters," the king roars.

Daniels and his men back toward us, hands raised in desperate appeals to their fellow guards.

"Please don't do this."

"We are not traitors!"

Their voices shake with fear and disbelief.

"If they try to lay a finger on us, we're dropping them,"

Just stay calm. Don't kill anyone… please.

My mind races, grasping for a solution as the situation unravels around me—slipping away like sand through my fingers. In a moment of complete, senseless desperation—just seconds from what feels like an inevitable massacre that will brand me a kingslayer and fugitive in Hyperion, all for accidentally killing one of my father's enemies—I activate my medical diagnosis enchantment.

Frantically sweeping through the castle, I notice something peculiar. Among the many minor injuries and illnesses afflicting the servants, guards, and nobles, one condition stands out. No fewer than twenty-one people lie bedridden, desperately ill—some teetering on the edge of death—struck by a serious plague I've never seen before. Beyond the castle walls, even more are afflicted. Many corpses remain unburied, all bearing signs of the same illness.

And most interesting of all: the young man I sensed earlier—the only other person in the castle with magical aptitude—is among those dying.

Even the king standing before me is running a fever, showing the early throes of the same illness ravaging his people. It seems he may be on edge for more reasons than war, famine, or Arcadian harassment—his throne may also be threatened by a deadly plague.

A torrent of memories floods my accelerated mind, racing past at blistering speed. I sift through many years' worth of combined experience—mine, my various puppets', and Maribel's—desperately searching the maelstrom for a connection, a clue, anything useful.

Then, suddenly, three fragments snap into place like tumblers in a lock: a passage from a book on botanical inheritance; a conversation with Gavin, explaining that Arcadia has more mages because it runs in our blood; and Maribel's father's saying: spatial magic has always been our family's gift.

And I can't help but smile.

Magical aptitude is an inherited trait. Meaning that dying boy I sensed ealier is likely the king's son.

I've just found the answer I was looking for. And not a second too soon.

"And those four can rot in our dungeon while we investigate who they really are," Thaddeon commands as he turns to leave.

A guard near Maribel is the first to move. He steps forward, reaching for her arm.

His hand never finds her.

In a flash, both Shadow and Maribel draw their weapons. Maribel's motion is seamless—sidestepping with practiced grace as she draws her blade in one smooth upward arc.

A fine spray of blood arcs through the air.

Then his ear hits the floor.

The man recoils, clutching the side of his head, eyes wide in disbelief. He screams, staggering back and fumbling for the weapon at his hip.

Chaos erupts before he can even draw it. More guards surge forward, blades raised to strike. Their weapons crash against the barrier I conjure just in time—metal screeches and rebounds off the invisible wall. Shadow and Maribel stand back to back, weapons drawn but still. They can sense the barrier, and they wait.

"Sto—"

BANG.

My attempt to call out is swallowed by a deafening explosion—an explosive sound I've never heard before, and didn't see coming. Pain bursts through my ears, sharp and disorienting. I wince, flinching instinctively.

When I look up, I see a guard barely four feet away. His arms are outstretched, and the barrel of the strange weapon in his hands is aimed directly at me. A thin trail of smoke curls from the tip.

He's already fired.

The bullet must have ricocheted off my barrier—I raised it just in time. Behind him, there's a fresh, smoking hole in the stone wall. From the way he staggers backward, pale and wide-eyed, I can tell the shot nearly struck him on the rebound.

My eyes go wide, pupils constricting in hyper-focus as adrenaline floods my system. A fear I don't remember ever feeling before seizes me.

I've been in danger before. I've faced assassins, bandits, and monsters. But I always knew when the threat was coming. I could see it, sense it, prepare for it.

But this… I didn't even know that weapon was there. I didn't sense it pointed at me. I didn't feel the moment it was about to fire.

Because it used no mana, it bypasses my ability to predict the threats based on the flow of said mana. The threat this weapon posed slipped past every defense I've spent my life relying on. I find myself looking down the barrel of what would have been my death if not for a single moment of dumb luck.

And that terrifies me.

That terror ignites a raw, instinctive reflex. I seize control of the barrier surrounding us and send it surging outward in a focused wave. The guards are blasted off their feet, crashing to the floor in a chaotic tangle of limbs and steel, their armor ringing against stone like struck bells.

The guards scramble to rise—but find themselves pinned, trapped beneath the invisible barrier now pressing down on them. The room fills with the frantic sounds of two dozen grown men struggling against something they can't see, each one fighting uselessly to break free.

But one voice rises above the rest.

A single, agonized scream cuts through the chaos—the man whose ear Maribel severed. He thrashes violently on the floor, shrieking in pure, animal panic as thick, black blood pours from every orifice. It oozes from his eyes and ears, bubbles from his mouth, and seeps darkly from beneath his armor. The look on his face eclipses even my own fear—pure, helpless terror.

I draw in a deep, steadying breath, forcing calm into my lungs as I watch Maribel's poison do its work. I know that toxin—refined, concentrated. It can kill a man in minutes.

I didn't come here to kill. I came to help. To earn allies.

I have to act now!

"I said STOP!" I yell over the sounds of struggling men as I stride over to the poisoned soldier.

The room quiets. Most of the guards freeze, realizing—perhaps for the first time—that the barrier restraining them poses no direct harm. Their eyes shift, not to me, but to their comrade writhing helplessly on the floor, consumed by pain they cannot stop.

I crouch, carefully picking up the bloodied severed ear, then kneel beside the screaming man. His body convulses violently, every breath a gargle of blackened blood.

I notice the king—frozen mid-motion, his arms stiff at his sides, one foot half-turned as if he'd meant to flee. The look on his face isn't just fear—it's the wide-eyed tension of someone caught in the act of retreat.

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The source of his paralysis stands just behind me.

Willow, calm as ever, wears a faint, pleasant smile. Her hand is outstretched, fingers curled slightly as if holding something invisible. I can feel it—dark, coiled mana radiating from her like threads of shadow, binding the king in place before he could run.

"We are not your enemy," I say to the king as I hold my free hand over the man writhing at my feet.

A soft green light washes over his body. I guide my magic inward, isolating the toxins, purging them from his bloodstream, and repairing the internal damage they've already caused. His convulsions slow, then stop. The look of terrified agony on his face fades, replaced by one of dazed exhaustion.

Then I pick up the severed ear and gently place it against the side of his head. With a focused pulse of green light, I reattach it.

As I pull my hand away, the man blinks up at me. His blood-slicked face twists in uncertainty as he reaches up and touches the newly restored ear.

"You... healed me?" he whispers, bewildered.

"Yes," I reply, glancing down at him. "Yes, I did."

I pause, frowning slightly.

Damn... it's a little crooked.

I take a deep breath as I rise to my feet, silently hoping he won't notice.

"We've come to help you, Thaddeon," I say, meeting the king's eyes with as much sincerity as I can muster. "Just as I healed this man, I can heal you. I can heal your son."

I don't yet know the name of the illness afflicting the Hyperion capital, but I'm confident I can cure it. And I'm equally certain this sickness is the lever I need to salvage this situation.

"You're lying…" Thaddeon says slowly. His voice carries the weight of skepticism but his eyes betray a spark of hope at my words.

"Take me to your son," I say, confident and clear. "If I'm lying, you lose nothing. But if I'm telling the truth, I might be his only chance."

My words land heavily. He stares at me, visibly shaken. I can see the war behind his eyes—pride battling hope. All I need to do is help hope win.

"Our healers have tried everything," he mutters. "Potions. Remedies. Even blood magic. Nothing worked."

His eyes narrow, suspicion rising again.

"You expect me to believe a mere boy can succeed where they failed?"

I raise an eyebrow and offer a slight, confident grin. "I just bested twenty of your guards and cured one of the deadliest poisons in existence. I'm the second prince of Arcadia. And none of your healers can compare to me."

"It's true, Your Majesty," Daniels adds quickly, stepping forward. "He healed fifteen of my men at Fort Trentwood. And he gave out high-grade potions to your people in Ravengate—free of charge."

"He did?" Thaddeon asks, blinking.

"He did," Daniels, Shiro, Thalen, and Kane say in unison.

"I did," I confirm. "And I can heal your son as well."

Thaddeon's gaze flicks between each of them, then lands on me, looking taken aback but not fully convinced. "Why should I trust you?"

"What kind of assassin comes to you with a wagon full of healing potions and gives food and medicine to your people on the way here?" Willow asks sweetly, her voice dipped in honey.

"The worst kind of assassin…" Maribel mutters dryly.

"We've come to you as allies and given you no reason to doubt that," Shadow adds in his deep, metallic voice.

I roll my eyes. "Listen, if I wanted to harm you or your men, any one of the four of us could've killed everyone here several times over by now," I say, waving a hand in the direction of His Majesty's very much defenseless defenders.

With a calming breath, I continue, "I'm going to release you and your men, and I ask that you have them stand down."

"For their own safety," Maribel adds smirking as she twirls her dagger before returning it to its scabbard.

"And I suggest you take me to your son. He doesn't have time for us to waste bickering," I say, firm but sincere.

Even before I finish speaking those words, I can see the change in Thaddeon. His prideful resolve breaks. His posture no longer suggests a man bracing for a fight. The distrust and anger have vanished from his eyes, replaced by a vulnerable sort of hope.

Perhaps it was my skills at persuasion. Though I suspect Willow may have nudged him with her subtle influence. I can't be certain.

"Okay… if you're so determined to try and cure the incurable, there's no sense in saying no," Thaddeon relents and turns to his guards: "Guards, when you rise, you are not to harm our guests."

At his words, I release the barriers holding the guards. At the same moment, Willow lifts her spell from the king. He stumbles slightly, regaining his balance as the invisible force that had held him vanishes.

The guards spring to their feet—some retrieving helmets or weapons knocked loose in the impact. Once upright, they retreat, giving us a much wider and noticeably more cautious berth.

"Thank you," I say with relief. "Now, if it pleases you, please take Lady Willow and me to your son in the east wing." I gesture over my shoulder at Maribel and Shadow. "And have my companions shown somewhere comfortable. After I've treated your son, there are still twenty others infected. This will take some time."

The king stares at me, confusion flickering across his face. "How did you know…" he begins, then shakes his head, abandoning the question mid-thought. "Hopefully your ability justifies that immense confidence," he mutters, more baffled than skeptical. Then, turning to his men, he adds, "Escort those two to the guest quarters. See that they're given what they need… within reason."

A chorus of "Yes, sir" echoes through the hall as the king turns and strides toward a side door. I fall in step beside him, and Willow glides silently behind us like a beautiful silver ghost.

Four guards follow, though they seem uneasy about having Willow and me between them and the man they're meant to protect.

Or perhaps, after my display, they're no longer sure they can protect him from us.

We pass through the doorway and into a stretch of cold, empty corridors. Our footsteps echo against bare stone walls. I notice only every other oil lamp is lit, and many side passages are darker still. Even in the lit sections, the lamps, sparse tapestries, and dusty wall ornaments show signs of neglect. Thick layers of dust cover everything—more than an arc's worth.

It's clear the castle lacks the servants to maintain it. Maybe because half of them are at death's door with this strange illness that has befallen the castle.

"They've taken us to a guest room not far from the hall," Shadow reports telepathically. "The guards posted outside seem nervous, but they're not planning anything."

"It's a pretty nice room," Envy adds. "Silk sheets, a silver hand mirror, and a fancy hairbrush."

I smile to myself. The contrast in what Shadow and Envy chose to report is unintentionally hilarious. It's fascinating how different they've become—Envy from Shadow, and both from me.

Envy changed abruptly when she bonded with Maribel. Shadow, by contrast, drifted gradually, growing more distinct from me over time.

It's strange, considering they both started as copies of me. But now, they've become something else entirely.

"So, who are you really?" Thaddeon asks abruptly, breaking the tense silence that has lingered throughout our walk through the winding halls. He turns his head toward me, his expression skeptical and searching. "You've proven yourself to be unbelievably skilled for your age, but that doesn't change the fact that you're not the heir to the Arcadian throne."

"You're right," I reply with a humorless grin. "That would be my brother—Charles Drakemore, the First Prince."

"And Edric only has one son."

"That's where you're wrong," I say, reaching into my bag of holding. "But I don't blame you for thinking so."

I dig around with a gloved hand, searching for a specific item to help prove my case. The faint clinking of potion bottles echoes from within as my fingers move blindly. I catch a flicker of interest in the king's eyes at the sound.

"Are you implying you're the second son? That he's kept you a secret?" he asks, watching me closely.

My hand finally closes around the rolled parchment I've been looking for, tucked between a few spare mithril ingots, a potion box, and one of my alternate mask designs. I withdraw the scroll—Lord Griswald's signed proclamation authorizing me by name to negotiate trade on his behalf. I unroll it and point to the part where it clearly reads Ren Drakemore, his seal pressed in wax beneath.

"You're familiar with Lord Griswald, I assume," I say. "He's a regular trade partner of yours."

"Yes," Thaddeon mutters. "He's the one who's been selling us grain at absurd markups while our people starve." He rolls his eyes. "Which makes him the most agreeable Arcadian noble I've done business with."

"Right…" I have no idea what he's talking about, but it doesn't matter. "As you can read here, he authorized Ren Drakemore—me—to negotiate the sale of potions on behalf of his domain." I tap the line with my finger. "Drakemore, as in Edric Drakemore's son."

The king takes the parchment with his right hand, studying it carefully as he strokes his beard with his left.

"Why haven't I heard of you, then?" he asks. "And why don't you look like Edric or his son?"

"I take after my mother," I say, adopting a slightly mournful tone. "She died during childbirth. My father blamed me for it and refused to acknowledge me as his kin."

"So you're a prince in name only, then?" Thaddeon says, dismissively. The tone grates on me.

"But," he adds, handing the document back, "I suppose at the very least, you're a legitimate envoy for Lord Griswald."

"I assure you, I'm telling the truth," I say, a note of frustration slipping into my voice as I return the parchment to my bag.

"If you truly can heal my son," the king mutters darkly, "your name would carry far more weight than being a prince of Arcadia."

I shrug inwardly. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Arcadia's long and bitter history with Hyperion means my title earns me no goodwill here.

"I know you didn't come to my home simply to heal my son," the king says, still looking thoughtfully ahead. "What is it you want in return?"

"Initially, I intended to negotiate the regular sale of healing potions—"

"At exorbitant prices, no doubt," he cuts in.

"I craft them myself, so I can offer them for one silver each," I reply, watching his face closely.

I'm not disappointed.

He turns to me at once, eyes wide in disbelief. "That's all?"

"No. I've come to realize this kingdom needs more than just potions," I say, voice steady. "As I traveled your lands and spoke with your people, I saw it clearly—Hyperion lacks skilled healers, the kind who can mend what potions cannot. Your farms are failing. Your people are starving."

"You may be talented, boy," the king retorts, his tone sharpening defensively, "but there's no spell that can fix what ails my kingdom."

"With so few mages, you don't need a magical solution," I say, rubbing the back of my head thoughtfully. My fingers brush something wet. I pull my hand back and glance at it—blood. Right. I'd used that hand to hold the man's ear earlier.

Gross.

"I've studied ancient, non-magical agricultural methods," I continue, wiping my hand discreetly on my coat. "I can teach your nobles overseeing farmland how to apply those techniques and help them improve their infrastructure. It may take an arc or two, but with a modest investment of time and effort, your kingdom could see major gains."

"You a farmer too?" he scoffs. "That's a kind offer—but you still haven't told me what you want in return."

His tone is dismissive, but I catch the subtle shift in his expression. He's interested. I've got the hook in. Now I just need to reel him in.

"I want a location in the capital to operate an apothecary," I say plainly. "I need permission for couriers to make regular deliveries of potions from Arcadia. I'd like to employ mages as healers. And I want assurances that the business won't be taxed or interfered with. It will also serve as my home while I assist your farmers."

"If you can truly do everything you claim," Thaddeon says after a few thoughtful strides, "then that would be the least I could offer in return."

We soon arrive at a large oaken door, framed more ornately than the others we've passed. Two guards stand rigidly at attention as they spot the king approaching. The door is flanked on either side by tall green tapestries bearing Hyperion's crest—roaring lions mid-charge, claws outstretched. An aggressive symbol for a kingdom that's been at war for over thirty years.

Personally, I prefer the refined strength of Arcadia's dragon banners.

One of the guards steps forward and opens the door, revealing a spacious study. A broad desk rests at the center, flanked by shelves of books and a number of strange, possibly ceremonial objects. Framed artworks—some strikingly beautiful—line the walls.

Without pause, the king leads us across the study to another door at the back of the room. He throws it open and flies inside, with us close on his heels.

Inside lies a sickly pale young man—older than me, but not yet of age—resting in a four-post bed with a white canopy secured at each corner. The evening light spills through the window on the far wall, casting a wide arc of golden glow across the room. It bathes the boy's bed and pallid skin in an almost ethereal radiance.

Seated beside him is a gray-haired woman in a regal, finely embroidered gown. Though clearly advanced in age, she wears it with grace. Her posture is proud, but the weariness in her eyes betrays her exhaustion. She sits in an intricately carved wooden chair, one hand gently clasping the prince's, her gaze locked on his face with mournful intensity.

As the door bursts open, she turns to face us. In her eyes, I see it clearly—a deep well of sorrow staring back at me. It's a particular kind of sadness, the kind borne by those forced to watch someone they love die slowly and in pain. That unique cruelty where prolonged suffering deepens grief, and helplessness gives rise to guilt—not just for being unable to help, but for the quiet, shameful wish that it might all just end. A guilt born of love so deep, it hurts to keep hoping… and hurts even more to let go.

"Who are—" Her voice is hoarse from prolonged silence.

"This is a healer, my dear," Thaddeon says gently, adopting a tone of kindness likely reserved only for his queen. "He's here to heal Tamas."

"He is?" Her tone holds shocked confusion, but I waste no time responding to her questioning gaze. Instead, I hurry to her son's side.

He's thin, his cheeks sunken, breathing weak and ragged. The fever clings to him, undisturbed by the damp cloth on his forehead—faithfully replaced by his mother despite knowing it does no good.

With time and a clear view, my diagnostic enchantment paints a grim picture. The virus has spread throughout his entire body, tearing through the cells of his organs. A healthy body is usually resilient—full of redundancies, adaptable and self-repairing—but his has been so thoroughly ravaged that it's less than a day from total collapse.

Pathetic. That something so small—so curable—could bring a kingdom to its knees. And yet, as I watch the virus consume his body, I realize the truth: without my training under Lady Muara, I wouldn't be able to stop it either. For all my magic, all my knowledge, I would have been powerless too. The thought leaves me humbled—and more grateful than ever for the arcs I spent under her guidance.

I place my hands over the prince's chest and focus. My mind locks onto the trillions of viral particles running rampant within him and systematically begins to destroy them.

The room falls into tense silence, the king and queen watching with bated breath. Within a minute, the virus is gone.

"There. The virus is eliminated. Now I'll repair the damage it caused," I say, letting the green light of my healing spell intensify. The prince's skin flushes with color as vitality returns to his frail frame.

As the glow fades, I pull back my hands with a satisfied smile. Tamas's eyes flutter open, and he inhales deeply.

I step back from the bed as the King and Queen rush forward and wrap their arms around their son.

"Tamas!" the king breathes, overwhelmed. "Oh, thank the gods!" his wife cries, clutching the boy tightly.

I stand beside Lady Willow, watching—not a king, a queen, and a prince, but simply a family, joyful and whole again. I'm glad I could give them this moment. And yet… a part of me aches with quiet jealousy—for the boy who has both parents and is so deeply loved by them.

A gentle hand rests on my shoulder. I glance up to find Willow drawing me into a soft side embrace. The usual smile of her façade is in place, but her eyes hold a warmth and understanding she seems to reserve only for me. I suspect she knows exactly what just passed through my heart.

She always seems to know.

After giving the royal family time to revel in their reunion, I extend my healing to the King and Queen, purging the remnants of the virus still lingering in their systems. From there, we continue through the castle. I stop at each room housing one of the other twenty infected, curing them one by one.

Some are royal retainers. A few are minor nobles who reside within the castle walls. But most are servants—ordinary men and women employed by the crown.

After the first ten, I feel a bit fatigued, but it's mild—nothing compared to the exhaustion I'm used to. I even allow myself a moment of quiet pride. To have used this much mana and still be standing... it's proof of how far I've come.

King Thaddeon follows close behind, accompanied by his guards. With each passing room, his concern grows more evident. He asks if I need to rest or if I'm still fit to continue. I dismiss him every time. Judging by his tone, I think he's starting to be impressed too.

By the fifteenth patient, I'm yawning. Manageable. I can handle it.

The sixteenth leaves my legs dragging, and I nearly fall down a stairwell. Willow catches my arm just in time.

By the seventeenth, she's all but carrying me.

The eighteenth has me seeing double—and questioning my life choices. Why isn't Shadow helping with this? Whose brilliant idea was it to have me do all this alone?

I don't even remember the nineteenth. Apparently, she looks healthier than I do.

Now I stand before the twentieth patient. He's a young man, upright in bed, sweating lightly from a mild fever. He watches me with worried eyes, clearly more concerned for my condition than his own.

"I-Is he okay?" he asks, glancing toward the king.

Thaddeon just shrugs, having long since given up trying to stop me.

"Golden," I mutter.

I place my hands over the boy's chest and begin purging the virus, just as I've done before. The spell flows easily. The last infected cell dissolves. The green light fades from my fingers.

And then… something shifts.

The floor tilts. The world darkens at the edges. My balance disappears.

I collapse into gentle arms and everything goes black.

The sweet scent of lavender and citrus fills my senses, and something warm and soft presses gently against my cheek. A soft melody, hummed by the voice of a goddess, drifts into my ears—distant at first, then closer, right beside me.

I realize I'm lying on my side. My eyes fly open, flooding my world with light.

I sit up abruptly, blinking against the brightness and glancing around as my memories rush back. The room I'm in is spacious, yet elegant—clearly a guest room within the royal castle. Tall arched windows let in streams of golden evening light through sheer, embroidered curtains. Ornate furniture lines the room: a mahogany writing desk near the corner, a polished armoire carved with ivy motifs, and two plush armchairs by a hearth now cold.

The bed I'd been resting on is of fine quality. Its thick feather-stuffed mattress is draped in a silk coverlet dyed forest green and embroidered with lions and laurel wreaths. Pillows surround me like a soft barricade, and the scent of the sheets—clean linen and herbal oils—makes it clear this isn't just a spare room. This was prepared for someone important.

To my right, Shadow and Maribel sit in those armchairs—Maribel apparently asleep, her head resting on his shoulder.

Looking back, I see the soft cushion I'd been lying on was Willow's lap. It had been her voice I heard. Just like so many times before, she'd soothed me after I drained my mana dry in training.

"Welcome back, young master," she says, her voice as sweet as her smile and her eyes match the warmth in both.

"You did well kid."

"Thank you." I smile back, then add, "So… what happened?"

"The king was impressed," Shadow says, gently nudging Maribel awake. "He agreed to let you open an apothecary. He's offering a building in the capital, and unrestricted import of goods."

"He's awake?" Maribel yawns, stretching.

"He also expressed interest in your offer to teach Hyperion's farmers," Willow adds, her tone turning gently advisory. "Though you should ask for more in return for that."

"I will," I reply.

Supportive as she is, Willow has always disliked an unbalanced deal. But I've seen more in my short time here—opportunities that stretch beyond gold or potions. Earning the king's favor is just the first step.

I won't return to Arcadia with coin alone. No—what I'm building here is something far more valuable.

"Trust me," I say with a grin. "I've got big plans for the debts we're earning here."

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