The candle on Lady Lyra’s desk sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls of her chambers. She ignored the fatigue pulling at her eyelids, her quill scratching rhythmically across the parchment. She was meticulous, documenting every symptom of Prince Alaric, the reactions of Lord Cassian, and the steady pulse of Prince Everard.

  She paused, her gaze landing on a stack of sealed letters. Her mind drifted back to her first harrowing week in the palace.

  The very night she had arrived, after the initial chaos of stabilizing the princes, she had been summoned by the King. He had stood in the shadows of the throne room, his presence cold and suffocating.

  "I do not care for your pedigree, Lady Bellrose," the King had rasped. "But understand this: my sons are the pillars of this kingdom. If they thrive, you shall have your reward. But if I suspect you have any hidden intentions—ambition, greed, or malice—you will never leave these walls. You are a tool, Physician. Do not forget your station."

  That warning had chilled her to the bone. She realized then that medical success wouldn't be enough; she needed political armor.

  One week later, she had sent her first letter to Seraphina, pleading with her to find ancient archival precedents to prove her treatments were rooted in royal tradition. Then came the second letter to Seraphina, informing her that Tobias would accompany her for protection.

  But the most critical move was the secret letter she sent to her mother, Baroness Bellrose. Lyra knew Tobias would never leave her side voluntarily. She had asked her mother to issue a formal family summons, forcing Tobias to return to the manor under the guise of "family duty" so he could escort Seraphina. She had orchestrated his departure for his own safety and the success of her mission, a secret she kept even from him.

  Miles away, the gates of the Bellrose Manor creaked open. Tobias and Seraphina arrived under a blanket of stars. The journey to the archives had been a success, but the weight of the crates was nothing compared to the weight of the secret they carried.

  As they stepped into the foyer, Baroness Bellrose was waiting. She looked at Tobias with a knowing, somewhat guilty expression.

  "The books are here, Milady," Seraphina said, her voice weary but triumphant.

  Tobias looked between the Baroness and the crates. "The summons... it wasn't because of a family emergency, was it?"

  The Baroness sighed, handing him a small, sealed note in Lyra’s handwriting. "Lyra knew you wouldn't leave her unless you were ordered to. She needed you to protect Seraphina—and the evidence—more than she needed you to protect her body."

  Tobias took the note, his jaw tightening. He looked at the crates of ancient archives, then at the road leading back to the palace. He felt a surge of frustrated loyalty, but also a deep respect for Lyra’s calculated sacrifice. "Then we don't stay the night. We unpack, we verify, and we get these to the palace."

  The morning air was crisp and bitingly cold, the kind of weather that settled into one's bones. Lyra walked toward the palace training grounds, her breath blooming in soft white clouds against the grey sky. She wasn't just there for a routine check-up; she was following up on a victory.

  She found Prince Everard standing near the weapon racks, reviewing a series of diplomatic scrolls while a heavy broadsword rested against his thigh. He was a man of dual burdens lately—juggling his responsibilities as the Iron General overseeing the southern border and his new role as a lead negotiator for the Peace Treaty.

  "Your Highness," Lyra called out, offering a formal, deep curtsey as she approached.

  Everard looked up, the harsh lines of his face softening almost imperceptibly at the sight of her. "Lady Lyra. You are early."

  "A physician is never early, nor late; she arrives exactly when the patient is most likely to be stubborn," she replied with a small, knowing smile. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning his face with professional scrutiny. "Tell me, how is the migraine? The reports say you’ve been in council meetings for six hours straight without a single lapse in concentration."

  Everard let out a short, breathy laugh. "The pressure behind my eyes... it’s gone. For the first time in months, I can read the fine print of these treaties without the world spinning. I even oversaw the dawn maneuvers without issue."

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  Lyra nodded, satisfied. "Then the treatment is working perfectly. Your neurological pathways are stabilizing." She reached into her medical satchel and pulled out two small, amber glass vials. "I’ve prepared a new regimen. These are concentrated herbal vitamins; they will help your body manage the cortisol spikes from the stress of the treaty negotiations. And this tincture is a potent painkiller—only to be used if the migraine persists again, which, if you follow my orders, it shouldn't."

  "You speak as if I have a choice in the matter," Everard remarked, tucking the vials into his belt with a respectful nod.

  "You don't," Lyra countered firmly. Her gaze then shifted to his left arm, which he was favoring slightly. "However, you did choose to skip your scheduled application of the heat-balm. I saw you striking the targets earlier. Your form was stiff."

  Everard looked toward the center of the ring, where a wooden target bore the deep marks of his heavy blade. His practice tunic was damp with sweat despite the chill. "I have no time for balms today, Lyra. There is unrest at the border, and the diplomats are breathing down my neck."

  "The border will still be there even if your arm falls off from a muscle tear, Prince Everard," Lyra said, her tone shifting to that of a commanding officer. "Sit. That is a medical order."

  Everard stared at her, stunned by her audacity. Slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—a rare, genuine expression that made him look less like a General and more like the man beneath the armor. "You are the only person in this kingdom who dares to order a General around."

  He sat on the stone bench, unlacing the heavy leather bracers on his left arm. As he moved, Lyra felt a sudden, unexpected flutter in her chest. Up close, the Prince was a mountain of solid muscle and intensity, smelling of iron, cedar, and hard work. She reached into her bag, pulling out a jar of aromatic, dark green salve.

  "I need to apply this directly to the skin, Your Highness," she said, her voice dropping an octave as she knelt slightly beside him.

  Everard shifted, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy as he pulled the sleeve of his tunic up to his shoulder. For a man who faced armies without blinking, he seemed strangely hesitant. As Lyra’s small, cool hands touched his heated skin, both of them froze.

  Lyra’s face warmed with a deep, creeping blush. She focused intently on the muscle, her fingers tracing the line of the strain, feeling the powerful thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips. Everard’s breath hitched, and he looked away toward the horizon, his ears turning a tell-tale shade of pink.

  "You... you have very cold hands, Lady Lyra," he muttered, his voice sounding less like a General and more like a nervous boy.

  "It is a side effect of the herbs, Prince Everard," she whispered, her own heart hammering against her ribs. She looked up, and for a moment, their gazes locked—stormy grey meeting determined dark eyes. The air between them hummed with a tension that had nothing to do with medicine or treaties.

  Lyra quickly looked back at his arm, her pulse racing as she finished rubbing the balm into his skin. "There. You must keep it wrapped and avoid heavy lifting for at least three hours. Do I have your word?"

  Everard looked down at her, his expression unreadable but his gaze lingering on her face. "You have the word of a General, Lyra. Though I suspect even if I broke it, you’d find a way to make me regret it."

  "I would," she promised, standing up and dusting off her skirts, her heart still dancing a frantic rhythm. "I certainly would."

  Everard didn't move. He looked down at the balm she had expertly applied. "Why do you care so much, Lady Lyra? You could have sent an assistant."

  "I told you before, Your Highness. I do not delegate the health of my patients."

  Everard’s expression softened, the 'Iron Prince' facade melting away to reveal the boy who had lost a kingdom. "My father was like you. He used to say that a King who doesn't know the names of his smallest subjects is just a man wearing a heavy hat."

  He looked toward the high towers of the palace. "When he died, and the crown went to my uncle, I felt the world go cold. Prince Alaric was only a child then. He cried for three days—not for the throne, but for me. He thought I was sad because I wasn't King. I told him then: I didn't want to be the King. I wanted to be the man who made sure he could be."

  Lyra felt a lump form in her throat. She realized that Everard’s gruffness was just a shield for a heart that was too loyal for its own good.

  "You are a good brother, Prince Everard," she said softly.

  Everard stood up, clearing his throat awkwardly. He reached out, his hand hovering near her hair before he caught himself and pulled back, looking shy. "And you are a... very stubborn physician, Lady Lyra."

  He turned to leave, then paused. "Be careful today. Lady Serena was seen entering the King's chambers with a royal clerk. She is making her move. I fear the King's patience will finally break."

  Lyra watched him walk away, her hand instinctively touching the spot on her arm where his shadow had fallen. The cute, awkward moment was over; the war for the palace had truly begun.

  Lyra heads to find Lord Cassian. The Duke was in his private solarium, draped across a chaise longue. He was staring intensely into a silver hand-mirror, his face a mask of tragic despair.

  "Lady Lyra, tell me truly—am I ruined? Is my face a map of my own destruction?"

  "Your Grace," Lyra sighed, "the rash is entirely gone. There are only two tiny pink marks near your jaw."

  "Marks! Scars! I shall have to wear a veil!" Cassian lamented, though he stayed perfectly still as Lyra applied a thick, pearl-colored cream to his skin. "This cream contains rose-hip, Lord Cassian. It will ensure no scarring remains. You will be as 'flawless' as ever by tomorrow."

  Cassian looked up at her, his amethyst eyes sparkling. He reached out and playfully tapped the tip of her nose. "You are a miracle worker, little physician. I shall hire you as my personal aesthetician. I'll pay you in diamonds and gossip."