The palace was trembling with whispers.
By the time dawn had lifted its pale light across the roofs, every corridor hummed with fear. Servants avoided each other's gaze, holding their sleeves to their faces, muttering that the Empress had fallen ill with a plague.
Outside her courtyard, guards had already been stationed by the Emperor's order, their faces drawn, afraid to even glance through the half-open door.
Inside, the air was heavy — thick with the smell of herbs, sweat, and fear.
The Empress lay against the embroidered pillow, her face pale beneath the faint sheen of fever. The crimson marks across her arms and neck looked angry and fresh, blooming like cruel flowers under the skin.
The Emperor stood near the bedside, still in his morning robe, his hair unbound from training. His expression was unreadable — calm, but his eyes did not leave her once.
A soft rustle came from the door.
"The royal healer has arrived," a eunuch announced, voice low.
