Night had barely settled when the Emperor summoned the palace healer.
The eunuch's voice echoed softly through the corridor, and within moments, the old healer arrived, his medicine box clutched tightly in both hands. Years of service had bent his back, but his eyes were still sharp—eyes that had seen too many lives slip away to illness.
The Emperor stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"Fourteen days have passed," he said without turning around. His voice was calm, but the stillness around him felt heavy. "You will examine the Empress again."
The healer stiffened.
"…Your Majesty," he said carefully, lowering his head, "the plague is not an ordinary illness."
The Emperor finally turned, his gaze sharp enough to make the old man's breath hitch.
"Speak."
The healer swallowed. "In all my years, very few have survived it. And Her Majesty's condition at the time—high fever, irregular pulse, extreme weakness—those were… dangerous signs."
