Weeks had passed since the storm that was the royal banquet — weeks that felt quieter on the surface, yet charged with something uneasy beneath the calm. The palace halls once filled with whispers about the First Prince's "miraculous recovery" now hummed instead with speculation about his next move, about the Queen Consort's closed-door councils, about the healer whose name had begun to circulate among nobles as the one who tamed the Alpha of Eldraeven.
Rin ignored most of it. He buried himself in work — brewing, refining, checking on the garden plots near the apothecary wing — anything to keep his mind and hands occupied. But even he could not ignore what his body had begun to betray.
It started subtly — a faint nausea at dawn, a heaviness in his stomach that he blamed on skipped meals. Then came the fatigue, an ache behind his eyes, a lightheadedness that grew worse each morning. He found himself turning away from certain scents, especially strong ones — the musk of herbs he'd once loved now made his throat tighten.
He told himself it was the change in season, the humidity. That the sleepless nights spent studying new combinations of herbs were simply taking their toll. But deep down, the truth pressed against him like a secret he dared not name.
Rin moved through the palace corridors slowly that morning, one hand brushing the wall for balance as the dizziness crept back again.
"Master Rin?"
He turned — two noble ladies from the King's court stood nearby, their fans fluttering as they offered him smiles too sweet to be sincere.
"We were hoping to request a consultation," one said, eyes glimmering with curiosity more than need. "His Majesty speaks highly of your talents. They say even the First Prince trusts only your hands."
Rin bowed lightly. "His Majesty is generous with his praise. I'll be glad to assist if your ailments are genuine."
Their smiles faltered at the faint edge in his tone, though they quickly recovered. "How refreshing, such honesty," one murmured, before the pair exchanged polite farewells and drifted away, leaving Rin with a faint headache and an unsettled heart.
By the time he returned to his quarters, Lys was waiting, arms crossed, worry plain on his face.
"You've gone pale again," Lys said immediately. "You can't keep ignoring this, Rin. You're shaking."
"I'm fine," Rin replied, too quickly. He lowered himself into the chair, pressing his fingers against his temple. "It's just exhaustion."
"Exhaustion doesn't make you nauseous every morning." Lys's tone softened. "You need rest. And perhaps… to face whatever's making you like this."
Rin's hands stilled. The silence between them stretched, heavy and unspoken.
Then, mercifully, a knock at the door.
A palace guard stood there, his armor glinting faintly in the light. "Master Rin," he said, bowing. "His Majesty summons you to the audience chamber. It concerns the princes."
---
The throne room was alive with motion when Rin arrived — ministers and generals, nobles and aides, the rustle of silk and the gleam of polished boots filling the air. The King sat upon the dais, expression grave yet composed.
"The northern borders have grown unstable once again," the King announced, his voice carrying easily through the marble chamber. "And it is time we send strength where it is needed. Therefore, I decree that both the First and Second Princes will lead a joint expedition to reclaim the frontier and restore order."
A ripple of murmurs followed — surprise, some approval, some unease. The princes, who had barely spoken civilly since the banquet, were to lead together?
Alaric's jaw was tight, though he bowed. Caelum's face remained unreadable, his eyes flickering briefly toward his mother's silent fury at the back of the chamber.
Rin stood quietly among the attendants, trying to keep his breathing steady. The moment the announcement ended, he caught Alaric's gaze — a wordless command.
---
Later that evening, the prince's chamber was lit by the soft glow of candlelight. Alaric stood by the window, fastening his cloak while Darius packed the last of his weapons.
"You'll remain here," Alaric said without turning, his tone clipped but not unkind. "The palace will be restless in my absence. I'm assigning someone to guard you."
Rin frowned. "That isn't necessary, Your Highness. I can—"
"It *is* necessary," Alaric interrupted, finally facing him. His golden eyes caught the light — steady, unreadable. "There are those who would take advantage of my absence. I won't risk it."
Rin's lips parted to argue, but the intensity in his gaze silenced him. Something in it — protectiveness, or something deeper — rooted him to the spot.
Darius cleared his throat softly. "The men are ready, Your Highness."
Alaric nodded before turning back to Rin. "I'll be gone for several weeks. If anything happens, send word through the knight assigned to you. His name is Sir Rowan Paddington — he's loyal."
Rin inclined his head, forcing composure. "Understood, Your Highness."
For a brief second, neither spoke. The silence felt too heavy for mere formality.
Then Alaric stepped closer, his voice lowering. "You've looked… unwell lately. If you're ill, send for a physician."
Rin's heart skipped. "It's nothing serious. Please don't concern yourself."
Alaric's expression softened just slightly — so faintly that it could have been imagined. "I'll concern myself with whatever I please."
Before Rin could reply, the prince turned, his cloak brushing past him as he strode toward the door.
"Rest," Alaric said without looking back. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
When the chamber finally emptied, Rin let out a long, shuddering breath. The echo of his footsteps lingered like the fading scent of steel and frost. His hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach — to the faint ache that pulsed there like a secret heartbeat.
Outside, the horns of the watch signaled the changing of the hour — a reminder that dawn, and the prince's departure, drew near.
And though the kingdom prepared for its expedition, Rin knew another storm was already gathering — one that would begin not on the battlefield, but within the palace walls themselves.