The palace courtyard had never seen such a gathering.
By dawn, the banners of every district rippled above the marble terrace, the sigils of healers, apothecaries, and alchemists gleaming under the sun. Stalls had been arranged in long rows, each furnished with the finest utensils—mortar and pestle of white stone, crystal flasks, brass cauldrons, and trays of freshly gathered herbs from the royal gardens. The air was thick with the mingling scents of lavender, mint, and something sharper, fear.
Drums rolled across the courtyard as the King's herald stepped forward, unrolling the decree once more for all to hear.
"By command of His Majesty, the trial of the antidote shall commence.
Each healer shall prepare within one turn of the hour.
At the sound of the bell, the corrupted shall be brought forth for the proving."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, many healers, their robes colored by their bloodline hues, whispering prayers or clutching charms for courage. Many were trembling. Some had not slept for nights. The stakes were clear: fortune or death.
High above, on a dais draped in crimson, King Aldric sat with his nobles and council. The Seer of the White Spire stood to his right, her pale eyes gleaming like glass. "They look terrified," she murmured.
"As they should," the King replied. "Fear sharpens truth."
In the rows below, Cassian Veyne adjusted the cuffs of his dark sleeves, his movements measured and unhurried. While others fumbled with their ingredients or argued in panic, he observed quietly. His workstation was neat—a cauldron of polished copper, vials arranged in perfect symmetry, a small flask of colorless liquid resting near his elbow.
His apprentice stood a few paces away among the crowd, clutching her apron anxiously. "Master Cassian," she whispered under her breath, though he could not hear her. "Please… be careful."
Around him, chaos reigned.
One healer crushed too much of a blue leaf, causing smoke to erupt from his cauldron. Another dropped a flask and screamed as the acid hissed against stone. Someone fainted before the first hour was done.
But Cassian's hands never faltered.
He measured, mixed, and stirred with surgical precision. His eyes reflected the faint shimmer of boiling liquid as he poured tinctures into the cauldron, each swirl glowing faintly with green and silver hues before fading again. There was something rhythmic, almost graceful, in the way he moved—like a man dancing to a song only he could hear.
The murmurs began to spread.
"Who is that?" "The one in the dark coat—he's not even hesitating."
"Veyne. Cassian Veyne. From the Green Quarter." "Look how steady he is… it's like he's done this before."
Even the nobles took notice. Lord Remir leaned forward, narrowing his gaze. "That one… he seems confident."
The Seer's lips curled faintly. "Confidence can be as dangerous as ignorance."
The bell tolled.
The competition hour had ended.
Twenty healers remained—the rest had either failed to complete their brews or were disqualified for instability in their mixtures. The surviving ones stood in two rows before the throne, each holding a vial that shimmered with distinct color. Some were red as blood, others golden or blue, a few pale and translucent.
Then came the sound of chains.
From behind the courtyard gates, guards dragged in the corrupted—the infected men and women whose veins pulsed with dark fluid. Their eyes were glazed, their bodies trembling with suppressed agony. The sight alone made some healers flinch backward.
Cassian's expression, however, did not change.
"Bring forth the test subjects," commanded the King.
The corrupted were seated in a line before the healers, each restrained by iron cuffs glowing faintly with binding runes. The air seemed to grow colder as the Seer raised her hand.
"Let the proving begin."
One by one, the healers stepped forward.
The first healer—a proud man in blue robes, tilted his vial into a corrupted man's mouth. For a moment, the man's body stilled. Then, with a sudden, horrible shriek, his veins blackened further, bursting through the skin like cracks of tar. Gasps filled the air as guards rushed to restrain him.
The second healer's attempt left another man convulsing on the ground. The third saw his patient's blood ignite faintly with blue sparks before the life left his eyes completely.
By the tenth healer, even the nobles began to avert their gazes.
Only one or two brews seemed to slow the corruption, but not stop it. The King's patience thinned. "Is this the limit of Ardentis' healers?" he murmured.
Finally, the Seer's voice carried across the courtyard. "Next."
Cassian stepped forward.
The crowd stilled.
His steps were soundless as he approached the restrained man before him—a man whose veins were completely black along his arms, his breathing harsh. Cassian knelt, eyes scanning the discoloration, the dilation of pupils, the faint tremor beneath the skin.
He lifted the vial of his brew—a faintly shimmering liquid of silver and pale green—and poured it gently into the man's mouth.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the man exhaled sharply, as though the air itself had burned inside him. The dark lines along his veins began to pale, fading from black to gray, then to faint yellow. The tremor stopped. His breathing evened.
The courtyard fell into silence.
Cassian rose slowly, his expression unreadable as he looked toward the King.
The Seer's hand trembled faintly on her staff. "Impossible," she whispered.
The King leaned forward, his amber eyes burning with sudden curiosity. "You....Cassian Veyne. Step forward."
Cassian bowed slightly. "Your Majesty."
"How did you accomplish this?" the King demanded, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard. "No physician of the palace could even slow the corruption, yet yours… reverses it."
Cassian paused, meeting the King's gaze with calm composure. "I observed the symptoms, Majesty. The corruption spreads through the veins by consuming the elemental flow within. I created a counter-agent to suppress that consumption. A reversal of pattern—symptom by symptom."
The nobles murmured in awe. The word "genius" whispered through the crowd like wind.
But then, from among the council, a sharp voice rang out—a minister's, harsh and suspicious.
"How convenient," he said, rising from his seat. "That this common healer alone has found the cure none of us could. Tell me, how are we to know he is not the very one who created Veyra—the corruption itself?"
The courtyard went deathly still.
Cassian's eyes lifted toward the man, his expression unreadable once more.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
And then the bell tolled again, long and low, echoing over the city like a warning.
The trial was not over.
The shadow had only just begun to fall.