Seraphine POV
Earlier, long before the feast, before the gowns and the glitter, before the kingdom put its crown back on and pretended it still had control, there was the Mage Healer Clinic.
White stone walls polished to a soft, expensive sheen. High ceilings painted with serene murals of saints, constellations, and long-dead archmages who had never once had to deal with political disasters of this scale. Light filtered in through enchanted windows that shifted with the sun, never too bright, never too dim. The air smelled of crushed herbs, clean linen, and old magic, the kind that lingered quietly, confident in its pedigree.
This place reeked of money. Not loud wealth. Not vulgar gold. But ancient, institutional wealth. The kind that didn't need to announce itself because it owned the building, the land, and probably the healer licensing board.
