The fourth morning came heavy with silence. For days, the palace lived in quiet dread, every footstep and breath measured. When the spiritual healer finally emerged from Aveloria's chamber, her hands still stained with dark residue from the extraction ritual, all eyes turned toward her.
The king was the first to speak. "Is it done?"
The healer, a gray-haired woman with sharp eyes, nodded slowly. "The poison has been drawn out completely. It was powerful, crafted with blood magic, but it no longer lives inside her. Her pulse is steady. Her spirit is healing. She will wake soon."
A murmur of relief swept through the gathered physicians and relatives. Alaric, the king, exhaled for the first time in days. "Thank the Moon," he whispered, pressing a hand to his chest. "She's fought harder than any of us imagined."
