A day had passed.
Queen Marielle had prayed for the entire day.
Not a sip of water. Not a bite of food. Only prayer.
No news is good news, she told herself. Yet she was afraid to leave the chapel. Afraid that the moment she stepped outside, she would be met with faces heavy with disappointment.
Afraid to hear the words—
Unfortunately, Your Majesty…
“If I am cursed because of all the blood on my hands,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “then punish me, God. Punish me—but do not punish my son. He is only one year old. He is innocent. He has done nothing wrong.”
Her shoulders shook as she sobbed quietly.
She had given birth to Prince Cassian at thirty-five—an age considered late for a woman to bear her first child. The labor had lasted an entire day. She had lost consciousness more than once. Even through the haze, she remembered hearing the physicians speaking in low, urgent voices, asking the King whether the mother or the child should be saved.
At one point, she had felt her soul leave her body.
But she had dragged it back.
She had wanted to live.
She had wanted to see her son. To hold his small arm. To hear him call her Mother.
Not then.
Not today.
Dizziness washed over her. Fatigue pressed down heavily after a full day spent kneeling in the small chapel.
The tall stained-glass windows rose above her, their colors deep and solemn—crimson, sapphire, and gold. Light filtered through them in fractured patterns, scattering across the stone floor like broken jewels. Saints and angels stared down in silent judgment, their painted eyes unmoving.
The flame of a single candle flickered against the wall, casting the shadow of her bowed figure behind her—thin, wavering, almost fragile.
Then she heard the door open.
Footsteps echoed softly.
She lifted her head and, through her blurred vision, saw a tall figure approaching. For a brief, disoriented moment, she thought she was looking at Christ himself—broad-shouldered, hair falling to his shoulders.
But he was not dressed in white robes.
“Your Majesty.”
The man inclined his head.
Reality snapped back into place.
“Lord Edric?” Marielle shook her head slightly, steadying herself. “Why are you here?”
“Your lady-in-waiting sent for me,” he replied, pausing. “Regarding your son.”
“What about my son?” Marielle rose quickly to her feet. “He is well. I believe he is.”
“That is not what I have heard, Your Majesty,” Edric said calmly. “I am not here as your enemy. I am a physician.”
“Lord Edric—I don’t know you are —”
“Well,” he interrupted lightly, “I was more or less confined by my beloved brother for ten years. One must find hobbies to pass the time.”
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He continued, his tone quieter.
“There were matters between King Rowan, my second eldest brother Valen, and me in the past. But that is the past. Cassian carries the blood of Eryndor. I would never harm him.” He looked at her steadily. “At this point, trusting me may be your only option. What other choices do you have?”
Marielle’s pupils widened.
“It was you,” she said sharply. “You poisoned him.”
“What are you talking about, Your Majesty?” Edric laughed softly. “If he was poisoned…so many people have come and gone from the palace lately—especially with the preparations for your niece’s birthday ball. It could have been anyone.”
His smile widened, almost reckless.
“I can tell you it was not me. But I suspect you won’t believe that. So tell me—what would you like me to confess? I will repeat it word for word, if it would please you.”
Marielle inhaled slowly.
“Can you treat him or not?” she asked. “What if he worsens?”
“I have not examined him yet,” Edric replied. “Your Mistress of the Nursery refuses to allow anyone near the prince. I can make no promises.” He paused. “But from what your lady-in-waiting described, I believe I may have some idea of what is wrong.”
Marielle studied him for a long moment.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Then we will go together.”
———
Queen Marielle and Lord Edric stepped into the nursery together.
Prince Cassian had stopped crying, but his small body twisted restlessly, broken by low, strained moans—as though he were fighting something unseen inside him.
The Mistress of the Nursery hurried forward at once, relief and fear tangled in her voice.
“Your Majesty, the prince has just been given medicine. He is asleep now.”
Edric gave a short, cold scoff.
“Does that look like sleep to you?”
The Mistress stiffened. She looked up at the source of the voice, then quickly lowered her gaze again.
“Lord Edric…”
Edric laughed softly.
“I’m surprised anyone in the capital still remembers who I am.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Do not worry. I am here only to examine the prince.”
Then his gaze shifted—to the physicians standing nearby.
“But I do not want anyone present. Except the Queen.”
Marielle hesitated.
She did not want to be alone with Edric. There was something about him—something cold and unsettling—that made her skin prickle.
“Your Majesty?” Edric prompted, his eyes already on her.
“…Very well,” she said at last.
She turned to the Mistress of the Nursery, the ladies-in-waiting, and the wet nurses.
“Leave us.”
Then, more gently, to the physicians:
“You as well. You must be exhausted after staying here all night.”
One by one, they withdrew.
When the door finally closed, Marielle faced Edric.
“You have what you wanted,” she said quietly. “Now show me what you can give.”
Edric slowly opened the case he had brought with him and took out his instruments.
He examined the prince with careful attention—checking his breathing, his pulse, his skin. He said nothing for a long moment.
Then he straightened.
“I know what is wrong with the prince.”
Marielle’s breath hitched.
“What is it? Can he be cured?”
“Yes,” Edric replied. “He can. But I will need your help.”
He paused, watching her closely.
“I do not know whether you believe such things, my Queen. But the reason no physician has been able to explain his condition is because…” He lowered his voice. “The prince is cursed.”
Marielle’s eyes sharpened.
“Cursed? By whom?”
“I do not know,” Edric said lightly. “But the good news is—I have the cure.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheet of parchment. Setting it on the table, he dipped his quill in ink and began to write.
“This prescription came from a mysterious traveler who once passed through my lands,” he said. “Most of the ingredients I already possess. But there is one item I cannot provide myself.”
Marielle took the parchment and read.
Her fingers tightened.
“…Mother’s blood?”
“Yes,” Edric said. “Only a small amount. With it, I can prepare the lotion that will cure the prince.” He met her gaze. “But we must act quickly.”
It sounded absurd.
And yet—
What other choice did she have?
“…Fine,” Marielle said.
She turned toward the door and called out,
“Lady—bring me a sharp knife and a container.”
A short while later, the lady returned, flanked by two attendants, all of them visibly confused.
“Your Majesty… here is what you asked for. Are you certain you—”
“Thank you,” Marielle said. “You may leave.”
Edric smiled faintly.
“Yes. You may go.”
Once they were alone again, Marielle drew the blade from its sheath and sliced a shallow cut across her finger.
“How much do you need?” she asked coldly. “Do not tell me you require all of it.”
Edric watched as several drops of blood fell into the container.
“That will be enough,” he said, carefully taking it from her hands.
“I will return before nightfall,” he added. “With good news.”
He left the nursery.
Soon after, he departed the palace by carriage.
He did not go to his registered residence in the capital, but to a quiet house held under another name.
Inside, alone, Edric uncorked the container.
And poured the blood away.
It had never been about the blood.
He had only wanted to see how far Marielle would go—how much she would surrender, and how desperate she truly was to save her son.
It was always useful to know another person’s final hand.
