The brazier flames danced along the carved stone walls as the three observers stood before the Emperor. Their cloaks were dusted from the journey, but their expressions held something warmer—surprise, perhaps, or awe.
The Alchemist, Varrin, stepped forward first, his voice low but firm.
"Your Majesty. The treatment has surpassed expectations. The Duchy's infection rate has slowed dramatically. Recovery is nearly double what it was last week."
He further added, "The people… they're not just surviving, they're remembering. Children speak of the Duchess with admiration. The Duchess's influence spreads with every healed soul."
Dorian, the apothecary, nodded along with him.
The Emperor's gaze narrowed. "And how does the Duchess carry herself in this… admiration?"
Varrin hesitated. "With restraint. She makes no speeches. Claims no miracles. But her presence commands loyalty. Even the ill seem calmer when she enters."
The Quill, Scribe Marlys, stepped forward, flipping through her journal. "I bring letters from neighboring towns. They refer to her as Mother of Mercy, and some nobles have sent requests asking if their own healers may study under Selwyn physicians."
The room was quiet for a long moment.
Then the Emperor stood, descending two steps from his throne. His voice, though soft, carried authority like a blade.
"Charity… is dangerous in the wrong hands. It weakens the fear people ought to have. But... it seems the Duchess has done what my own court physicians could not."
He turned to Varrin. "Keep observing. Quietly. I want her watched not as a threat—yet—but as a rising power. One kindled by kindness, and therefore... harder to extinguish."
Then to Marlys, "Send word to the Council of Medicine. We'll endorse the elderberry treatment for now—but let it be known it is imperial approval that makes it official."
The three bowed and withdrew, the flames flickering in a hush.
And the Emperor stared at the window for a long while.
"She thinks this is mercy," he murmured. "Let us hope it remains that."
The days following the imperial endorsement were filled with a strange, quiet sense of accomplishment. The tents that had once been packed with the sick and dying began to empty, those recovering returning to their homes with newfound hope. The camp that had been the heart of Selwyn Duchy's fight against the epidemic was now a place of solemn relief, though still bustling with the busy hands of healers.
Serena, though weary, remained diligent. She observed the progress, making sure the final stages of the syrup distribution continued smoothly. However, she could not ignore the growing presence of imperial emissaries, sending reports back to the Emperor about the camp's success, the widespread recovery, and the growing acclaim that followed.
Word of Selwyn Duchy's efforts spread far and wide, and despite the Emperor's efforts to take credit for the cure, people began to speak of the Duchy with reverence. Whispers circulated through the streets of villages and cities alike, with many acknowledging the true source of the cure:
Selwyn Duchy's perseverance, under the leadership of Dowager Duchess Serena.
One evening, as the last patients from the camp departed, Serena sat in her tent, the quiet of the night settling around her like a cloak. Her gaze was distant as she traced her finger over a letter sent from the capital—a letter of thanks, filled with formalities, yet subtly hinting at imperial pride.
"Can I come in?"
"Yes," she said softly.
Lucas entered, holding a letter in his hand. He approached, placing it in front of her.
"This came from the imperial court," he said, his voice tinged with caution. "Another letter of gratitude. But…"
Serena took the letter, already sensing what it might be. She opened it with practiced fingers, scanning the message.
"As expected," she muttered, setting it down. "More praise for the Emperor. More words about 'his swift action' and how he brought the nation to recovery." She smiled bitterly. "I wonder if they'll ever admit what really happened."
Lucia entered, having overheard her mother's words. "Mother, we all know the truth. The people knows the truth. And that's enough."
Serena smiled at her daughter. "Yes, that's true. It's just... I didn't do this for the recognition. I did it because lives needed saving."
Lucas sat down across from her. "But that's what matters now. The people of the empire are recovering, and they know where to direct their gratitude."
Serena's expression softened. "I suppose. But there will always be those who want the credit. In the end, what matters is the fact that we saved lives—no matter who gets the glory."
Outside the tent, the sky had darkened. The distant sounds of the city could be heard—laughter, chatter, life slowly returning to normal.
As more and more people recovered, the whispers grew louder, praising the true saviors of the epidemic: the Selwyn Duchy. Those who had felt the effects of the disease firsthand—whether in their own recovery or the loss of loved ones—knew where to direct their thanks.
While the Emperor may have taken his share of the credit, the people remembered the Duchess, her family, and the medical camp that had brought the cure.