The adrenaline from the argument had faded, and now the pain in my palms came crashing back. Every movement of my fingers felt like fire tearing through my flesh. I bit down on my lower lip to numb it, but the taste of blood only reminded me how useless that was. I had to see the healer—immediately.
In the silence of the night, I moved carefully through the palace's stone corridors.
I had long since mastered how to walk like a shadow. Silent steps, steady breath, eyes low, moving without drawing attention… All of it had been burned into me through years of quiet survival.
When I reached the healer's chamber, I gently pushed the door open.
Though hesitant, the unbearable pain forced me to peek inside quickly.
The old woman was hunched over, mixing something in the dim light.
I recognized the scent—lavender, blue crocus, goldenroot…
These herbs had always calmed me, their fragrance strangely soothing.
As I took a few steps into the room, I must have made a noise—she startled and turned toward me.
Her gaze dropped instantly to my hands.
For a brief moment, surprise flickered on her face. But before she could speak, I said sharply:
"You'll tell no one."
Her eyes narrowed, but she gave a small nod.
She didn't know what had happened, but she had lived in the palace long enough to know what should be spoken—and what should be buried.
She gestured for me to sit, and I obeyed.
She examined the burns in silence. Then she hissed softly.
"These are deep," she murmured. "How did this happen?"
I said nothing. She didn't press.
She picked up a small knife and began to scrape the root of whiteveil.
Then she prepared crushed leaves, moved to the next herb—mountain balm—and did the same.
She pressed the mixture into my hands.
I flinched but didn't cry out as she wrapped my palms in bandages.
It will pass, I told myself. It has to pass.
As she finished binding my wounds, she spoke with the wisdom of someone who had seen too much.
"These herbs won't just heal your skin," she said. "They'll soothe your will."
Strangely, they did begin to ease the pain.
She concluded simply:
"There will be scars."
I only nodded and left the room.
A few hours later, the silence of the night was broken by the heavy stomping of angry boots through the palace.
And I realized—this was only the beginning.
Leoric must have spoken. Of course he did.
He wouldn't let a chance like this go.
The footsteps outside my door quickened.
Then came a voice—deep, stern, furious:
"Bring her to me. Now."
It was my father.
And then another voice followed, calmer… colder… but carrying an unspoken weight:
"No. I'll go to her myself."
My eyes locked on the door.
My whole body tensed.
The wounds beneath the bandages still throbbed as I clasped my hands together.
Each second stretched like years.
Then, the door opened.
Queen Vora stepped inside.
My dear mother.
And her eyes were full of shadows thick with rage.