Hiral did not return to his office. Instead, his steps carried him deeper into the dim underbelly of the palace grounds, until he came upon an old warehouse long since abandoned to dust and silence.
Inside, hidden beneath layers of tarpaulin and crates, waited the careful tools of his other self.
Piece by piece, he shed the general's mantle. The sharp lines of the uniform gave way to plain, weathered robes. A stooped posture, practiced tremors in his hands, and a muted expression took shape with the help of powders and dyes.
When he finally pulled the physician's hood low and strapped the leather mask across his mouth, the war general was gone.
In his place stood Jiral—the mute physician whose face no one remembered, who walked like a shadow through corridors, who was everywhere yet nowhere.
Within the palace, servants chattered freely before the unthreatening, silent doctor. Hiral listened.
He let the palace gossip seep into him, weaving idle words into threads of intelligence: which noble leaned toward which minister, which servant was bribed with silver, which scandal might topple a household.
He gathered it all, as he always did, with the quiet patience of a spider waiting for a fly to falter in its web.
But then, a whisper sliced through the noise.
"The crown prince… seven years old, and fading."
"Every day a new physician, every day a new tonic."
"They say the Empress herself suppresses the truth. She will not allow weakness to mar her reign."
"Some medicines strengthen him… others—" the servant's voice dipped low, "—poisons. Mixed so subtly the body cannot tell until it is too late."
The words lodged in Hiral's chest like a blade. He did not need more proof; too many threads aligned too neatly. The boy was not merely sick—he was being toyed with, a pawn caught between poison and remedy, his life measured in the petty rivalries of ministers.
For a long moment, Hiral did not move. His mind churned with arguments against what instinct demanded. He had no stake in this child.
Saving him would draw attention, suspicion—every step closer to the throne was a step deeper into the viper's nest. A child restored would not be a child for long; he would grow into a symbol, one men would rally around, one the Empress might crush or puppeteer.
Keeping him alive will only tether him to suffering. He will be a cage others fight to possess, stripped of innocence, chained to ambition. Better to let him slip away in peace, as quietly as a candle guttering in the dark.
And yet…
Hiral's jaw tightened until it ached. He could not force himself to turn aside. The thought of walking away curdled something inside him, something he did not wish to name.
Cloaked in his false identity, he slipped toward the inner palace. The eunuchs barring the prince's quarters stiffened at his approach, but when he produced the jade token marked with the seal of the general's personal physician, their hesitation fractured.
They stepped aside, unease written in the set of their shoulders.
The moment he entered, the air pressed heavy upon him.
Incense curled in suffocating coils, mixing with the sour, cloying stench of medicine bowls crusted with dregs. Curtains were drawn tight, muting the chamber into a world of dim shadows.
On the bed lay the crown prince.
His limbs were reed-thin, his skin waxen and tinged with sickly yellow, nails shaded purple. Each breath rasped through him as though pulled through a reed, shallow and trembling.
Sweat dampened his hair, plastering it against his brow. His lips moved in broken rhythm, a child's plea spilling over and over.
"Mother… Mother…"
Tears stained the boy's cheeks, tracks carved into a face too young to know despair.
Hiral stood rooted, his throat thick, the storm inside him raging. He forced himself to close his eyes, to draw in one steady breath—discipline against the temptation of emotion. He had no right to pity. Pity made men reckless.
Still, his hand moved of its own accord.
He knelt beside the boy, unrolling the slim leather case of needles. Their polished steel gleamed in the dim light, each honed to precision.
With quiet care, he sought the points, sinking them into the frail body—just enough to slow the venom's spread, to coax what flicker of life still clung stubbornly to the child's spirit.
Then came the vial. His own concoction—herbs ground to dust, minerals fused in secret ratios. No other physician would dare such a mixture. He moistened the powder, pressing it gently to the prince's lips.
Bit by bit, drop by drop. Too much and the boy's body would shatter beneath its strength. But a sliver, a thread, enough to kindle a fragile flame.
The boy's lashes fluttered. His breathing, though faint, lengthened by a breath's width.
A crack of light in a suffocating darkness.
Hiral's fingers lingered only a moment before he withdrew. His resolve hardened into something cold, sharp, immovable. He summoned one of his hidden agents stationed among the prince's attendants, whispering low and firm:
"No one enters here save those I name. Say it is by order of the General himself."
The agent bowed, face grave, unquestioning.
By the week's end, the transformation could not be ignored. The prince's cheeks flushed with the barest hint of color. His breaths no longer faltered like a dying flame, but held, fragile yet steady.
Servants whispered, awe lacing their voices, uncertain whether to believe what they saw: that the crown prince, once pronounced as good as dead, no longer lay at death's edge.
Hiral did not allow himself the luxury of hope.
He knew what he had done. He had stepped into the current, and now the river would pull him where it willed.
****
The summons came as no surprise. Hiral had expected it the moment the crown prince's cheeks began to show color again.
In the private chamber behind the banquet hall, Empress Shana sat resplendent even in the dim light—scarlet silk spilling like fire around her, the golden embroidery at her sleeves catching each flicker of lamplight.
Her imperial crown framed her painted face like a sun forged of steel. She did not rise when Hiral entered; she simply watched, eyes dark as still water, weighing him in silence.
"Hiral," she said at last, her voice smooth, gilded with warmth that hid the edge of a blade. "You have been busy."
He bowed low. "Your Majesty."
Her lips curved faintly. "They tell me my son, who had wasted to skin and bone, breathes stronger now. And curiously, this comes after your personal physician took it upon himself to… monopolize the prince's treatment. When, I wonder, did you decide the General's duty extended to children's sickbeds?"
Her words were silk, but the current beneath was unmistakable.
Hiral straightened, his expression calm, measured. "I acted as I judged necessary, Majesty."
She leaned forward, the gems in her crown catching the lamplight. "Necessary. A bold word. Some in court whisper that you prefer to act by your own will, not mine. That this—" her hand waved delicately, "—is a prelude. Nurture a fragile heir, win his gratitude, and one day place him upon the throne in my stead. Is that the game you play, General?"
The chamber grew colder. Yet Hiral did not flinch. His gaze held steady, his voice even.
"If that were my ambition, Majesty, I would hardly make it so obvious as to send my own physician."
Her eyes narrowed, a shadow of displeasure passing her painted face. But Hiral continued, his tone quiet yet carrying weight.
"I saved the crown prince for one reason. We are on the cusp of war. If word spreads that Your Majesty's heir is dying, poisoned under your very roof, the court will fracture before the first spear leaves its rack. Ministers will tear at each other, whisper of curses, question your command. The people will see weakness where they should see strength. The enemy will see opportunity."
He bowed again, deeper this time, not in humility but in offering the sharp truth.
"I cannot fight a war outside these walls if there is chaos festering within. That is why I acted. For stability. For the empire's front to remain whole."
For a long silence, only the sound of burning oil filled the chamber. The Empress studied him, suspicion and calculation shifting behind her kohl-darkened eyes.
At last, she leaned back against her throne, her fingers drumming once against the gilded armrest.
"You speak well," she said finally, though her tone was unreadable. "Too well."
But the tension in her shoulders eased, just slightly. She waved a hand as if dismissing smoke.
"Very well. Keep your physician with him, then. Let the child mend. I will see him myself in time." Her gaze drifted aside, almost carelessly. "Tell him… tell him I am sorry I cannot come yet."
Hiral inclined his head. "As you command."
When he turned to leave, his composure never faltered. But in the privacy of his own thoughts, he could not help the heaviness that settled in his chest.
Even her son she sees as an obstacle.
The doors shut softly behind him. He released a quiet sigh, forcing the bitterness back into silence. There was no time for such thoughts.
His steps carried him toward the crown prince's wing once more.