Chapter 10
The Healer's Oath Part II: The Dangerous Curiosity
The letter stayed on my desk for hours, the ink slowly fading into the pale light of day. Its words had burrowed under my skin like a quiet pulse — a warning dressed as courtesy.
I could not tell whether it was meant to protect me or remind me that I was being watched.
By noon, I was back in the physician's court. The morning had filled it with a kind of strained quiet. The servants were recovering, the air smelled faintly of herbs and boiled linen, but the tension in the room remained. The older physicians worked without speaking to me. Some bowed slightly when I passed, others pretended not to notice. Their silence told me more than words could.
Ana stayed close as I moved between patients, recording their progress in my journal. Each heartbeat, each breath, each recovery — proof that knowledge, not divine decree, had saved them.
The whispers followed anyway.
"She challenges the Church's rites.""She heals without prayer.""She questions the Queen's sanction."
I let them whisper.
My duty was not to please, but to understand. That had been my oath long before I became Amethyst Celestria Rosaire.
When I finished rounds, I retreated to my small workroom adjoining the ward. There, among jars of dried roots and faded scrolls, I began testing new combinations — safer herbs, improved antiseptics, ways to cleanse wounds more effectively. I worked with my sleeves rolled high, my hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion.
Ana brought me water, her voice soft. "You should rest, Your Highness."
"I will rest when there are no more fevers," I said, not looking up.
"But there will always be fevers," she murmured.
"Then I will never rest," I replied.
A faint knock came at the door. One of the guards entered, bowing low. "Your Highness, there is a visitor from the outer court requesting an audience."
I frowned. "A visitor? Did he give his name?"
"No, Your Highness. Only that he carries the crest of House Valleria."
The letter's words flashed in my mind.
I straightened slowly. "Show him to the receiving room."
The receiving room in the Northern Wing was modest compared to the Queen's halls, smaller, quieter, with walls lined by fading tapestries of the Valemont moons. I waited by the window as footsteps echoed down the corridor.
The man who entered was tall, his cloak still damp from the rain. He moved with a soldier's precision, no hesitation, no wasted motion. When he bowed, it was sharp and practiced.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice low and calm. "I come at the behest of Duke Lucien Devereux Valleria."
The name filled the air like frost.
"Rise," I said softly. "What business does the Duke have with me?"
He straightened, and for the first time, I saw the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were a storm-gray that reminded me of the man who had once watched me from across the courtyard, cold, assessing, unreadable.
"The Duke has heard of your work in the physician court," the man said. "He wishes to understand your methods."
I tilted my head slightly. "Understand," I repeated. "Or evaluate?"
The faintest trace of amusement flickered in his expression. "He wishes to ensure your knowledge does not put you in danger."
"My knowledge," I said quietly, "has already put me in danger."
Without another word, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered pale blue under the light. He set it gently upon the table between us.
"This was drawn from a patient in the western quarter of Valleria," he said. "No one could determine its cause. My Duke believes you might succeed where others failed."
I stepped closer, studying the vial. The scent that rose from it was faintly metallic, laced with something sweet... too sweet. My instincts tightened.
"This is no illness," I said after a moment. "This is deliberate."
The messenger raised a brow. "Deliberate?"
"Poison," I replied. "Crafted with precision. Whoever made it understands the body well, too well."
He regarded me in silence for several seconds, then said softly, "The Duke expected that answer."
I looked up sharply. "Expected it?"
"He said," the man continued, "that you would see what others overlook. He also said that knowledge, when held too tightly, can burn its keeper."
My lips curved faintly. "Then perhaps he should worry about his own hands."
The messenger's eyes glinted. "I will tell him you said that."
"Do," I said, reaching for the vial and sealing it back. "And tell him this as well: I do not wield knowledge carelessly. Only courageously."
The man inclined his head slightly, almost like a bow of respect. "The Duke will be... intrigued."
He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, I asked, "Why send me this? What does the Duke gain by testing me?"
He paused, looking back just once. "The Duke values what others fear. Perhaps he wants to know whether you are a danger worth watching."
The door closed behind him, and silence swallowed the room once more.
I stared at the vial, its blue shimmer reflecting the light of the hearth.
A test, then.
Or a conversation without words.
Lucien Devereux Valleria — a man who had never met me, yet had already chosen to measure the depth of my resolve.
So be it.
I placed the vial on my desk beside the letter, the crest of the hawk catching the faint light. "If curiosity drives me," I whispered, echoing his words, "then let it be dangerous."
That night, the rain fell heavily. I stood by the window, watching the drops race down the glass in silver threads. The vial glimmered faintly beside the candle flame, its light shifting between blue and white, between warning and promise.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the city — deep, low, like the growl of something ancient.
In another world, perhaps, I would have been content to heal quietly. But this world had made medicine an act of rebellion.
And rebellion, I was learning, was the truest form of healing.
______________________
Far beyond the palace, in the vast study of the Valleria estate, a fire burned against the rain.
Lucien Devereux stood before it, tall and still, a shadow framed by gold and flame. His aide knelt nearby, cloak damp and eyes lowered.
"She examined the sample within minutes, my lord," he reported. "Declared it poison. Deliberate, crafted, not natural. And when I told her that curiosity can be dangerous, she said—" He hesitated.
Lucien's gaze flicked toward him. "Speak."
"She said, 'I have never used knowledge carelessly. Only courageously.'"
A pause. Then Lucien exhaled, the faintest sound of thought or amusement. "Courage and intellect in one woman," he murmured. "A rare and volatile thing."
He turned toward the window, watching the rain trace the glass. "Tell the brotherhood the princess has passed the test."
"Yes, my lord."
"And the next step?" the aide asked quietly.
Lucien's reflection in the window shifted, the faintest curl of a smile at his lips. "We watch," he said. "For now. If her flame grows too bright, we will decide whether to shield it... or snuff it out."
In the Northern Wing, the same storm raged outside my window. I sat with the candle burning low, its flame trembling like the pulse of my thoughts.
The vial gleamed softly beside my notes.
Knowledge was dangerous. But ignorance? That was death.
I picked up my pen and began to write.
Poison: synthetic origin. Not from plants of Rosaire. Possibly derived from metallic compounds. Source unknown.
Hypothesis: the capital's water or trade routes are being used to test contaminants. Connection to lead poisoning in palace suspected.
My hand trembled slightly as I underlined the last word. Suspected.
The storm outside cracked in two, thunder splitting the night.
So it begins, I thought.
Not faith.Not miracles.Only truth — sharp, quiet, and patient as a blade.