Reinhardt moved quickly through the palace corridors, his cloak drawn close around him. Every step sent a jolt of pain up his side where his wounds had yet to close, but he forced himself on. No one could know he had gone to the tower to meet Viscount Jaesper. And before the night was over, he had to get permission from King Stephen to send Jaesper to Kael and the other wounded soldiers.
The sound of music and laughter grew louder as he approached the Grand Hall. Light blazed through the tall doors, spilling across the marble floor like a golden tide. When he entered, hundreds of eyes turned to him at once.
"Prince Reinhardt!" a noble called brightly, raising his cup. "At last you're here!"
"Strategist of the Demon War!" another chimed in. "You must tell us your thoughts on the next campaign—"
Reinhardt brushed past them without replying. His stomach knotted at their words. Another war already? He had not come here to feed their ambitions.
Then a voice rose above the noise.
"Reinhardt!"
King Stephen stood at the head of the hall, wineglass in hand, his arm draped over a richly dressed woman at his side. The King's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Come here, my son," he commanded.
Reluctantly Reinhardt crossed the room, ignoring the whispers that followed him. King Stephen gripped his shoulder firmly and lifted his glass.
"This is my son," the King declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "The prince who fought alongside the Hero and his companions to defeat the Demon Kingdom. Tonight we celebrate his success!"
A cheer went up from the nobles and ministers. Goblets clinked, silk sleeves swirled. They chanted his name. But Reinhardt did not smile. His face remained still as stone.
Tonight, he thought, I will speak to him. No more wars. Jaesper must go to Kael. The soldiers must be treated. This has to stop.
The laughter around him began to falter when they realised he was not responding. The clinking glasses fell silent one by one. An uneasy hush crept across the hall.
King Stephen's brow furrowed. He turned slightly toward Reinhardt. "You should be happy, my son," he said with a bright smile that did not reach his eyes. "Raise your glass, enjoy the night." Then he faced the crowd again and continued to praise his son's deeds as though nothing were amiss.
From across the hall, Reinhardt caught Crown Prince Stanford's gaze. The elder brother's eyes were narrow, his smile sharp as a blade. Envy flickered there; envy at the ministers' and nobles' sudden interest in the prince who had been gone for so long.
But Reinhardt ignored him. He leaned closer to the King and spoke over the din, voice low but urgent. "Your Majesty, I need to tell you something important."
The King did not even turn his head. He clicked his glass against a nobleman's and laughed at some jest. "Ask me later, Reinhardt. Let us enjoy the party first."
The smell of wine and roasted meat mixed with the perfume of the courtiers. The hall, though bright, felt suffocating. His fever pulsed in his temples. He should have let Jaesper heal him, but pride had made him refuse. Now every breath burned his chest.
The ministers crowded around, pressing for details of his "next great strategy."
"Surely you have plans for the Eastern Frontier, Prince Reinhardt?" one asked eagerly.
"You were brilliant at Blackstone Pass—how would you advise we strike first?" another demanded.
Reinhardt said nothing. His hands curled at his sides. His eyes stayed fixed on the King, waiting for a moment when he would not be distracted by the mistresses clinging to his arms or the sycophants bending at his feet. But Stephen only laughed louder, raising another toast, already lost in the celebration.
Reinhardt's vision blurred. He steadied himself against the table. They feast and plan while Kael lies bleeding, he thought bitterly. This kingdom is rotting from its heart.
The music swelled again. Around him the party resumed as though nothing had happened. But inside Reinhardt, the resolve that had been growing since the war sharpened like a blade.
The music and laughter in the Grand Hall swelled, but Reinhardt had already slipped away. He moved along the outer colonnade where the moonlight cut through the windows and painted long pale stripes on the stone floor. Sweat dampened his temples, his vision flickered at the edges. The fever gnawed at him, but he would not let anyone inside see him falter.
I can't show weakness, he thought, leaning briefly against the wall. Not in front of them. Not when they're waiting for me to stumble.
A flutter of wings broke the silence. A dark messenger bird glided through an open window and landed on the railing before him. Reinhardt's heart lurched. He reached for it at once, untying the thin cord around its leg.
The parchment was stained with hurried ink. Robert's handwriting.
"Brother—Kael's condition has worsened again. His fever is high, and the wounds reopened. We are running out of medicine and blood packs. Please—hurry."
Reinhardt's fingers tightened around the note until it crumpled. His hands trembled as if the fever had seeped into his bones. He had only just returned to the capital. He had come here to secure aid. Yet still the court played at war games and parties while Kael lay on the edge of death.
"No…" he muttered under his breath. "No more waiting."
He turned sharply back toward the Grand Hall. Inside, the music was still playing, glasses clinking, voices laughing as if the war had been nothing but a story to entertain them.
He strode through the hall, boots striking the marble with each step. Nobles paused mid-conversation as he passed. Mistresses whispered behind jeweled fans.
"Prince Reinhardt?" one of the ministers called out. "Is something amiss—?"
But he didn't stop. His eyes were fixed ahead.
On the dais, King Stephen noticed his approach. "Reinhardt! Where are you going?" he demanded, voice echoing through the hall.
Reinhardt halted only long enough to give a brief bow. His voice was hoarse but firm. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. An urgent matter requires my attention."
The King raised his brows. "At a time like this? We are celebrating your victory—"
"I am sorry," Reinhardt cut him off, straightening. "I need to go."
Gasps rippled through the nobles. No one interrupted the King. Yet Reinhardt turned on his heel and strode out of the hall, ignoring the startled murmurs behind him.
As the doors slammed shut behind him, he let out a shuddering breath. The fever pulsed harder now, but his steps only quickened.
He would go to his chamber first. Viscount Jaesper had at least agreed to send a stock of potions and medical supplies to Reinhardt's room. It wasn't enough—not the amount of blood Robert had begged for—but it was all he could carry without the King's permission.
Hold on, Kael, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time. Just hold on until I get back.
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The corridors of the palace were silent at this hour, only the muted echo of boots on marble as Reinhardt slipped into his private chamber. He shut the door quietly and drew the curtains, shrouding the room in half-darkness. The fever was worse now—his skin clammy, his pulse hammering—but there was no time to rest. Kael was waiting.
He moved to the window, opened it, and gave a sharp whistle. A moment later, figures emerged from the shadows of the courtyard below and began climbing up the old ivy-covered wall. One after another they swung themselves inside, landing softly on the carpet.
Albert was the first to enter. His eyes widened as soon as he saw the prince. "Your Highness…! You're pale as death. Don't tell me you haven't let a healer tend to you?" His voice was low but urgent. "You're burning up."
Reinhardt ignored the question, moving instead to the chest at the foot of his bed. He unlatched it and began pulling out sealed vials, packets of herbs, and small crystal bottles of potion, laying them out in a neat row on the table. His movements were brisk, deliberate, as though focusing on the task might hold back the fever.
"Albert," he said at last, his voice hoarse but commanding. "Take these. All of them." He shoved the vials and potions into a large canvas bag until it bulged. "Get them to Robert. At once."
Albert stepped forward, still glancing at Reinhardt's ashen face. "Your Highness…this is urgent, isn't it? Did something happen at the front?"
Reinhardt's jaw tightened. "Kael's condition has worsened. This is all I could get tonight." He thrust the bag into Albert's hands and straightened, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. "Do not let anyone see you leave. I obtained these in secret. Take the old road through the outer stables and return by the same path. No one must know."
Albert swallowed his questions and nodded. "Understood. We'll be swift."
He motioned to the three soldiers behind him. Each of them dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. "We won't fail you, Your Highness."
Reinhardt managed a faint nod. "Go. Now."
In a blur of dark cloaks and silent movement, they disappeared back out of the window, the bag of medicine slung across Albert's shoulder. The curtains stirred for a moment in the draft, then settled. The room was empty again.
Reinhardt turned toward the door, the echo of his soldiers' departure fading. Only the blood packs left, he thought. If I can reach the physician's wing before they lock it down for the night…
He took one step, then another, but the world tilted violently. A lance of pain shot through his skull and his knees buckled. He caught the edge of the table, but his fingers slipped against the polished wood. The fever roared through him like fire. He reached for the door knob, missed, and collapsed to the floor.
The room was utterly still. No one saw him fall.
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The corridor outside Reinhardt's chamber was quiet, the muffled laughter and music from the grand hall only a distant echo. Lucy, the young palace maid who had been assigned to tidy the prince's rooms earlier, padded softly along the hall with a bundle of linens in her arms. She had been pushed and scolded by Lord Stanford earlier in the day, still smarting from the humiliation. Now, as she passed the door, a dull thump sounded from within.
She froze. No one should be in there—every noble and attendant was still at the banquet. Was that…a thief? she thought, heart pounding. She hesitated, then raised her knuckles and rapped gently on the door. "Your Highness? Is everything all right?" No answer. The silence felt heavy, like a held breath.
Her worry grew. She set down her linens and tried again, a little louder. "Prince Reinhardt? May I come in?" Still nothing.
Finally, with trembling fingers, she eased the door open a crack and peered inside. Her eyes went wide. Reinhardt lay sprawled on the floor near the table, his golden hair damp with sweat, his face pale as parchment.
"Your Highness!" she gasped, rushing in and dropping to her knees beside him. She pressed a hand to his cheek and flinched at the burning heat. "You're burning up…"
Her instinct was to scream for help, to summon the guards or a healer, but before she could, a weak hand shot up and closed around her wrist. His grip was trembling but firm enough to stop her.
"Don't… call anybody…" His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.
Lucy blinked down at him, shocked. "B-but, Your Highness, your body is h-hot! You need a healer—"
He shook his head weakly, eyes half-lidded. "No… just need… rest…" Then his fingers slackened, and his hand fell back to the floor as he lost consciousness again.
Lucy bit her lip, torn between panic and obedience. She remembered all too well how Stanford had shoved her earlier in the kitchens, warning her not to cross him. She also remembered the prince's reputation for keeping his own counsel. If he says not to call anyone… She looked at him again, so pale and feverish, and her decision hardened. She would keep his secret and do what she could herself.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," she whispered, sliding her arms under his shoulders. He was heavier than she expected, but she managed to lift and half-drag him onto the bed, arranging the pillows to prop him up. His head lolled to one side, golden hair sticking to his damp forehead.
Lucy hurried to the washstand, poured cool water into a basin, and soaked a clean towel. She wrung it out and returned to press it gently against his burning skin. "Please, just hold on…" she murmured. She fetched another towel and draped it over his chest, then refilled the basin. Her hands trembled but she worked quickly, wiping the sweat from his temples, changing the cloths as they warmed.
Every now and then, she glanced at the door, terrified someone might walk in. She didn't dare call for help. The prince's words still rang in her ears: Don't call anybody. So she stayed, tending him in silence, the flicker of a single candle casting long shadows across the chamber.
Somewhere far below, the banquet continued, music and laughter oblivious to the scene unfolding in the prince's room.