The medical wing of the palace felt different in the morning light—quieter, heavier, as if the very walls understood the weight of what had happened. Lucas and Lucy sat on opposite sides of their mother's bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest with the desperate attention of people clinging to hope.
Vivian Grey lay still as carved stone, her usually animated face peaceful but empty. There were no bruises, no cuts, no visible signs of violence. She looked like she might wake up at any moment and ask why they were both staring at her like she'd grown a second head.
The healer finished her examination and straightened, her expression troubled. She was an older woman with graying hair and hands that glowed faintly with healing energy, someone who'd spent decades mending the injuries of Raiju's warriors and citizens.
"Your mother will recover," she said finally, but her tone carried uncertainty that made both siblings tense.
