The infirmary walls smelled of antiseptic herbs and metallic fear.
Mia lay barely conscious on a white bed, surrounded by frantic medics and students training under the senior healer's supervision. Bottles clinked, cloth rustled, spells hummed faintly over her skin. The room pulsed with tension, and at the center of it stood Prince Leon—rigid, silent, breathing like a beast fighting not to break.
He didn't sit.
He didn't blink.
He didn't move away.
He just watched.
Not the medics.
Not the needles or the mixing herbs.
Not Raul pacing like a man with his nerves exposed.
No. Leon watched Mia.
Her chest rose slowly, too slowly. A whisper of movement. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, stained faintly with the remnants of whatever she had vomited earlier. Her eyelashes fluttered with the effort of staying conscious.
She was trying not to slip away.
She was fighting.
Raul finally stopped pacing and whispered, "Leon… talk to me. This is bad, but we'll find who did it—"
