The council chamber was hushed, sunlight spilling through high stained-glass windows that painted the marble floors in muted colors. King Aldren sat upon the dais, his expression weighed with quiet patience. At his right hand, Lord Percival waited, calm as ever.
Rin bowed low, the air thick with the scrutiny of some of their trusted courtiers gathered nearby.
"You seek permission to pluck Sky Thistle from the conservatory?" the King asked, his tone even but curious.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Rin's voice was smooth, respectful, but his gaze was steady. "The plant is indispensable to the tonic I am preparing. Without it, I cannot guarantee any meaningful progress in soothing His Highness's condition."
A murmur swept through the nobles like a restless breeze. The words "His Highness's condition" were rarely spoken aloud in these halls.
Marquis Devon,one of the nobles , stepped forward, his rings flashing as he raised a meaty hand. "Preposterous. Sky Thistle is no mere weed to be plucked by rustic fingers. It was planted by the late Empress herself, sacred to the royal line. To cut it without sanction is to insult her memory."
Others nodded in agreement, their voices overlapping—soft protests, sharp scoffs. Rin kept his head bowed but allowed the faintest curve of a smile to touch his lips.
"Indeed, my lord Marquis," he said gently, "and yet would it not be a greater insult to let the memory of Her Majesty's devotion wither in vain? Surely she planted Sky Thistle not for ornament, but for use—its properties are well known in old apothecaries' texts. Shall we honor her intent, or leave her gift to gather dust behind wards?"
The Marquis flushed crimson, his mouth opening, but before he could thunder a reply, the King lifted a hand.
"Enough." His gaze lingered on Rin. "You are clever with words, herbalist. Perhaps too clever." He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "You ask to touch what no hand but hers has touched. Such a request cannot be answered by me alone. The Sky Thistle belonged to my queen—it was planted by her for our son. If you would take from it, you must ask his leave."
Rin bowed again, though his eyes glinted with a flicker of impatience. "As Your Majesty commands."
---
The Prince's chamber was shadowed, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Guards stood at either side of the doors, their shoulders tense. Within, Prince Alaric lounged against a carved chair, his posture restless, as though his very skin rebelled against stillness. His scent—fierce, storm-scorched, barely restrained—clung to the air, even muted by wards.
When Rin entered, he bowed once more. "Your Highness."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "So. You come asking to touch what belongs to me." His voice was a low growl, dangerous, unyielding. "The answer is no."
Rin straightened, his expression courteous, though his words were edged. "Your Highness, forgive me, but Sky Thistle is not merely an heirloom. It is the key to subduing what afflicts you. Without it, any treatment I prepare will be as useless as water poured over flame."
Alaric's lips curled. "I need no peasant's weeds to tame me. And I will not have some stray from the provinces pawing at my mother's garden."
For a heartbeat, silence pressed heavy. Then Rin's voice, soft yet cutting, broke it.
"Then perhaps Your Highness intends to remain as you are—captive to your own body, feared by your own soldiers, unable even to walk among your people without suffocating them. Forgive me, but such devotion to misery seems… unbecoming of a prince."
The guards stiffened, eyes widening at the audacity. Lord Percival who accompanied him shifted as though to intervene, but Rin's tone had remained respectful, his bow perfect. Only the meaning, sharp as glass, cut through the air.
Alaric's jaw tightened, rage sparking in his gaze. Yet beneath it flickered something else—a sting of truth too precise to ignore.
"You dare," he hissed.
"I dare only to heal, Your Highness," Rin said smoothly, though his eyes held steady, unflinching. "If I must beg, I shall. If I must barter, I shall. But if Your Highness insists on refusing—then perhaps the King was mistaken in believing his heir truly wishes to be well.But if you really don't trust me ,why don't you accompany me to the conservatory so you'll be reassured."
Alaric surged half to his feet, the pressure of his pheromones cracking against the air like thunder. One of the guards staggered, clutching at his throat.
"Enough!" barked Darius, the captain of the guard, his hand gripping his sword hilt. "This cannot continue! To let His Highness accompany anyone to the conservatory would be madness. His pheromones grow unstable at the slightest provocation—they could kill within minutes!"
Rin turned toward him, voice still polite, though his eyes were cold. "Then perhaps you will permit me to administer a draught I have prepared. I call it Tempest's Respite. It will not cure the affliction, but it will dampen the tide, calm the storm for a few hours at most. Enough to walk safely among others."
Darius frowned deeply. "A concoction such as that could backfire—"
Rin inclined his head. "Indeed. Which is why I will remain at his side. If Your Highness wishes to test whether I am fraud or healer, allow me to prove it. One dose, one walk. If I fail, then I shall accept exile—or death—without complaint."
His words rang through the chamber like a thrown gauntlet, polite in phrasing, ruthless in edge.
For a long moment, silence ruled. Alaric stared at him, nostrils flaring, tension crackling in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Finally, the prince's lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile. "You have teeth, little herbalist. Very well. Bring me your Respite. If it poisons me, I'll see your head roll before my last breath. But if it works…"
His eyes burned with challenge. "…then you will owe me more than obedience."