The days following the ball were a slow, suffocating siege. Lady Serena was a master of using the King’s favor as a weapon. Every afternoon, she arrived at Alaric’s wing with the King’s seal, bringing “comforts” that were anything but. She filled the quiet room with the scent of heavy, expensive perfumes and the constant, shrill chatter of court gossip.

  Lyra was forced to stand in the corner, her jaw tight, watching Alaric. He was, as always, the perfect gentleman. He listened to Serena, he smiled when required, and he never complained. But Lyra saw the truth: the way his fingers twitched against the silk sheets, the way the dark circles under his eyes deepened, and the way his breath hitching every time Serena laughed too loudly.

  "You look pale, Alaric," Serena said, her voice dripping with artificial concern as she smoothed his hair—a gesture that made Lyra’s blood boil. "I think the physician’s diet is too weak. I shall ask the King to send you some spiced wine from the Valerius cellars."

  "Lady Serena," Lyra intervened, her voice like a whip. "The Prince’s constitution cannot handle alcohol or heavy spices. I must insist—"

  "You must insist on your place, Lady Bellrose," Serena snapped, her icy green eyes flashing. "The King trusts my family’s judgment. You are merely a temporary necessity."

  Lyra looked at Alaric. He looked back at her, a silent, pleading apology in his crimson eyes. He was exhausted, and Lyra was powerless to stop the woman who was literally talking him into a relapse.

  The relapse came at three in the morning.

  Lyra was jolted awake by a frantic pounding on her door. It was the Prince’s head attendant, his face white. "Lady Lyra! The Prince—he’s burning up!"

  Lyra didn't even grab her shoes. She sprinted down the hall in her chemise and robe, her medical satchel already in hand. When she entered the room, the heat was palpable. Alaric was thrashing weakly, his skin a terrifying, flushed red.

  "He spiked a fever an hour ago," the attendant whispered. "He started calling for... for his physician."

  Lyra moved like a whirlwind. "Ice water. Now! And get me the willow bark concentrate from the top shelf of my lab!"

  For six hours, the world narrowed down to the space around Alaric’s bed. Lyra bathed his forehead, forced cooling liquids down his throat, and monitored every ragged breath. Around 5:00 AM, Alaric’s hand shot out, grasping blindly in the air.

  Lyra caught it. His grip was surprisingly strong, his fingers trembling with the intensity of his fever-dream.

  "Don't go," he rasped, his voice barely a breath. "Lyra... stay."

  "I'm here, Alaric," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere."

  He didn't let go. Even as his breathing slowed and the fever began to break, his hand remained locked around hers. Lyra sat on the floor, her arm stretched awkwardly across the mattress, holding him back from the edge of the abyss. Eventually, the exhaustion of the days of Serena’s siege and the night’s battle won. Lyra’s head drifted down to the edge of the bed, her fingers still entwined with the Prince’s.

  The first light of dawn crept through the tall windows, painting the room in soft hues of gold and lilac.

  Alaric woke slowly. The heavy fog in his brain had cleared, replaced by a cool, calm clarity. He felt a weight on his hand and turned his head.

  He froze. Lyra was asleep right beside him. Her midnight-blue hair was a tangled mess over the white sheets, and her face, usually so guarded and professional, looked soft and vulnerable in sleep. Her hand was still holding his, her grip firm even in slumber.

  A wave of tenderness so intense it felt like physical pain washed over Alaric. He realized she had stayed all night. She had fought for him while he was lost in the dark.

  Moving with agonizing slowness so as not to wake her, Alaric reached out with his free hand. He grabbed the corner of his heavy silk duvet and gently, painstakingly draped it over Lyra’s shoulders to shield her from the morning chill. He lingered for a moment, his fingers hovering just an inch above her cheek, his crimson eyes tracing every line of her face.

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  "Thank you, Lyra," he whispered to the silent room.

  Lyra stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. For a second, she was just Lyra—disoriented and sleepy. Then, she realized where she was.

  She bolted upright, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled Alaric’s fever. "Your Highness! I... I apologize! I must have drifted off. I should have been checking your temperature—"

  "Lyra," Alaric interrupted, his voice soft but steady. He didn't let go of her hand. "The fever is gone. I feel... better than I have in years."

  Lyra stopped rambling, her gaze falling to their joined hands and then to the duvet he had tucked around her. The blush deepened, reaching all the way to her collarbone. She was the genius physician, the master of logic, but in the face of Alaric’s gentle, devoted gaze, she was completely speechless.

  "You held my hand all night," he said, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips.

  "It was... a medical necessity," Lyra squeaked, though her heart was thumping so loudly she was sure the entire palace could hear it.

  "Then I think," Alaric said, his thumb lightly grazing her knuckles, "that I shall need a great deal more of that specific medicine."

  Lyra practically fled Alaric’s room, her face still burning from his comment about "more medicine." She needed water, she needed a change of clothes, and more than anything, she needed to reset her professional brain before she did something as unscientific as swooning.

  She reached her private chambers and leaned against the door, exhaling a long, shaky breath. "Logic, Lyra. It was just a physiological response to a shared crisis. Nothing more."

  She had just reached for her washbasin, unbuttoning the high collar of her robe, when her door didn't just open—it rebounded against the wall.

  "LADY BELLROSE! I have been abandoned! I have been neglected! I am a hollow shell of a Duke!"

  Lyra didn't even turn around. She simply squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the edge of the table. "Lord Cassian. It is six in the morning. My door was locked."

  "Locks are for people who don't have urgent medical crises!" Cassian declared, sweeping into the room in a dressing gown of such bright gold silk it made Lyra’s tired eyes throb. He threw himself onto her small chaise longue, draping a hand over his forehead in a pose of extreme suffering. "Look at me! My skin is losing its luster! My pulse is... probably doing something very dramatic and tragic! I spent three hours at the ball last night being charming, and you weren't there to witness the toll it took on my delicate system!"

  Lyra turned around, her hair a bird's nest and her eyes bloodshot. "Your Grace, I spent the night saving the Crown Prince from a lethal fever. I have had zero hours of sleep. If you do not leave this room in the next ten seconds, I will prescribe you a suppository made of grinded cactus and ghost peppers."

  Cassian sat up, blinking his amethyst eyes. He took in her disheveled state—the tangled hair, the rumpled chemise, and the unmistakable look of a woman who was one minor inconvenience away from committing murder.

  "Oh," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "He had a relapse? Was it that Valerius woman? She does have the personality of a very sharp, very cold icicle."

  "Yes, it was Lady Serena," Lyra snapped, grabbing a brush and attacking her hair with unnecessary violence. "And yes, I am exhausted. So unless you are actually dying—which, let the record show, you are clearly not—get out."

  Cassian stood up, but instead of leaving, he walked over and snatched the brush from her hand.

  "You're doing it wrong. You're going to snap the bristles, and then you'll have a breakdown over a brush, and I simply cannot have my physician suffering a mental collapse. It's bad for my complexion."

  Before Lyra could protest, the Duke—the most powerful nobleman in the province—began efficiently and surprisingly gently brushing the tangles out of her hair.

  "What are you doing?" Lyra hissed, trying to pull away.

  "Being your distraction," Cassian murmured, his tone suddenly devoid of its usual theatrics. "Serena is already in the hallway. She’s coming here to demand an explanation for why she was barred from the Prince's wing this morning. If she finds you looking like a ghost, she'll know you stayed the night. If she finds you in here, dealing with my 'crisis,' she’ll just think you're being harassed by me again."

  As if on cue, a sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed at the door. "Lady Bellrose! Open this door at once!" Serena’s voice shrieked from the hallway.

  Cassian winked at Lyra, then immediately lunged for the floor, grabbing his chest. "OH, THE PAIN! LADY BELLROSE, SAVE ME! THE AGONY OF THIS... THIS RASH ON MY LEFT ANKLE IS UNBEARABLE!"

  Lyra stared at him, halfway between gratitude and an urge to kick him. She smoothed her robe, took a deep breath, and threw open the door to face a livid Serena.

  "Lady Serena," Lyra said, her voice a flat, professional monotone. "I apologize for the delay. As you can see, the Duke of Winterfell has had a... catastrophic medical emergency."

  Serena looked past Lyra to see Cassian rolling around on the rug, clutching his perfectly healthy leg.

  "Is he... crying?" Serena asked, her disgust momentarily overriding her rage.

  "It’s a very emotional rash," Lyra said without blinking.