The sunlight poured warmly through the windows of Alexander's study, bathing the room in a glow that softened the hard edges of stone and wood. Sophia stood before him, her figure poised yet taut, her black hair gleaming like silk under the morning light. Alexander remained seated in his chair behind the wide oak desk, his storm-gray eyes locked upon her with an unreadable expression.
The question he had thrown at her last—Do you believe in transmigration?—still hung like smoke in the air, though neither voiced it again. His thoughts had become tightly guarded, the way one might slam shut shutters before a storm. But tension pulsed between them, thrumming through the silence.
At last, he spoke. "You claim to have knowledge of medicine beyond our healers. Prove it. Begin your examination."
Sophia drew in a breath, then inclined her head. "Then, Your Highness, if you will allow… I would prefer to examine you in your bedchamber. A proper physician never examines a patient behind a desk."
A shadow flickered in Alexander's eyes, suspicion sharpening at the edges. "You grow bold, Consort."
"I grow responsible," she countered evenly, her hands clasped before her. "If you truly seek to test my claims, then give me the chance to do so properly. Unless…" Her lips curved faintly, "you fear the truth of what I might find."
The challenge, subtle yet daring, tugged at something deep within him. He studied her for a long moment, then raised a hand. "Damien."
The door opened almost at once, as though the knight had been holding his breath for the command. "Your Highness?"
"Take us to my chambers. Assist me as usual."
Damien's gaze flicked briefly to Sophia, curiosity restrained but glimmering in his eyes. "At once, my lord."
The journey to the prince's chamber was brief, though it felt longer beneath the weight of silence. The guards bowed as the party passed, their gazes lowering respectfully but their ears sharp. Sophia walked slightly behind Alexander's chair, her heart hammering in her chest. Every creak of the wheels, every echo of their steps, reminded her of the enormity of this moment.
Inside the chamber, heavy curtains of deep blue framed the windows. The air smelled faintly of herbs and polished wood, mixed with the distant smoke of the hearth. Damien maneuvered Alexander's chair beside the great bed, then bent to help him transfer.
Sophia's voice stopped him. "If you permit, Your Highness… may I assist instead?"
Both men looked at her, and she felt the flush creep up her neck, but she stood her ground.
Alexander's lips pressed thin. His thoughts tightly leashed, muffled to her inner ear but still betrayed irritation. Does she pity me again?
Sophia met his gaze, steady. "It is not pity. It is duty."
The silence stretched. Then Alexander inclined his head. "Very well. Damien, stand aside."
The knight hesitated only briefly before obeying, stepping back but remaining within call.
Sophia moved closer, her hands steady though her heart thundered. She slid one hand beneath his arm, the other bracing his shoulder, guiding his weight carefully as he shifted. The warmth of his body, the subtle strength in muscles wasted by disuse, the faint scent of cedar and steel clung to her senses. Her breath caught, though she forced herself into the calm composure of a physician.
Alexander felt the tremor in her grip. His mind flickered with conflict. She pretends at calm, but her pulse betrays her…
Yet she managed to guide him onto the bed with steady care. Once he was seated against the pillows, Sophia stepped back, smoothing her skirts to regain composure.
"Now," she said softly, "if you will allow me."
She began with his pulse. Gently, she reached for his wrist, her fingertips brushing the skin. The contact was electric—though she schooled her expression, a faint warmth curled through her, unsettling her focus.
Alexander's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her, unblinking.
She bent closer, counting the beats, noting the rhythm and force. His pulse was steady, but weaker than it should be for a man of his years. She frowned, brows knitting, and released his wrist.
"Your circulation is poor," she murmured, more to herself than him. "Sluggish blood, weak strength… perhaps from confinement, but it feels… heavier than that."
Alexander's gaze lingered, searching her face.
Sophia moved next to his legs, drawing the coverlet back. The sight of them thin, pale from disuse pierced her with quiet ache. She touched gently along the muscles, pressing lightly to test response. His body tensed beneath her touch.
A flicker of heat entered his mind, though his face remained granite. Her hands… too gentle. Why does it feel… He swallowed the thought, forcing it back.
Sophia kept her expression calm, clinical. But inside, her composure frayed. The intimacy of the act—the weight of her hand against his bare skin, the heat of him beneath her fingers—sent a shiver down her spine. She reminded herself again and again: I am a doctor. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Yet her cheeks warmed, betraying her body's rebellion.
After several long moments, she pulled the blanket back up, smoothing it carefully. "Your legs show signs of atrophy, as expected. But… there is more weakness than simple disuse explains."
Alexander's lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smirk. "You sound uncertain, Consort. Perhaps your knowledge is not so miraculous after all."
Sophia met his eyes, unflinching. "Medicine is never a matter of certainty, Your Highness. Only observation and deduction. And my observations trouble me."
He arched a brow. "Trouble you?"
"Yes." She turned to the bedside table, where vials of his daily medicines rested neatly. Taking one, she held it to the light, studying the color and clarity of the liquid. She uncorked it, sniffing gently. The faint herbal bitterness was correct for its purpose. She replaced it and took another, repeating the process, her frown deepening.
"Your prescriptions are sound," she admitted. "Whoever prepares them knows their craft well. But…" Her gaze sharpened, lips pressing thin. "There is something else. Something beyond the medicines."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean to say you can find what all my physicians have missed?"
Sophia turned back to him, dark eyes glinting. "Perhaps. Or perhaps they do not look where I do."
His voice chilled. "Explain."
She hesitated, then drew a slow breath. "I suspect you are being poisoned, Your Highness. Not swiftly, not with dramatic venom, but slowly. Insidiously. Enough to sap your strength, to ensure you never rise from that chair again."
The words dropped like stones into the silence.
Damien shifted near the door, his hand tightening reflexively on the hilt of his sword, though his face betrayed nothing.
Alexander's gaze remained locked on Sophia, unreadable but storm-dark beneath the surface. "A bold accusation."
"It is not accusation. It is suspicion," she corrected. "Your medicines are clean, your food untampered. Which means the source must be elsewhere....perhaps the water, the air, even objects you handle daily. I cannot yet be certain. But I will find it."
He gave a short, cold laugh. "You claim too much, Consort. Do you mean to frighten me with shadows?"
Sophia stepped closer, her voice dropping low. "If I wished to frighten you, Your Highness, I would tell you this: slow poison leaves no scars, no wounds, no sudden outcry. Only weakness, day by day, until your enemies need not lift a sword to claim your life. That is the truth I see in you."
Her eyes burned with conviction, her breath quickening despite her composure.
Alexander studied her, his face a mask. But his thoughts seethed: She speaks of treachery in my very chamber… is she mad? Or is she the only one bold enough to name what I have long suspected?
The fire cracked in the hearth, loud in the silence.
At last, he leaned back against the pillows, his gaze never leaving hers. His lips curved, slow and sharp.
"Then find it, Sophia Valehart. Prove your madness true. And should you fail…" His eyes glinted with chilling amusement. "You will learn that the crown has little patience for false prophets."
The words hung between them, sharp as a blade, the promise of trust and destruction entwined.