The hall of Aurealis trembled with voices. Pillars carved with the histories of kings stood scarred by time, banners sagged under the weight of dust, and yet the chamber was alive with fury. The air itself seemed thick, charged, as if the Fog had seeped into the stone and whispered to every angry throat.
Lysander stood at the center of the semicircle, the lone figure in physician's garb among robes of magistrates, armor of generals, and the glitter of noble jewelry. His satchel of instruments hung at his side like a relic of a gentler war. He had washed his hands a dozen times before coming, but still they bore faint stains—blood, soot, the gray smear left by a dying patient's touch.
They had summoned him here to answer.
"You abandoned the eastern quarter," roared Duke Veymar, his scarred knuckles gripping the edge of the marble table. "Ten thousand souls left to the Fog. Ten thousand!"
Murmurs spread like a tide. A priestess of the Dawn raised her thin arm, gold bangles clinking. "And the sanctuaries? You rationed healing only to those you deemed… recoverable." She spat the last word as though it were poison.
Lysander did not flinch. His voice, though quiet, cut through the din. "I did what was necessary. The Fog is not conquered by sentiment. To waste poultices on those beyond recall would have doomed the rest."
The hall erupted. Some shouted pragmatist! Others hissed butcher. His defenders were few and hushed: a councilor whispering of his victories in containment, a scholar citing his data on infection curves. But their words drowned beneath the tide of outrage.
In the shadows of the highest gallery, she sat. The Empress of the Southern Throne, veiled in silks dark as midnight, eyes reflecting every torch like coals in winter snow. She had come not to judge but to weigh, to study this man whom the world cursed and yet could not dismiss.
Lysander felt her gaze, a cool pressure between his shoulder blades, steadier than the fury of dukes or the disdain of priests. He ignored it—for now.
"Necessary?" thundered another voice. It was the High Marshal, gray-bearded and iron-backed. "You speak as though necessity absolves. Tell us, physician, how do you measure the worth of a soul? Do you tally them like coin?"
Lysander's hand trembled on the satchel. He forced stillness. "I measure by survival. One life that breathes tomorrow is a greater weight than ten corpses clung to in denial. If you would have me condemned for sparing who could be spared, then condemn me. But know this—" His voice sharpened, iron wrapped in sorrow. "Your thrones and temples will burn if you cling to illusion. The Fog adapts. It feeds on fear, on the cries of the dying. And if we continue with rituals and prayers instead of science and strategy, all of Aurealis will be ash before the year is done."
Silence fell, heavy and raw. For the first time, even the most venomous lords paused. His words did not soothe—they struck, harsh and unornamented, but undeniable.
It was then that the child stirred.
From the corner where she sat, small and thin as a reed, hair a tangled crown of dusk, the girl rose. Her presence had been tolerated as a curiosity—Lysander's ward, found in the ruins, marked yet lucid. She had said little these past days, eyes unfocused, as though listening to voices none could hear.
Now she stepped forward. No guards moved; they stared, transfixed. The girl's bare feet slapped the marble, echoing in unnatural rhythm. Her gaze fixed not on the nobles but on the air above them, as if she saw something vast looming.
Her voice rang, high and clear. "The Heart awakens."
Gasps rippled. A duke clutched his medallion, a priestess muttered prayers.
The girl lifted a trembling hand. "Not yet… but soon. When the moons bleed together. The Heart will rise. And the Breath will judge."
Her pupils dilated, swallowing the iris until her eyes were nearly black. She swayed. Lysander rushed forward, catching her before she collapsed. Her skin burned cold as winter stone.
Whispers cascaded through the chamber. "Prophecy." "Possession." "Madness."
The High Marshal pounded the table. "Enough riddles! This is witchcraft! Physician, you bring an abomination into our council?"
Lysander held the child close, her pulse faint against his hand. He looked up, eyes flaring with controlled fire. "She has seen what you refuse to see. The Fog is not merely pestilence. It has a will. And now it has a Heart."
The Empress leaned forward in her gallery, lips curved in the ghost of a smile. No one else dared speak.
For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the ragged breath of the girl and the distant echo of the wind.
Then the verdict came.
"You will remain under scrutiny," declared the Lord Chancellor, voice clipped and cold. "Your Sanctuaries will be overseen by imperial auditors. You may continue your… experiments, but know this—should you fail, the blood of every soul lost will stain your name until the end of time."
Lysander bowed his head, not in submission but in acknowledgment. He had never sought absolution. Only survival.
When the council adjourned, the lords stormed out in storms of silk and steel. Only the Empress lingered, descending slowly from the gallery. Her guard parted the crowd like shadows.
She approached, tall, unflinching, every step a measured claim upon the marble. Lysander did not kneel. She seemed to appreciate that.
"You speak with iron, healer," she said softly, voice smooth as velvet stretched over blade. "The others hate you for it. I… find it refreshing." Her gaze flicked to the girl in his arms, then back to him. "This Heart she speaks of—tell me, can it be broken?"
Lysander met her eyes, unblinking. "Perhaps. But not with swords or fire. Only with understanding. Only with sacrifice."
A shadow of hunger stirred in her expression—not the hunger of conquest, but something older, a yearning for permanence, for a savior she could bind to her realm.
"You interest me," she murmured. Then, with the faintest curve of lips: "We shall speak again, Lysander. Perhaps not as ruler and subject, but as something… more."
And she left him standing in the ruined echo of judgment, the child's prophecy still ringing in every ear.