For a moment, Marielle felt her vision darken. She felt dizzy, on the verge of vomiting. It felt as though her heart were tearing apart.

  But she did not fall.

  She never did.

  She rushed nursery with servants hurrying behind her, their footsteps uneven with fear.

  Prince Cassian lay in his cradle, his small body tense with pain. He cried without pause, yet his voice had grown hoarse and weak, as if even sound was abandoning him. His skin was frighteningly pale—so thin it seemed the faint lines of blood vessels showed beneath it.

  Marielle’s breath caught.

  Several physicians stood nearby. When they saw the Queen enter, they bowed at once.

  “You,” she said sharply, pointing to one of them. “Tell me what happened.”

  She saw it immediately—the panic, the confusion, the helplessness in his eyes.

  “Your Majesty… I—when I was called, Prince Cassian had already developed the fever in this state. We have several theories, but his symptoms are… abnormal.”

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  Another physician stepped forward.

  “We examined him thoroughly, Your Majesty. His breathing, his throat, his stomach—there are no signs of injury or obstruction. Apart from the fever, there is nothing visibly wrong. Yet the fever will not subside.”

  Marielle turned to the woman standing closest to the cradle—the Mistress of the Nursery, pale and trembling.

  “Who has been near the prince today?”

  “No one unfamiliar, Your Majesty,” the woman said quickly. “Only those who attend him daily. We cared for him as we always do.”

  “I see.”

  Marielle forced herself to breathe. She wiped the moisture from her eyes before it could fall and turned back to the physicians.

  “Thank you for your efforts,” she said evenly. “Remain here. Do everything within your ability.”

  Then she faced the room.

  “No word of this leaves the nursery,” she commanded. “Prince Cassian is not ill. And he will not be—for long.”

  No one dared respond.

  Marielle left the nursery without another glance, her steps steady even as something inside her fractured.

  Outside, she summoned her lady-in-waiting at once, lowering her voice.

  “Quietly,” she said, “send for other physicians—those not already attached to the palace. I want their opinions. No records. No rumors.”

  The lady bowed and hurried away.

  Marielle continued down the corridor, past stone walls and tall windows, until she reached the small chapel tucked deep within the palace. Candles burned there at all hours, their flames steady, indifferent to rank or crown.

  She stopped at the threshold.

  She had never been a devout woman. Prayer had never saved her from disappointment, from loss, from calculation.

  Yet now—

  There was only one being who could help her now.

  God.