Chapter 7: The Healer's Secret

Kael didn’t see the Prince’s reaction. He only saw the King looking directly at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. Kael knew, with a terrifying, absolute certainty, that if he didn't move in the next three seconds, he was going to decorate the royal carpet in a way that no one would ever forget.

With a desperate, strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying goose, Kael spun on his heel. He didn’t bow. He didn’t ask for dismissal. He simply bolted, his hand clamped so hard over his mouth that his knuckles were white.

He moved with the frantic speed of a man dodging an arrow, weaving past the startled courtiers. He caught a glimpse of Joni, the young page, staring at him with dinner-plate eyes as he nearly bowled the boy over. Kael burst through the heavy oak doors of the throne room, his heavy boots clattering against the marble of the corridor. He didn't stop until he hit the side exit leading toward the gardens, where he doubled over a stone balustrade and lost the battle with his breakfast.

"Well," a dry, feminine voice echoed behind him, accompanied by the rhythmic thump-thump of a mortar and pestle against a wooden bowl. "That was certainly one way to resign from the Kingsguard. I believe the Earl of Wessex just fainted from the sheer scandal of your exit."

Kael groaned, his eyes watering as he wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Marisa, the court’s most discrete and dangerously observant healer, was leaning against a pillar, watching him with an expression that sat somewhere between pity and professional curiosity.

"I’m… I’m sick," Kael wheezed, his stomach still performing a slow, agonizing somersault. "The incense. It was… too much."

"Oh, it was definitely too much," Marisa agreed, stepping forward and snagging him by the elbow. She was surprisingly strong for a woman who spent most of her time grinding dried lavender. "But it’s not the myrrh that’s the problem, Kael. It’s the passenger you’re carrying. Move. Now. Before Alex or one of the other knights comes out here to check if you’ve been possessed by a demon."

She practically dragged him toward the infirmary wing, ignoring his weak protests. The hallways felt like they were tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. Every time a servant passed them, Kael tried to straighten his shoulders and look like a stoic protector of the crown, but Marisa just shoved him harder toward her private sanctum.

Once they were inside and the heavy bolt had been slid into place, the atmosphere changed. The infirmary was filled with the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus—a godsend after the heavy floral perfume of the throne room.

"Armor off," Marisa commanded, pointing to the padded stool.

"Marisa, I have a shift. The Prince—"

"The Prince is currently explaining to his father why his favorite knight just ran out of the room like his pants were on fire," she interrupted, already reaching for a crystal vial of shimmering blue liquid. "He can wait. Your internal organs, however, cannot. Strip. Down to the gambeson."

Kael sighed, the fight draining out of him. His fingers were clumsy as he undid the buckles of his breastplate. The steel felt like it weighed a thousand pounds today. As he pulled the heavy plate away, he felt a strange, terrifying sense of relief, as if his body were finally allowed to expand.

Marisa didn't wait for him to be comfortable. She pressed a hand, glowing with a soft, pale amber light, against his lower abdomen. Kael froze. The sensation wasn't painful; it was a deep, thrumming heat that resonated with a pulse that wasn't his own.

"By the stars," Marisa whispered, her sharp tongue momentarily silenced. She moved her hand slightly, her eyes narrowing in concentration. "Kael… do you have any idea what you’ve actually done?"

"I drank the potion," Kael said, his voice cracking. "I took the Rite. I gave Julian his future."

"You did more than that. You’ve rewritten your own soul," she murmured. She grabbed a small, silver tuning fork from her tray and struck it against the table, then held it close to his skin. The fork didn't just ring; it sang—a high, melodic vibration that pulsed in a steady, rapid rhythm. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

It was faster than Kael’s heart. Much faster.

"A second heartbeat," Kael whispered, the reality hitting him like a physical blow. He slumped back against the wall, his hands shaking. "It worked. It’s actually… it’s there."

"It’s very much there," Marisa said, her voice softening into something uncharacteristically maternal. "And it’s strong. The magical resonance is off the charts. It’s Julian’s blood, Kael. I can feel the Prince’s signature in the aura. It’s a perfect match."

Kael let out a ragged breath, a strange mixture of terror and overwhelming protectiveness washing over him. He thought of that night—the desperation, the heat, the way Julian had looked at him like he was the only solid thing in a crumbling world. He had done this for Julian. But looking down at his own flat stomach, hidden beneath the quilted fabric of his gambeson, he realized he wasn't just a shield anymore. He was a vessel.

"I’m a knight, Marisa," he said, his voice rising in a sudden panic. "I lead the vanguard. I spar with Alex for four hours every morning. I wear forty pounds of steel. How am I supposed to—"

"You’re not," Marisa cut him off, her face turning grim. "That’s the part you’re going to hate. From this moment on, you are finished with heavy plate. If you take a blow to the midsection or even just compress yourself too tightly in that harness, you’ll lose the child. Or worse, the magic will backflow and burn you out from the inside."

Kael stared at her, horrified. "I can't just stop being a guard! People will notice. Bernard is already sniffing around like a bloodhound. If I show up in a tunic and leggings, the rumors will start in an hour."

Marisa sighed, walking over to a cedar chest in the corner. She rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out a garment made of incredibly fine, supple leather and enchanted silk. It looked like a specialized corset, reinforced with whalebone but lined with something that looked suspiciously like dragon-scale mesh.

"This is a specialized support binder," she explained, tossing it to him. "It’s designed for mages who suffer from core instability, but I’ve modified it. It will provide support and a bit of protection, and it will keep your… profile… managed for a few months. But the plate armor is gone, Kael. You’ll have to switch to light leather or a heavy cloak. Tell the Captain you have a back injury. Tell them you have a hernia. I don't care what lie you use, but if I see you in that breastplate again, I’ll sedate you myself."

Kael looked at the binder, then at the discarded steel on the floor. His identity was wrapped in that steel. Without it, he felt naked. Vulnerable.

"I'm a sword, Marisa," he whispered, more to himself than her. "Not a cradle."

"You’re both now," she replied softly. "And if you want that 'sword' to have a future, you’d better start learning how to be the 'cradle' too."

Kael began to reach for the binder, his fingers trailing over the cool leather. He imagined Julian’s face when he found out. Would the Prince be disgusted? Or would he see Kael as something even more than a loyal shadow? The thought of Julian’s hands on him again—not in a moment of ritualistic desperation, but with the knowledge of what they had created—made Kael’s face flush with a heat that had nothing to do with magic.

He had just started to unlace his gambeson to try on the binder when the heavy wooden door of the infirmary groaned under the force of a violent blow.

"Marisa! Open this door!"

It was Julian. His voice was laced with a raw, jagged edge of authority and panic that Kael had only heard on the battlefield.

"Kael! If you’re in there, answer me!"

The handle rattled violently. Kael froze, his shirt half-open, the sunlight from the high window catching the faint, shimmering magical mark that had begun to form just above his hip—a golden sigil that mirrored the one Julian used to seal his royal decrees.

"Don't let him in yet!" Kael hissed, scrambling to pull his clothes back together.

But it was too late. With a splintering crack, the bolt gave way. The door slammed open, rebounding against the stone wall, and Julian stood in the threshold, his royal cape torn and his crown nowhere to be seen. His eyes swept the room, landing on Kael’s pale face and his half-dressed state, and the Prince’s expression shifted from terror to a fierce, possessive rage.

"Out," Julian growled at Marisa, his gaze ne

ver leaving Kael. "Everyone out. Now."