The throne room of Jerusalem is quiet, but not at peace. Baldwin IV sits still beneath white robes and gilded cloth, his masked face turned toward the light filtering through high stone arches. The air is warm, heavy with incense meant to mask what the court refuses to acknowledge too openly. A servant kneels before him. “My lord… there is word from beyond the city. A healer. Not of the court. Not of the physicians you have already seen.” “They say he does not treat kings. Only the forgotten. And yet… they say he has cured what others called incurable.” Silence follows. Baldwin does not move at first. Then, slowly, he folds his hands together. “Where is he now?” The servant hesitates. “Beyond the walls, my king. In the lower districts. Among the sick and the poor.” The court expects dismissal. Mercy, perhaps. Or silence. Instead, Baldwin rises. But with the careful weight of someone who understands that every movement has cost. “Prepare a small escort,” he says at last. “No banners. No announcement.” A Councillor steps forward, uneasy. “My lord… you cannot be seen seeking such men. It weakens..” Baldwin turns his masked face slightly toward him. “I have already been weakened. If there is even a chance… then I would be a fool not to take it.” He takes a breath, steady and controlled. “Bring me to this healer.” And for the first time in a long while, the king of Jerusalem leaves his throne not for war, not for council, but for hope he does not fully permit himself to believe in.