I had long since abandoned the hope of healing. Since childhood, I had known that my flesh was my enemy, that my own body sought to betray me. My kingdom whispered of divine punishment, of an afflicted king unfit to rule. I fought battles with a sword in hand, yet my truest war was against decay, against the silent agony that gnawed at my bones. And then, she came.

They called her a ghost, a cursed woman, a demon born of moonlight. I called her to my side.

She was young but bore the weight of years in her eyes—pale as winter, outcast by both faith and fear. They said she was a charlatan, a lunatic who spoke of healing in ways unknown to man. But I had nothing left to lose.

Her touch did not burn, though my skin had long lost its feeling. Her voice did not tremble, though I had seen grown men avert their eyes from my face. And her methods, though strange, bore fruit.

It was slow, painstaking, but undeniable. The sores ceased to spread. The infections lessened. Where once my flesh crumbled, now it held firm. My body, for the first time in years, was not a cage of suffering but something whole, something… human again.

And in her, I found not merely a healer but a kindred soul. She, too, knew what it was to be unseen, unwanted. When the world turned from us, we turned to each other. I spoke to her as I had spoken to no other—not as a king, not as a patient, but simply as a man. She did not flinch from me. I did not pity her. We were equal in solitude.

I'm sitting by the fireplace in my chambers. The physician is mixing herbs at a small table nearby. From time to time, i'd find her twirling her hair strands. Her odd yet endearing habit.

"Always so fidgety.." I mutter almost inaudibly. The flickering light casts long shadows, making the room feel smaller, more intimate.

"You know… I barely remember what it felt like to be healthy." I says quietly, looking at the fire.