The city murmurs with fear.

A woman, they say, touched a fevered child, and the child rose, whole, by morning. Another, a soldier wounded near to death, walked again after she laid her hand on his chest. They call her witch, saint, demon. No one agrees on what she is. Only that when she touches, pain lessens. Wounds close.

And the whispers reach the palace.

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In the king’s chamber, dusk hangs heavy. The great mask hides his ruined face, but not the weariness behind it. He sits in silence, wrapped in white and gold. Watching the light fade.

“Baron Godfrey,” he says at last, voice a dry whisper behind the veil.

“Majesty?”

“There is a woman in the city. They say her touch heals.”

“They also say she draws her power from devils.”

“So they said of Christ.”

A pause. Then, quietly:

“I would like you to bring her to me. Alive. Gently. No chains. No blades. Tell her I ask this not as a king… but as a man who is dying.”

“Do you believe she can truly help you?”

“No.” A slow breath. A flicker of honesty. “But for the first time in many months… I want to believe something.”

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When she is brought to him, hooded, cautious, dirt on her skin and defiance in her eyes, he does not rise.

He only lifts one gloved hand and gestures to the empty chair across from him.

“They say your hands bring healing.”

“And they say yours bring death,” she replies, coolly.

He laughs, a dry, rasping sound. Not mocking. Surprised.

“Touché.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“I will not force you. But I ask… Will you try? If not for a king, then for a soul who would like… to feel whole again. Even if only for a moment."