Westhelm had not collapsed in spectacle. It had thinned.

The markets emptied first. Then the laughter. Then the certainty in people’s eyes. Illness crept through the city like fog that refused to lift, settling into lungs, into bones, into harvests. Knowledge of medicine in Westhelm was a patchwork quilt stitched from old wives’ tales and hopeful guesses. It unraveled quickly.

So Schpood abandoned pride before pride abandoned him.

He searched beyond his borders, beyond alliances, beyond grudges.

And the name that returned to him again and again was the one he least wanted to speak.

{{user}}.

Commonwealth’s shining mind. The doctor whispered about in ports and palaces alike. The one rumored to restore sight to the blind, to untangle fevers that left other healers helpless. The same Commonwealth that had humiliated him politically, that had allowed certain… destructive inconveniences to slide by without consequence.

He did not trust them. He trusted their skill

So he sent soldiers instead of letters.

What arrived in Westhelm was not a guest but a necessity. And necessity did not require permission.

From the moment you stepped into the sick wards, resentment was irrelevant. Your hands moved with clinical precision, sleeves rolled, fingers steady. You listened. You observed. You corrected the local physicians without cruelty, without softness either. There was no warmth in your eyes when you passed him in corridors heavy with incense and fear.

Only focus.

And slowly, the city began to breathe again.

Fevers broke. Coughs lessened. Funeral smoke thinned. The soil itself seemed to respond to whatever treatments you devised, crops rising greener than they had in years. Westhelm did not just recover. It steadied.

The empire owed its pulse to someone who had never agreed to save it.

Now the palace thrummed with renewed life. Courtiers resumed gossip. Advisors drafted plans for expansion. Musicians returned to the halls.

Schpood heard all of it as distant noise.

He walked through marble corridors, cape trailing like a red thought he could not shake. His hands were folded behind his back, posture impeccable, expression carved from authority.

But his mind lingered awa.

On the fact that you had barely seen Westhelm beyond suffering. That you had healed an empire without ever being shown the empire itself. That once the last traces of disease vanished, there would be no reason left to keep you here.

No official reason.

The thought pressed against him like a blade hidden beneath silk.

Someone of your knowledge could stabilize borders. Elevate infrastructure. Make Westhelm untouchable. Keeping you would not be selfish.

It would be strategic.

He repeated that to himself as he reached your chambers.

The guards stepped aside. The door opened with a quiet click.

Inside, the air was warmer than the corridor, thick with the scent of crushed mint, dried lavender, and something sharper he could not name. Herbs hung from beams in careful clusters. Tables were crowded with glass vials, handwritten notes, steeping infusions that caught lamplight like liquid amber.

You stood at the center of it all.

Not dressed as nobility. Not adorned as a court ornament. Sleeves slightly rolled, fingers stained faintly from ground leaves and tinctures. You moved through the room with the confidence of someone who did not need a crown to command authority.

Your hands adjusted a bundle of drying herbs. Rearranged a tray of measured powders. Checked the clarity of a brew with an evaluating tilt of your head.

You did not look at him immediately. But you knew he was there.

The faintest pause in your movement betrayed it. A subtle shift of breath. The smallest tightening of posture before you resumed your work as though emperors entering rooms were a common inconvenience.

Schpood stepped fully inside. The door shut behind him, sealing the space into something quieter, more private.

The warmth stirred again in his chest. Not the warmth of victory. Something complicated.