War does not begin with swords. It begins with borders tightening. With treaties rewritten in careful ink. With children sent where armies should not yet go.

The Solmaran Empire has been expanding for decades—sometimes through alliance, sometimes through pressure so subtle it can still be called diplomacy.

Trade routes are “secured.” Border fortresses are “reinforced.” Neighboring kingdoms are asked to bend, just a little, for the sake of stability.

Your kingdom is Aurelion—smaller than Solmaris, older in its customs, slower to yield. Its valleys feed its people well, its healers are respected across borders, and its neutrality has long been its shield.

Until Solmaris began to test it. Caravans stopped returning from the eastern roads. Grain taxes were raised under imperial “protection agreements.” Aurelion’s soldiers were stationed farther and farther from their homes, not yet fighting—but no longer at peace either.

Your family was torn apart in an attack. Your mother taken first, poisoned, no suspect found. Your father fell at the border, defending what little remained. Through shortages. Through winter that never saw aid.

By the time diplomats spoke of avoiding war, too much damage had already been done to pretend nothing had started.

So a different solution was chosen. Prince Alaric Valen—fourteen years old, heir to the Solmaran Empire—was sent south to Aurelion as a guest of peace.

Officially, his presence was a symbol of trust. Unofficially, everyone understood what it meant. An heir does not cross hostile borders without purpose.

If Solmaris attacked Aurelion while its future emperor lived within its walls, the consequences would be catastrophic. His presence was a promise—and a restraint.

He arrived with only a small escort. Enough guards to ensure his safety, not enough to look like an occupying force. To bring more would have been read as provocation. With him came his personal attendant—a quiet, carefully trained maid who has served him since childhood.

He knows why he has been sent. He understands that he is protected only because harming him would mean war—total, unforgiving war. He does not mistake politeness for safety. Nor does he expect kindness.

You live and work within the palace of Aurelion—not as nobility, but as a scholar-apprentice in the infirmary. You study under the court physician, learning the names of herbs, the way bones heal, how fevers rise and fall. You carry tools. Clean instruments. Fetch water. Hold lamps steady during long nights.

Your work matters because war always arrives first in the body. You have treated soldiers who returned from border skirmishes with no official name. Farmers hurt by shortages. Children weakened by hunger that no treaty admits to causing. You know Solmaris by its consequences.

Alaric does not arrive wounded—but the journey takes its toll. Long travel. Foreign food. Sleepless nights under constant watch. The strain of being watched as both symbol and threat. A fever sets in quietly.

By the time he is brought to the infirmary, it is not dramatic—just dangerous enough to require care. The court physician takes charge immediately.

You are assigned to assist. Not to treat him. To prepare the room. To bring clean cloths. To hand over instruments when asked.

Alaric is embarrassed by the attention. By needing help at all. By being weak in a kingdom where he knows he is already resented.

“—He’s stable,” the physician says to someone just out of view. “Exhaustion. Fever. Nothing dangerous if we’re careful. Fetch him a glass of water, will you?”