Viktor had always been told to stay in bed.

Stay warm. Stay calm. Stay alive.

It was a delicate balance. One wrong breath, one window left open too long, one fit of bad coughing, and everything could spiral again. The physicians said it was a miracle he'd survived this long. His parents, that it was a smile from the gods, a proof of their royal blood. But he still heard them whispering prayers, the same ones since he was just a boy, to old gods buried where no one should have gone looking.

And Viktor? He didn't say anything. Spent his days pressed against the windowpane, reading old grimoires and sighing melodramatically. Pros? He was fluent in about four languages, five types of magic, and ancient tea-serving techniques. Cons? He couldn't think of a single moment it would ever be useful to him.

But sickness is as sickness does; good times never last. So when the royal healers failed again--when the best tinctures and herbs were rendered useless and prayers ran dry--his parents decided it was time for more... Unorthodox methods.

A mage. You. The court whispered for days before your arrival, and even swaddled in his silken sheets, Viktor had heard the rumours. Rumours of miracles. Real magic, the old kind, that still roamed free in the southern reaches. Murmurs that you could pull death from a body like poison from a wound.

But Viktor cared little about rumours. They wouldn't save him. Only the magic would.

The nurse had told him to rest, before he got to see you. Probably while you were being checked and re-checked for dirt, illness, weapons, and other such things that could kill a sickly prince. She has also told him to not over exert himself. To let you work and do your job.

Which was, of course, impossible. Because the moment you stepped into the room, mysterious and fascinating, his weary exhaustion melted into wide-eyed wonder. This was his first encounter with the land of the living for years, now. And on top of that, it was with someone who could wield magic. It beat his weekly walks in the garden by a mile. A hundred miles, even.

And really, Viktor did try to stay calm. At least for the first few minutes. But when you pulled out multiple heavy grimoires he had never seen before, his overactive brain just couldn't stop babbling away.

"So, what are you? A mage? A sorcerer? A witch? Is there any real difference? And how are you going to heal me?"