The tranquility of the Bellrose manor was obliterated the moment a magnificent royal carriage, flanked by four imposing crimson-and-gold guards, shattered the quiet gravel of the courtyard.

  Tobias burst into Lyra's small laboratory, his intensity bordering on fury. "Lyra! That woman—the Princess—is in the parlor. She ignored your father, ordered the staff to silence, and her carriage wheels are tearing up the petunia beds."

  "The petunia beds are Father's chief concern, not mine," Lyra replied, but she set down her fragile beaker with a sigh. "It seems my reputation for efficacy has finally outweighed my obscurity."

  Lyra walked into the parlor just as Princess Isolde was inspecting a family portrait with a look of bored condescension. Isolde wore an audacious, shimmering traveling gown that seemed designed to emphasize the manor's relative modesty.

  "Lady Bellrose," Isolde announced, snapping her gaze toward Lyra. "You are not nearly as disheveled as I had hoped. Nevertheless, my brother is suffering from Languor Cordis. I am told your methods are unconventional, meaning they might actually work. I am hiring you as a personal attendant. Price is no object."

  Lyra remained by the doorway, her arms crossed. "And I am told you are an overly dramatic sister who enjoys threats. You are offering me servitude, Your Highness, not a commission. I refuse."

  Isolde's elegant eyebrows arched. "Refuse a royal command?"

  "I refuse a private service contract," Lyra corrected. "My professional conduct demands autonomy. If I am to cure your brother, I must be given the authority to dictate his regimen—diet, exercise, and medicine. That requires a guaranteed status, not a whispered arrangement."

  Lady Rosaline entered, providing the social artillery Lyra lacked. "With respect, Your Highness, for a Bellrose to enter the palace as a mere attendant would be a tremendous loss of face. However, as a Crown Private Physician—a title placing her above the Court College—her independence and authority would be absolute. Only with that status can she effectively challenge the failed routines of Lord Elian."

  Tobias stepped closer to Lyra, his large frame providing a silent, immovable anchor. His silent scrutiny seemed to measure the tensile strength of the Princess's elaborate hairstyle.

  Isolde was initially furious, but the cunning in her eyes calculated the maneuver: the status was a small price for total control over the Prince's treatment.

  "A Private Physician," Isolde mused, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "Very well. Your demand for status is granted. Consider this parlor officially requisitioned for royal business."

  She spun and gave a sharp order to one of her guards. "Return to the King immediately. Inform him I have secured the genius. She requires the full title, absolute authority, and accommodation in the Inner Court. Now."

  Lyra found her father, Baron Eamonn Bellrose, pacing frantically in his study, clutching a decorative map of the kingdom.

  "Unbelievable!" the Baron exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. "A Princess came here! And she was so loud! And now you've demanded to be a Private Physician? Lyra, do you understand what this means? You have insulted the royal blood, yet secured a royal title! Your social standing will be utterly confusing!"

  "It means I have the authority to treat the Prince without being questioned by Lord Elian, Father," Lyra said calmly.

  "No, it means you have elevated yourself just high enough to fail spectacularly in front of the entire Court!" the Baron wailed, switching instantly from pride to panic. "If you cure him, you'll be revered! But if you fail... the public shame! The social ruin! Our family name will be associated with the death of the Crown Prince!"

  "Then I won't fail," Lyra stated simply. "I am leaving tomorrow morning, Father. Please inform the staff."

  Lyra’s mother, Lady Rosaline, intercepted her on the way out of the study, giving her a quick, knowing squeeze of the arm. "Your father is proud, dear, just terrified of the social repercussions. Go see your friends. You need fortification before facing that madness."

  The Best Friends’ Consultation

  Lyra met her two closest friends, Aveline and Seraphina, in the local tea garden—a neutral, if slightly less frantic, territory than the manor.

  Aveline, dressed in a flamboyant lemon-yellow gown that clashed spectacularly with the tea garden's muted greens, was buzzing with energy. Seraphina, in a simple, elegant dark-blue dress, was sipping her tea, watching the dramatic scene unfold with calm, observant eyes.

  "You're going to the palace?!" Aveline gasped, nearly knocking over the tiered tray of pastries. "Lyra, this is fantastic! A royal mandate! I assume the Prince is breathtakingly handsome? You must secure a noble marriage while you're there! Trade that Private Physician title for a Duchess title! Use his illness as leverage!"

  "I am going to cure his illness, Aveline," Lyra corrected, rubbing her temples. "My status is professional, not romantic. And I will not be trading titles."

  "Nonsense!" Aveline leaned across the table conspiratorially. "You'll be touching them, observing their secrets! That is the greatest leverage! Which one will you start with?”

  Seraphina gently set her teacup down. "Aveline, stop. Lyra, you will be fine. Just remember to be professional and pragmatic. But I worry about the political entanglements."

  Seraphina took a small, folded scroll from her sleeve. "This is a detailed list of the known political alliances of the Inner Court. I acquired it through my scholarly contacts. It also includes the basic genealogy of the leading noble houses. Study it. The biggest danger in the palace isn't the diseases; it's the schemes."

  Lyra looked from Aveline's terrible, comedic romantic advice to Seraphina's deadly serious political briefing. "Aveline wants me to seduce them; Seraphina wants me to survive them."

  "We both want you to succeed, Lyra," Seraphina corrected, offering a genuine, kind smile. "Just be yourself. Be the healer who ignores the drama."

  "And if you can't ignore the drama," Aveline chimed in brightly, "make sure you are the one instigating it!"

  Lyra sighed, accepting the overwhelming chaos of her friends' support. She tucked Seraphina's political map safely into her satchel. "Thank you both. I will send word when I have cured the Crown Prince."

  The royal summons arrived the next day sealed and demanding. Lyra, dressed in her best—but still practical—White gown, rode with Tobias into the capital. Tobias, grim and silent, wore his travel cloak and rode just behind her carriage, viewing the entire palace as a highly suspicious threat to his charge.

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  Lyra was immediately ushered into the sprawling office of the Chief Royal Physician, Lord Pembrook. Pembrook, fussing with his golden tassels, seemed barely able to stand still.

  "Lady Bellrose! Welcome! The King has officially granted you the title of Crown Private Physician! You have the full authority to conduct treatment as you see fit—unprecedented!" Pembrook exclaimed.

  "And now for the burden, I assume," Lyra stated, setting her medical satchel down.

  Pembrook nervously wrung his hands. "Ah, yes, the burden! You are here for Prince Alaric's Languor Cordis, but due to the sensitivity, the King deems it 'efficient' to assign you two additional, highly sensitive patients who require continuous, personalized, and non-disclosure treatment."

  Lyra felt the dread confirm her worst suspicions. "And the nature of these 'sensitive' patients?"

  Pembrook lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Firstly, Lord Cassian, the Duke of Winterfell. He suffers from a... persistent, unseemly chronic rash. He is insisting on a cure before the Grand Ball. Secondly, the Royal, Prince Everard, is experiencing severe, debilitating migraines that are compromising the peace treaty negotiations."

  Lyra stared at the physician. The most privileged and demanding men in the kingdom.

  “Lord Pembrook,” Lyra said, her voice dangerously flat. “This is a full-time disaster. I need to see the Prince immediately.”

  "No time!" Pembrook cried. "Lord Cassian demands your immediate attention! You are already late!"

  Lyra was rushed to Lord Cassian's private suite, which was heavy with the scent of perfume and expensive furniture polish.

  Lord Cassian, the Duke of Winterfell, stopped pacing the moment Lyra entered. He was magnificent, yet his features were strained with irritation and a deep-seated contempt.

  He was a striking figure, though unconventional. His hair was a rare shade of silvery ash, cut short and styled with an arrogant precision that matched his expensive silks. His eyes were a sharp, cool amethyst, framed by long lashes, giving him an inherently cynical and perpetually bored expression. Every aspect of his appearance—from his pointed cheekbones to his refined posture—screamed of nobility and effortless superiority.

  "The famed physician," Cassian drawled, his voice sharp with scorn. "I was assured a revered scholar. Instead, I receive a girl who smells faintly of root vegetables. Must I remind you that I am Lord Cassian, and my skin condition is utterly beneath your professional attention?"

  "You are Lord Cassian, and your professional dignity is about to be compromised by an outbreak of chronic rash," Lyra countered instantly, opening her satchel. "Your illness is not beneath my attention; your arrogance is. Now, show me the affected area."

  Cassian recoiled, mortified by her bluntness. Sir Roderick, his pompous knight, stepped forward. "Lady Bellrose! Address the Duke with the appropriate reverence!"

  "Silence, Sir," Lyra commanded without looking up. "My reverence is reserved for the effective treatment of disease. Your master's rash is clearly stress-induced, likely from your demanding social calendar and an overly rich diet."

  Cassian hissed, finally pointing toward his arm. Lyra examined the area with clinical detachment, noting the tell-tale inflammation and dryness.

  "You need an internal cleanser, a strict diet of bland rice porridge for three days, and this specialized Soothe-Root Salve," she declared, handing him a jar. "If you stray from the diet, the rash will return, and I will increase the oral dosage to something that makes the entire court think you are perpetually drunk."

  Cassian stared at her, utterly speechless at the audacity, before his face twisted into a grudging sneer. "Unacceptable. But effective. You are dismissed."

  Lyra was immediately pulled to the diplomatic wing, where the atmosphere was cold, quiet, and rigid with tension.

  She was led into a dim salon. Prince Everard sat utterly still, his dark uniform contrasting sharply with his pale face.

  Prince Everard was instantly intimidating. He possessed the powerful, severe handsomeness of a war hero or a stoic king. His hair was the deep shade of crimson, tied back neatly to emphasize his strong jawline. His eyes were an intense, focused storm-grey, and they were currently narrowed against the blinding agony of his pain, reflecting a profound sense of heavy responsibility.

  Viscount Desmond, the Prince’s pragmatic attaché, approached Lyra. "Lady Bellrose, we have one hour until the treaty signing. The Prince’s migraines are constant. His condition is compromising the peace treaty negotiations. You must stabilize him."

  "Understood," Lyra said, assessing the Prince’s fixed position. "Extreme stress and political pressure. He needs an immediate break in the pain cycle."

  Lyra approached Everard, who slowly opened his intense, grey eyes. He looked at her not with arrogance, but with a deep, silent, demanding desperation.

  Sir Valerius, Everard’s silent, deadly knight, moved slightly, his body position clearly communicating: Harm him, and I will end you.

  Ignoring the palpable threat, Lyra prepared a strong compress. "I must ask you to breathe deeply, Your Highness. And you must remain still."

  She applied firm, cool pressure to his temples, her thumbs finding the exact point needed to intercept the pain. Everard flinched but submitted, his gaze fixed on her face, a silent, intense challenge passing between them.

  "Viscount Desmond," Lyra commanded, not breaking contact with the Prince. "The Prince requires four hours of absolute darkness and silence after the signing. He will ingest this Quiet-Mind Tincture"—she handed the vial over—"mixed with warm water. Absolutely no alcohol, no sugar, and no paperwork after 5 PM. I will not negotiate this."

  Viscount Desmond, a man clearly used to complicated negotiations, recognized the non-negotiable nature of Lyra's command and simply bowed.

  Lyra, utterly drained, was finally walking toward the exit of the diplomatic wing when she was intercepted by a storm of sapphire velvet and cold fury.

  Princess Isolde stood blocking her path, her voice dangerously quiet.

  "Lady Bellrose," Isolde said. "I secured you the title of Crown Private Physician. And you repaid me by spending your first hour soothing a Duke’s cosmetic affliction and calming another Prince's headache. My brother, the heir to the throne, still lies alone, coughing his lungs out."

  "Your Highness," Lyra responded, adjusting her satchel. "Your brother's Languor Cordis is chronic. It is a long-term condition that requires steady, complex care, not a rushed treatment."

  Isolde's eyes flashed. "Are you daring to prioritize a rash over the heir's life?"

  "I am prioritizing the political stability of the Crown," Lyra countered, leaning into her new authority. "Lord Cassian's public embarrassment would be a local scandal. Prince Everard's diplomatic failure would ignite a border war. I secured the short-term threats, protecting your brother's position from external pressures, before commencing his long-term cure. That is what a Private Physician does, Your Highness. We manage the entire royal body."

  Isolde stared at her, her cunning mind processing the logic. The answer was infuriatingly correct.

  "Fine," Isolde hissed, pointing down the corridor. "His private wing is down this hall. You will have your first consultation with Prince Alaric tomorrow morning. Do not be late, and do not prioritize anyone over him ever again."

  An hour later, Lyra finally reached her own tiny, overly extravagant room in the Inner Court. She dropped her heavy satchel onto the floor.

  Tobias stood rigidly by the door. "This palace," he muttered, his voice unusually low, "is too shiny. Too many corners. Too many lies. It is dangerous, Lyra."

  "I concur," Lyra sighed, collapsing onto the divan. She had three chronic conditions to manage, two political negotiations to stabilize, one duke to feed rice porridge, and a court full of hostile incompetence.

  Prince Alaric is too fragile for his duties, Lord Cassian is too proud for his own body, and Prince Everard is too rigid for his own mind.

  She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache of her own starting. She wasn't simply curing the three most powerful men in the kingdom. She was managing their personalities, their secrets, and their diplomatic crises.

  "Tobias," she sighed, finally pulling the pins from her braid. "We are in the center of the court. This isn't healing."

  "This is a full-time circus," she muttered, fully accepting the chaos.