28

  Hector sat heavily on the stool in the alchemy lab, the golden glow of the torches reflecting off the myriad of vials, flasks, and jars scattered across the tables. His hands rested on the edge of the counter, knuckles white, but his mind was far from idle. He replayed every step of the antidote’s creation, every precise mixture of herbs, seeds, and the lynx marrow. Everything had been executed exactly as he intended, yet the result had been catastrophic.

  Galen remained standing nearby, arms crossed, watching Hector with a mixture of worry and frustration.

  “The antidote… it should have worked,” Hector muttered, more to himself than to Galen. His eyes scanned the formulas and notes scattered across the table. “I followed every principle, accounted for every variable… yet the curse adapted. The eggs hatched inside her. The poison is still active at the root. Something is missing—some key element I overlooked.”

  Galen’s jaw tightened. “Your antidote, if it fails again, Hector… the King will hold you personally responsible. He already saw the results. He saw Sophia… God help her, the eggs… the larvae. His mind is fraying. I can’t imagine what he’ll do if you propose another untested method.”

  Hector did not respond. He leaned back, hands pressing into his temples, thinking. The memory of the King’s fury was still fresh. The high, commanding voice, full of outrage, had accused him of lunacy. But that rage had evaporated the moment the King had seen his daughter’s suffering. It had been replaced with something far more dangerous—desperation. The King, for all his wisdom, was on the verge of losing his sanity.

  Hector closed his eyes, tracing the threads of magic that had intertwined with Sophia’s very soul. He recalled the curse’s signature: the noble at the banquet, the song, the insects, the eggs… and the precise way it had rooted itself into her life force. The antidote he had concocted could cleanse ordinary curses—but this was not ordinary. This was Old Hex Craft, layered with druidic energy, binding itself to the very vital essence of the target.

  Then it struck him.

  Hector’s eyes snapped open. His voice was sharp, almost a growl. “The blood of druid.”

  Galen froze. He had seen Hector consider impossible things before, but the words cut like a knife through the lingering despair in the room. “Blood of druid…” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the weight of the idea. “You mean… to enhance the antidote… bind it at the root level?”

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  “Yes,” Hector said, standing now, pacing the lab with purpose. “The curse is tied to the spiritual energy of the land, corrupted by blood magic. Only the infusion of druidic essence… pure, living druid blood… can anchor the antidote to her life force strongly enough to expel the curse entirely.”

  Galen’s eyes narrowed. “I understand the theory—but druid blood is… extinct. The last known druid disappeared over twenty years ago. Where on Maharlika would we even find such a thing?”

  Hector stopped mid-step, gripping the edge of the counter. He did not look at Galen. Instead, his gaze drifted toward the darkened window of the lab, eyes distant, calculating. “I know the druid line. I’ve studied the royal bloodlines of Diospyrus for decades. The druids were not mere sorcerers—they were rulers, guardians of secret knowledge. Their blood still flows somewhere. I… I know where to look.”

  Galen followed Hector’s gaze, sensing the shift in tone. “Hector… do you have someone in mind?”

  Hector did not answer immediately. His mind replayed decades of history—the rise and fall of kings, rebellions, secret lineages hidden among the mountains and jungles of Diospyrus. He thought of the last whispers he had heard years ago, rumors of a man who survived, a druid who had vanished into the wilds. He did not speak the name aloud yet, for even Galen’s ears were not ready.

  In Hector’s mind, the pieces aligned. If he could find this last druid, the antidote could be perfected. Sophia’s life could still be saved. But the obstacles were immense—the man’s location unknown, the passage treacherous, and the powers of the druid line still dormant, unpredictable, and potentially unwilling to intervene in human affairs.

  Hector finally turned his gaze from the window back to Galen. His expression was resolute, eyes sharp. “We need druid blood. There is no other way.”

  Hector’s hand rested on a vial of the previous antidote, now useless but still a reminder of what had failed. He stared at it briefly, then set it aside, thoughts already racing forward. He knew what had to be done next.

  Outside the lab, the world went on, oblivious to the fate of the princess within the castle. Inside, Hector’s mind churned, calculating, strategizing—every memory, every secret he had learned about magic, the druids, and forbidden rites feeding into the plan that might just save Sophia.

  Yet in the back of his mind, a single thought lingered, unspoken even to Galen: Durante.

  The last living druid, the man who could turn theory into action, the one who might hold the key to reversing the curse.

  Hector did not say the name aloud. Not yet. But he knew: the path forward depended on finding him.

  The lab was silent but for the quiet hum of magical energy lingering in the corners. Outside, the castle felt safe. But within, Hector’s mind was already far away—tracking history, bloodlines, and the only man who could save a princess from the curse that had begun to take root.

  The problem was clear. The solution existed—but the journey to reach it had barely begun.

  And in Hector’s mind, every step forward was already counted.