Inside the Great Medicine Hall, the air was thick, heavy with the cloying, bitter scent of a thousand crushed herbs. The atmosphere was a frantic blur of white robes and desperate whispers. On the long central tables, hundreds of dried ingredients lay neatly labeled in their individual trays, but today, they were being bypassed in favor of something far more elusive.
Hundreds of medical students and seasoned doctors swarmed every corner of Hmagol's largest medical center. The sound was a rhythmic, chaotic percussion: the constant clack-clack-clack of wooden medicine compartments being pulled open and slammed shut against the towering walls.
Inside the inner sanctum—the Great Medicine Room—the scale was even more daunting. The walls were a honeycomb of tiny drawers reaching toward the high, vaulted ceiling. Doctors climbed ladders, their eyes scanning ancient scrolls, while students below sifted through dried roots and preserved blossoms, searching for the single medicine that could save the young soldier's life.
Row after row, column after column, the hands came back empty. Each closing drawer sounded like a heartbeat lost.
"Not here!" a student cried, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
"Empty," another whispered, sliding a compartment shut with a hollow thud.
The wealth of the kingdom's medicine was spread out before them, a literal forest of healing, yet the one blossom they required—the one that could quench the fire of a Paayasian fever—seemed to have vanished with the old world.
Standing in the center of the frantic chaos, Chinua remained as still as a statue. Her shadow stretched long across the stone floor, cutting through the frantic movements of the doctors and students. She watched their faces—the tight lines of frustration, the flickering hope as a drawer was pulled, and the crushing disappointment when it revealed nothing but dust or common roots.
For the first time in years, the Fourth Princess felt truly powerless. She stood in the silhouette of her own legend, a general who could command thousands but could not command a single fever to break.
She realized then, with a bitter clarity, that if this were a royal armory, she would be able to locate a specific blade or a balanced spear in a heartbeat. She knew the weight of steel, the scent of whetstone, and the grain of ancient wood. But the medicine hall was a foreign land.
To her, the thousands of compartments were just a labyrinth of wood. She turned the thought over in her mind: weapons and medicine were different in every way, especially in their purpose. A weapon was a singular thing—it existed only to take a life, to end a story. But medicine was a dual-edged force. It could save a life, pulling a soul back from the brink, or it could take one just as easily if the dosage was wrong.
In this room, the "expert" was a child, and the warrior was a stranger. She looked at her hands—calloused from the reins and the hilt—and wondered if they were even capable of holding something as delicate as a Snow Lotus without crushing it.
"Chinua," a voice cut through her thoughts.
Hye stepped beside her, his eyes scanning the higher shelves where the dust lay undisturbed. Unlike Chinua, he didn't look frustrated; he looked calculating. "Stop thinking like a soldier. A King doesn't keep his finest silk in the common market. Your father wouldn't have kept the Snow Lotus in a drawer that a first-year student can reach."
He pointed toward a set of heavy, iron-bound doors at the very back of the hall, guarded by a seal that had not been broken since the coup.
"The Imperial Reserve," Hye whispered. "That is where the treasures are kept. And that is where the Lotus will be."
"Open the Imperial Reserve."
Chinua's voice didn't just carry; it commanded. The sound sliced through the frantic clatter of drawers and the murmurs of students. Suddenly, the room went bone-still. Doctors froze with their hands mid-air; students stood like statues. Such a request was not just irregular—it was a violation of the kingdom's most sacred protocol.
The lead doctor, a man whose back was bowed by years of service and whose face was a map of Hmagol's history, stepped forward. He offered a firm, traditional bow, but his eyes remained steady. "Your Highness... without the King's explicit order, we cannot cross that threshold. The seals are sacred."
"The fate of this kingdom hangs on the hope of a single survivor," Chinua countered, her boots clicking sharply on the stone as she marched toward the massive, iron-reinforced doors. "These are urgent, troubled times. There is no time to wait for the ink to dry on a decree."
"Chinua."
The word was quiet, but it stopped her in her tracks. Hye reached out, his hand firm as he gripped her arm.
"The head doctor is correct," Hye said, his voice dropping to a low, grounding tone. "This is not some small medicine hut in Pojin. The Imperial Reserve holds more than just herbs; it contains the kingdom's treasury and the most sensitive documents of state. We must wait for the King's order."
"You said it yourself—he is running out of time!" Chinua hissed, her eyes flashing with the desperation of a general losing a soldier.
"But it doesn't mean you break the laws to save him," Hye reminded her, his gaze unwavering. "What difference would there be between you and the ones you are fighting against if you act with such disregard? If you become the law, then there is no law. Is that the Hmagol you promised your brother?"
The room remained in a state of shock. The doctors and students watched, breathless, as the most powerful woman in the kingdom—a warrior who had stared down armies—was held in place by a man who possessed no title, no rank, and no armor. They expected an explosion of rage. Instead, they saw the "Wolf" slowly exhale.
Chinua looked at the heavy doors, then back at the frantic, empty search happening around her.
"Everyone, continue to search the outer halls," Chinua commanded, her voice turning back into the calm, cold iron of the Fourth Princess. She pulled her arm away from Hye, not in anger, but with purpose. "I will go and get that decree."
Chinua sprinted through the endless corridors, the rhythmic slap of her boots against the polished marble echoing like a heartbeat. The palace was a ghost of its former self, yet it remained infuriatingly pristine. Despite the coup, the fires, and the screams of the previous days, the servants had already scrubbed away the signs of struggle. The air was cool and smelled of beeswax and expensive oils—not the copper of blood or the acrid sting of smoke.
As she ran, a bitter thought took root in her mind. No matter how many kings fell or how many kingdoms bled, these ancient stone walls remained unchanged. They offered a hollow safety, a sanctuary of silence that felt like a lie. Outside, the soil of Pojin was drinking the blood of her people, but here, the shadows were long and peaceful. The palace didn't care who sat on the throne, as long as the floors were swept.
She reached the massive, gilded doors of the King's private chambers. The guards at the entrance—men who had only recently traded their rebel rags for royal tunics—straightened their backs as she approached. Their eyes were wide; they had never seen the Fourth Princess move with such unrefined urgency.
"The King," Chinua gasped, not slowing her pace. "I need him. Now."
"Your Highness, he is—" one guard started, but Chinua didn't wait for the end of the sentence. She shoved the heavy doors open, the wood groaning as she burst into the room.
The atmosphere inside was stiflingly quiet. In the far corner, illuminated by a dozen flickering lamps, Batsaikhan sat slumped over a low table. Beside him stood Tong, his face pale with exhaustion. The room was a sea of parchment—hundreds of scrolls sent the previous day lay in chaotic piles, a mountain of complaints, inventories, and tax records that formed the true, heavy weight of the crown.
Without looking up from his work, Batsaikhan knew the owner of the heavy, familiar footsteps echoing through the grand chamber. He placed his brush gently across the ink tray and watched his sister approach, her face a mask of urgency that the palace's silk and gold could not soften.
"I need permission to enter the Imperial Reserve," Chinua said, her voice ringing against the vaulted ceiling.
"What is it you need from within?" Batsaikhan asked, his voice calm despite the storm she brought with her.
"The Snow Lotus."
"For?"
"To save a young soldier who brought news from Pojin," Chinua replied. "But he is not just any soldier. He is the son of one of my captains—and he is my student."
Batsaikhan offered a soft, tired smile. "Chinua, this kingdom was taken back from the hand of a traitor by your hand. Everything within these borders is already yours. If you want the Imperial Reserve, or anything else, it is yours to take."
"Nonsense," Chinua snapped, her eyes flashing with dissatisfaction. "I may have retaken the throne, but the right of rule belongs only to you. I promised our parents I would be your legs and one of the pillars of this kingdom. This land belongs to the people and those who sacrificed their lives to keep it—not to me."
Batsaikhan reached for a golden scroll on the table and held it out to her. "There is no one walking this earth who deserves more than you," he said. "I have already drafted a decree. It allows you and your two personal guards to enter the palace without presenting a tally and without removing your weapons. This right belongs only to you three, and no one shall take it away."
Chinua scoffed, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Have you forgotten? As the Eastern General, I am prohibited from returning to the palace without a royal decree."
"Your Highness," Tong interrupted, stepping forward. "His Majesty is currently rewriting that part of Hmagol law."
"What do you mean?" Chinua asked, pausing.
"As gratitude for Prince Mönkhbat, who traveled through sleepless nights to rescue me from prison, I have adopted his military ideas," Batsaikhan explained. "I call it the Mönkhbat Law. During the New Year, soldiers stationed far from home will finally have the opportunity to return and celebrate with their families."
"Good for you," Chinua said, her expression softening into a genuine smile. "But what about the Reserve?"
Batsaikhan didn't answer with words. Instead, he handed her his Golden Tally—the ultimate symbol of royal authority. "Seeing this is the same as seeing the King himself. With this, you can enter anywhere within the palace or any military base in Hmagol."
Chinua took the heavy gold in her hand. "Thank you."
"Stay for lunch?" Batsaikhan invited.
"Next time," Chinua declined politely, already turning toward the door. "I have a life to save and a village to protect. I leave for Pojin tomorrow morning. Besides," she smiled back at him, "with the changes you are making to the law, we will have many more opportunities in the future."
She gave a slight, respectful bow and rushed out of the chamber.
As the doors closed, Tong began wheeling Batsaikhan back to his desk. "Your Majesty," Tong whispered, a shadow of concern in his eyes. "Giving the Fourth Princess such a powerful tally is a great risk. Even a son can betray a father. What guarantee is there that a sister will not turn against a brother?"
Batsaikhan picked up his brush, dipping it into the half-dry ink. "Giving her such power is exactly what will ensure she never betrays us."
"But—"
"It is because Chinua is a Princess of the People," Batsaikhan said, his voice carrying a hidden, profound weight. "Therefore, even if she is ever disloyal to us, she will always remain loyal to the Magoli people. And that is all I require."