The dawn of day was like a nightmare for the grandmaester; every single day was like a battle he fought to make sure his sanity remained intact while he tried to get Ragaleon back on his feet.
It was a small price he had to pay in return for the respect and position he held in the castle.
It has not gone unnoticed by the household of the castle of Decreash that the queen dowager, Selena, seemed to have a lot of respect for the old man, the grandmaester.
Why so, however, has never been found out. It is as such that the same respect she accords him, everyone else does.
With that in mind, the grandmaester was doing everything with his resources to see to it that the king continues to live to see another day.
He worked tirelessly in his small fume chamber, where he gathered all his herbal medicine, mixing, boiling, and combining cogent and effective herbs that he was sure would work.
But day after day, his hope seems to wither.
The king would not respond to treatment; it was as though he were immune to the medicine, which, of course, sounded ridiculous.
So when one morning the grandmaester walked into Ragaleon's chamber with his toolbox containing different bottles of medicine in his hand and found out from one of the maids that Ragaleon had been conscious for a few moments before slipping back to unconsciousness, he became simply mortified.
"In that case the medicine does work."
He thought to himself when the maid had left the room to give him the space he needed to do his job.
"Good morrow, Grandmaester."
The voice greeted him coldly, a sharp edge of displeasure lingering in its tone.
The Grandmaester snapped back from the depths of his thoughts, his mind jolted into the present. He turned toward the door and saw Amilek standing there.
"Young one, have you managed to slip away from your mother's clutches?"
The Grandmaster asked, scratching at his thick, grey beard as he opened the worn toolbox before him.
"Rarely do I even get to see her these days," Amilek replied in a detached, almost eerie tone for a child his age.
"You would think I have no mother… only that I have five, and only one of them is the one who actually gave birth to me."
"You only have one mother, child," the Grandmaester corrected gently, unaware of the subtle cunning behind Amilek's calm demeanor. "The rest are merely your stepmothers.
Amilek's emerald-green eyes slithered toward the bottle of medicine the Grandmaester now held in his hand.
"Why do you even bother?" he asked, trotting forward, hands clasped behind his back.
"None of these medicines work. You're not so clueless as to have failed to notice, are you?"
He spoke bluntly, his intent already angling in the direction he was heading.
"Careful, child. Choose your words with care."
The Grandmaster's tone shifted suddenly to a cautionary tone. Amilek, however, only grinned slightly, unbothered.
"Queen Micah was seen giving the king a bowl of herbal tea yesterday," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an unsettling certainty. "I am quite positive that her medicine was potent."
At his words, the Grandmaester froze. The bottle in his hand, which he had been shaking absentmindedly, stilled mid-air, the faint rattle of glass cut off abruptly.
"Is that what everyone thinks? That the bowl of tea she gave is what…"
He let the words hang, then Amilek added softly, "…it should have crossed your mind."
His eyes now carried an ominous dread, a shadow of calculation beneath his calm facade.
The Grandmaester set the bottle of medicine aside and turned to face him fully, gaze steady.
"You are not telling lies, are you? Remember, you must grow to become a man with honor…"
"I will take your words about becoming a man with honor seriously—when I see the course of action you take after what I have just told you."
He spoke with quiet conviction, then turned to take his leave, but not before casting a fleeting glance at Ragaleon.
...
The Apothecarium smelled sharply of herbs and smoke, a pungent, earthy scent that clung to every corner. Shelves lined the walls, sagging slightly under the weight of glass bottles and jars, each filled with liquids of every imaginable hue—murky greys, deep ambers, and translucent greens that seemed to glow faintly in the candlelight.
In the center of the room, a large cauldron simmered over a bed of smoldering charcoal, bubbles rising and bursting in the thick, dark herbal mixture. Wisps of steam curled upward, carrying the bitter aroma of roots, dried leaves, and crushed bark.
Copper tools and pestles lay scattered across a worn wooden table, alongside bundles of dried herbs tied with fraying twine, their colors muted by dust and age. The flicker of candle flames cast shifting shadows across the walls, making the bottles glint like eyes in the gloom, each one holding secrets of remedies, poisons, and potions alike.
The Grandmaester was restless, pacing back and forth across the Apothecarium, his robes brushing against the worn wooden floorboards. His hands moved with frenetic precision, mixing powders, crushing roots, and adding drops of mysterious liquids to bubbling cauldrons.
The room was hot, stifling even, as if no ventilation existed—but in truth, it was the fumes and smoke from the simmering mixtures that filled the air.
They hung heavy, curling like a dark, restless cloud, weaving between the shelves and cauldrons, clinging to every surface.
Light from the flickering flames glinted off the bottles and tools, casting wavering shadows that danced through the haze.
The Grandmaester coughed violently, the acrid smoke clawing at his lungs, yet even then he felt no resentment toward the Apothecarium. It had molded him, shaped him, and become a part of him over countless years.
This was a place where he had conducted experiments that tested the limits of herbs and potions.
A knock on the door came heavily, echoing through the Apothecarium, and it made Grandmaester Braven halt mid-step, fingers frozen over a vial.
"Come in… if you dare," he said, his tone laced with challenge, hoping the visitor would hesitate, perhaps retreat.
Instead, the door creaked open, and Drigo stepped inside, his presence filling the smoky room with quiet authority.
"I see that you are at it again," Drigo said, his eyes lingering on the bubbling herbal mixture simmering over the fire.
"Indeed I am," the Grandmaester replied, eyes bent over a worn book, wrinkled fingers tracing the carefully written words.
"This time I am sure it will be the one… the medicine I have long failed to produce for the King's illness."
Drigo sighed, then coughed violently, the acrid smoke catching at his throat.
"That's what you said the last three times," he reminded him bluntly, pointing out the harsh truth with clarity.
"Believe me when I say, this time it will yield results," the Grandmaester said, retrieving a page carefully from the book.
"Because I have with me a secret recipe… from the leftover herbal medicine Queen Micah prepared for the King."
Drigo froze, the words echoing in his mind. He replayed them over and over, trying to make sense of the claim.
"I… I do not understand," he admitted finally, the weight of confusion settling over him.
He had to accept the fact that the Grandmaester's words did not immediately make sense, yet something in the certainty of his tone made him pause and consider.
"Queen Micah, surprisingly, seems to possess a real skill in the art of herbal medicine," the Grandmaester continued, his eyes fixed on the simmering cauldron. "She prepared an herbal tea for the king that yielded remarkable results."
"So I have heard," Drigo replied, one brow arching skeptically.
"I have also heard that the Queen Dowager, Selena, refuses to believe such claims. She is under the impression that your herbs are working."
"I will prove the Queen Dowager's claims correct," the Grandmaester said, his voice firm, eyes glinting with determination. "I have the leftovers from the medicine Queen Micah prepared."
He lifted a small vial, inhaling its scent carefully. "Through the aroma and the color, I can discern some of the herbs she used. I will prepare one just like it—and have it served to the King."
As he spoke, he moved restlessly from one end of the Apothecarium to the other, pacing endlessly, his hands never still.
"The only thing I want to understand from the words you've just spoken," Drigo said, his tone dry and unimpressed, "is that the rumors are true. Queen Micah's medicinal tea is capable of curing the King's sickness… Yet you refuse to make an open claim to this. Why?"
"The grandmaester is old and frail. I have heard people say," the Grandmaester began, his voice carrying no hint of remorse.
"Worthless… so uncanny that he was removed from the Small Council."
As he spoke, his hands moved with swift, practiced precision—one hand measuring powders and herbs, the other clutching a long iron spoon that he used to stir the dark, simmering mixture over the fire.
"This is my opportunity to prove them all wrong… to regain my lost glory," he said, finally turning to face Drigo, meeting his eyes for the first time since he had stepped into the Apothecarium.
"The Queen will forever be indebted to me, and perhaps… I might even be called back to serve on the Small Council."
There was a fire in his gaze now… ambition.
"You will kill the king," Drigo concluded flatly.
"What?"
The Grandmaester stiffened, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
"The king will die—either from your foolishness or from the impotent medicines you keep making," Drigo went on, his voice cold and unyielding. "Either way, the blame will fall on you."
The Grandmaester scowled, his mouth twisting in irritation as he turned away, returning to his work with sharp, agitated movements.
"I can see you do not take my side in this," he retorted plainly, busied once more with his mixtures, though the certainty in his hands had begun to waver.
"Do what is right, Grandmaester Braven. This path you have chosen… all I can smell is disaster."
A heavy silence followed.
"You should leave," the Grandmaester said curtly, already unnerved, his back half-turned as he busied himself with the book in his hand.
Drigo studied him for a long moment. He understood that Braven's intentions were not born of malice, but he also saw clearly that the route he had chosen was the wrong one.
"You have always said that becoming a man of honor takes discipline," Drigo said at last, already turning toward the door. "It means facing trials that must be overcome—but never at the cost of one's integrity.
Right now, I see a man… in front of me, facing trials that can still be amended—if only before it is too late," Drigo said, his voice calm but resolute.
With that, he turned and took his leave, the door closing softly behind him.
The Grandmaester was left alone in the Apothecarium, the simmering cauldrons and curling smoke surrounding him as he sank into thought, pondering over Drigo's words.
But in the end he was left with only one question.
"But what if that man with integrity has no choice?"