Prince Lysander's gaze flicked toward her hands before returning to her face, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Anatomy at this hour?"
"Healers study at odd times," Jia muttered in response, her tone a touch too defensive as she averted her eyes. "My inspiration doesn't exactly follow a scheduled timing…. Your Highness."
"Mm." The noncommittal sound that escaped him carried the faintest edge of disbelief. One dark brow arched slightly, barely perceptible, but enough to make her heart trip in her chest.
He regarded her in silence for a moment that stretched uncomfortably long, as though weighing her entire existence with that cool, discerning gaze.
She swallowed hard.
The parchment in her hand was beginning to feel heavier by the second, sticking awkwardly to her palm like damning evidence. She could almost feel the ink smudging between her fingers.
Her mind scrambled for a believable diversion, anything that might keep him from realizing she'd been spending the past hours doodling increasingly dramatic, mildly demonic renditions on his face.
"Is… His Highness here to see me?" She managed to ask.
"Don't change the subject," his tone was clipped, carrying that quiet authority that made her feel tense. "Hand it to me."
"What?"
"The Anatomy."
"But–"
"Anatomy or a night in the dungeon, choose one," he interjected smoothly, and Jia really could not believe him right now.
Did he come all this way just to torment her or what?
If she was going to be thrown in the dungeon, she might as well remain committed to her artistic integrity. In the end, she stepped closer to the window and extended the parchment toward him. He took it without hurry, unfolding the paper with maddening calm.
His eyes scanned the page, and his composure faltered. His brows lifted slightly.
"...Is this supposed to be me?"
Jia's mouth opened and closed soundlessly before she shook her head vehemently.
His gaze flicked up, unimpressed. "Are you lying to me?"
She hesitated, then very slowly, nodded.
His gaze lingered on the drawing for a moment, but to Jia's quick notice, he didn't look angry. If anything, he seemed quietly taken aback, like whatever he'd expected to see, this wasn't it.
"Is this what you think of me?" he asked at last, his voice low and unreadable.
Jia remained quiet.
Did he actually want her to answer that honestly too?
When their gazes met again, there was something almost human about it. Curiosity, perhaps, or maybe confusion. But it lasted for a second, making her wonder if she just imagined it.
"You're a royal physician now, Miss Healer," he said after a pause, folding the parchment with deliberate care. "You have no time for this. Get some rest while you can, and stop wasting quality papers."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Jia blinked as she watched his retreating form, still trying to process that he'd left without a single threat or punishment. Of all the possible outcomes, that hadn't been the one she'd dared hope for. But what startled her even more was that he'd taken the drawing with him.
Was he planning to throw it out on the way?
Either way, she wasn't going to the dungeons, and that was enough victory for tonight.
She exhaled and sank back into the chair, the tension draining from her shoulders. It was her own fault, really. She'd been careless enough to leave the window open while doing something so audacious. Still, no one had thought to mention that royals occasionally wandered into the imperial infirmary in the middle of the night.
She glanced at the parchment hiding beneath the table. She picked it up, and on it contained the list she made. She was lucky she doodled on a different parchment, else…
She didn't even want to think of the consequences.
********
Lysander returned to his wing and quietly pushed the door open. He ignored his attendant who tried to approach him after spotting him. The familiar click echoed in the silence as he shut the door behind him, finally allowing himself to exhale.
These people… they just won't leave him alone, won't they?
But when he turned around, he paused mid-step.
Someone was already there.
Seated leisurely on the chaise lounge as if the room belonged to him, was his father's imperial advisor. A crystal decanter gleamed on the low table before him, and he was in the middle of pouring himself a drink. He was intentionally slow about it, as if he had all the time in the world.
The man looked to be in his early forties. His dark hair was neatly slicked back, with not a strand out of place. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, glinting faintly under the lamplight.
Everything about him, his composed posture, the faint smirk tugging at his lips that oozed an unsettling kind of control. It made Lysander's blood spike, his face drained of its healthy color.
The sight of the man sitting there, comfortably invading his private space, made something inside him twist violently. Fury burned in his chest, threatening to break loose, but he held back. Instead, he remained rooted in place, his expression unreadable to anyone else. But in his eyes, hate simmered like fire barely contained… and beneath it, something dangerously close to fear, to pure anxiety.
"It seems the guards aren't performing their duties anymore," the advisor's smooth voice broke the silence, carrying that familiar edge of condescension. He rose from the chaise lounge with unhurried grace, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he spoke. "Letting the Moon Of The Empire roam freely when he should not. By tomorrow, I'll assign you new guards, how about that?"
"What are you doing here?"
"To check on you," he replied calmly, stepping forward only for Lysander to instinctively step back, his eyes wary. A faint, cold smile curved the man's lips, one that never reached his eyes. But he stayed away. "And also, to give you this."
He drew an envelope from his inner coat pocket and let it fall into the table with a soft thud. The seal bore the unmistakable insignia of the Imperial throne.
"His Majesty wants you to read it carefully," the advisor continued as he adjusted his glasses, his tone almost courteous. "And… so you can, you know, prepare yourself ahead of time. You're already aware of how it goes."
He paused at the doorway, his next words quieter, yet sharp enough to cut through the air. "Let your physician look into you, or I'll have to step in again."
Lysander's eyes widened slightly.
The implication of that statement made his fingers curl at his side, but he could do absolutely nothing about it. He didn't bother to look at the man who was already leaving the room, the door closing behind with a soft click that somehow felt final.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Finally, Lysander moved.
His steps were slow, as though the air had grown heavy. He picked up the envelope and stared at it for a while, hesitation, dread, and defiance warring in his eyes before finally breaking it open.
He read the content, each line carved deeper than the last, the words blurring as his gaze darted over them. By the time he reached the end, his hand was trembling.
He let out a short, bitter sound, half a laugh, and half a choked breath. Disbelief twisted into something darker inside him, and the paper crumpled in his fist.
The room suddenly tilted violently around him. The polished floor seemed to sway beneath his feet, and he reached out, catching himself against the column beside him for balance. His pulse thundered in his ears, the air thick and stifling.
He tried to steady his breathing, but the nausea came all the same, rising sharp and suffocating somewhere deep inside, as though the very air had turned against him.
The paper slipped from his grasp, rolling once, then twice on the floor before coming to a stop a few feet away, hiding behind the column.