Herbs were not enough.
Elena realized this on day two of her self-imposed isolation.
She needed patients.She needed cases.She needed that feeling — the one she had every day in her old life — where someone needed her, where her hands and mind actually mattered.
The citadel healers had politely avoided her since Soren's "absolutely not" decree.
So of course Elena did the reasonable, rational thing:
She ignored it.
And befriended one anyway.
...
Ardan was young.
Unexpectedly young.
Late twenties, maybe.Dark curls tied loosely at the back of his neck.Ink smudges on his fingers.A healer's coat that looked like he'd absolutely slept in it at least twice this week.
He radiated the same energy as one of her favorite colleagues from the hospital—the consultant OB who lived on matcha, sarcasm, and miracles at 3 a.m.
Ardan found her in the herb garden, frowning at a plant that hissed at her.
He cleared his throat gently."That one prefers music."
Elena jumped. "It WHAT—?"
His grin flashed—quick, warm, a little too pleased with himself."Sing to it. Or hum. If you can't sing, at least apologize for existing."
Elena stared."…You remind me of my colleague Marcus."
"Is he brilliant and unappreciated?"
"He thinks so."
"Then yes," Ardan said, dead serious, "we are the same."
Elena laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time in days.
He glanced at the books under her arm."You're studying healing?"
"Trying to," she admitted. "Not exactly welcomed in the main infirmary."
Ardan's expression softened—not pity. Recognition.
"I also was not welcomed in the infirmary when I started," he said."They called me 'overzealous.'"
"Same," Elena sighed. "Except they used longer words."
"And I assume you used longer words back at them?"
She hesitated. Then nodded.
He beamed. "Excellent. Come. Walk with me."
"…Is this allowed?"
Ardan shrugged. "I operate on a strict policy of 'please don't tell the prince.' It works remarkably well."
Behind them, Eris—hiding behind a tree—made the sign warding off doom.
...
Elena followed Ardan through the narrow corridors leading to the auxiliary infirmary — the one where patients were stabilized before being transferred to the grand formal infirmary that Elena was "politely discouraged" from entering.
Ardan pushed open the door with his hip, revealing a small room cluttered with scrolls, jars, dried herbs, anatomical sketches… and absolute controlled chaos.
It smelled like rosemary, chalk, and sleep deprivation.
Elena inhaled like she had just reached oxygen after being underwater for weeks.
"This," she whispered, "is beautiful."
Ardan blinked at her. "Most people call it a fire hazard."
"It's perfect."
He smiled — a sharp, crooked smile that reminded her painfully of the life she'd had before the rift.
"Good," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "In that case, I have something interesting for you."
He led her to a cot where a young soldier sat pale and trembling, his hand pressed to his right side.
"He's been complaining of abdominal pain," Ardan murmured. "The others insist it's a curse. I insist they need more education."
Elena stepped forward automatically, switching into clinician mode like slipping into a second skin.
"Location of the pain?" she asked gently.
"Here," the soldier said, pointing lower.
"Fever?"
"A little."
"Vomiting? Changes in appetite?"
Ardan watched her with bright amusement. "Oh good. You ask questions. They hate when I do that."
She ignored him, pressing lightly along the soldier's abdomen.
He winced sharply at McBurney's point.
Elena's eyes widened. "He has appendicitis."
"A what?"
"It's—" she gestured helplessly. "A dangerous inflammation of a tiny organ humans don't really need but insist on keeping."
Ardan bent over, fascinated."And how would you treat it?"
"Surgery."
Ardan nodded slowly. "We have a… version of that."
A moment of mutual medical horror passed between them.
Elena straightened. "He needs intervention now."
Ardan nodded and moved immediately, giving instructions to the assistants.
He was competent. Quick. Sharp.Exactly like the doctors she respected most back home.
When they finished, he turned to her.
"If you return tomorrow," he said lightly, "I'll show you our healing salves and our surgical tools. Will that help?"
Elena's heart lifted."Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I want."
"And all you must do," Ardan added with mock-severity, "is continue making my life interesting."
Behind them, Eris whispered to the other Sentinels posted in the hall:
"Prince Soren is going to destroy me."
"Why you?"
"Because I'm the one assigned to her… and now she's practicing healing !" He waved frantically at the room. "She's diagnosing people! She's touching dangerous herbs! "
The other three Sentinels went pale.
"Do you think she'll tell him?" one whispered.
"No," Eris said gravely. "He'll just know. He always knows."
...
Later, as Elena left Ardan's infirmary, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks, she turned a corner—
And froze.
Voices drifted from the strategy chamber.
Not just anyone's voices.
His.
Soren.
And the envoy.
She backed into the alcove, unable to stop her pulse from spiking.
"You assured me the girl is contained," the envoy said, tone clipped. "Yet rumors say she walks the citadel freely."
Soren's answering voice was low, cold, cutting through the air like steel.
"She is monitored."
"She is unpredictable."
"She is recovering."
"She is a liability, Highness. The council in the South believes she should be relocated—"
The door slammed.
Elena flinched.
Soren's voice dropped to something lethal.
"If you say 'relocated' again, I will personally escort you out of my territory."
The envoy sputtered. "You threaten me? In front of your own advisor? Prince Soren, you forget your place—"
"No," Soren growled, "I remind you of yours."
Silence.
Except for the sound of something heavy being shoved — a table? A chair? Or the envoy himself.
Elena's breath hitched.
Soren continued:
"The girl stays in the North. In my citadel. Under my command. And you will not speak of her again unless spoken to."
"But she—"
"Elena," Soren bit out, "is not your concern."
Her name.
Her full name.
Said with fury. Possession. Something dangerously close to protectiveness.
Elena pressed a hand over her mouth, her heart in her throat. Footsteps approached.
She fled before she could be caught eavesdropping — just barely slipping around the corner as the envoy stomped out, muttering.
The Sentinels trailed behind him, shoulders stiff.
Soren emerged last.
His expression was carved from ice.
But for a heartbeat —just a heartbeat—his eyes flicked down the corridor.
Right toward where Elena had been.
And something inside her chest tightened painfully.