In the center of the healing chamber, upon a polished black alabaster table, lay Prince Setarek Urasen, Son of the Setting Sun. His right arm hung at a grotesque angle, bone exposed through a deep gash, purple bruises blooming across his neck in the shape of fingers. His young face—usually proud and bronzed—was pale and slick with sweat. He remained unconscious, his breathing faint, almost nonexistent.
Around him, three high priest-physicians and two royal mages debated in low, tense voices.
"The Harmony of Izhis enchantment was refused by the goddess," murmured Priest Berferu, wiping sweat from his bald head with the sleeve of his white linen robe. "The flesh refuses to obey. There is something… profane in this fracture."
"It was touched and broken by the demon's hand—I saw it," said one of the soldiers who had carried him here and refused to leave until their prince was well.
"Perhaps the Most High have turned their faces away. Or this is the hour of the prince's judgment," whispered Mage Ameinemhat, his hands still trembling from the last ritual. He had tried to reset the swollen, fractured arm. "Even the sacred bull's blood mixed with acacia honey was not enough. Yet I am surprised he still lives…"
"He is dying," affirmed Priestess Merit-Haset, her voice nearly breaking. Of the three, she worried most for Setarek. She gently cleaned the prince's neck with oil. "Perhaps we all will be, if the gods do not answer." She took more oil from one of the assistants' hands.
The soldiers had recounted part of what had happened with the dragon, and the three enlightened ones felt dread at the truth. The thought that they were being punished crossed every mind.
Suddenly, the soft sound of sandals echoed from the entrance gallery. A figure crossed the golden corridor, escorted by soldiers. Ishara, her face partially hidden beneath a hood the color of sand at dusk.
The priests turned, surprised.
"An elf?" Ameinemhat growled, startled. His two companions watched. Merit rose.
"You are the prince's friend," the short priestess recognized. Berferu asked:
"Have you come to help against the creature?"
Ishara ignored the stares and questions. She descended the few steps and approached Setarek.
"I ask that you leave. You will discover all the answers when you do."
"So the answer is death? You want us to leave so we may be torn apart like the prince and the warriors?" Ameinemhat snorted.
"There will be no more deaths. Your pharaoh has already resolved the situation," the elf said with scorn. She placed her palm on Setarek's forehead. The priests and soldiers exchanged confused glances.
"Just go. Leave his healing to me. Your gods will answer me."
The wise ones present looked at one another. Though they disliked being dismissed, they knew the elves had closer contact with the divine. Reluctantly, they departed.
Tears welled in Ishara's eyes.
"I am sorry I let this happen. But I will not let you die." She raised her wrist above his mouth and drew her fingers across her amber skin. A thin trail of blood began to drip onto the prince's lips.
She began to chant.
Placing her hand over Setarek's broken arm, the young prince groaned, nearly waking in pain. An inexplicable breeze stirred the flames of the lamps, mingling the incenses and other scents into a potent amalgam.
The bruises began to fade; the prince's skin gradually returned to its natural hue. She then placed her hand on his neck, tracing the marks where the chaos creature had gripped him. Ishara panted—drawing heavily from her own energy.
Afterward, she bandaged her own cut wrist and the prince's arm, then sat beside him, wiping his forehead with a cloth.
"His breathing is better," she noted, pulling back her hood. Her moon-colored hair fell in fine braids adorned with bone beads and desert falcon feathers.
Setarek's eyes fluttered open slightly. When memory returned, great anxiety gripped him, but before he could speak, the elf interjected:
"It is all right. You are alive." Setarek stared into her vertical red pupils, recognizing her.
"My father," was the first thing he said, his voice low and weak. Ishara sighed.
"He is alive and well." Her expression twisted into contempt as she recalled the pharaoh's decision. She looked at Setarek. "But something very bad has happened, Setarek. A great war may come."
The newly awakened prince, despite the lingering pain, managed to sit up with difficulty, supporting himself on his good arm. Ishara was always surprised by his strength, but the prince's face was one of confusion.
"What happened? Tell me!"
"Your father has allied with the demon, Setarek—the one who did this to you. And he has betrayed the elves."
The prince said nothing for a moment, stunned by what he heard.
"What?" He could not believe it, but the grave expression on his friend's face held no trace of falsehood.