As the rain subsided, the quarantine zone inside the wooden barriers was beginning to take shape. Grace trudged through ankle-deep mud between the makeshift shelters. The hem of her white dress was soaked with blood and grime, but she couldn’t spare a moment to care. Even the herbal paste crusted at the corners of her mouth went unnoticed.
She jabbed a silver needle into a child’s purpled fingertip, then squeezed out half a bowl of foul-smelling, dark blood. Without missing a beat, she poured a warm tonic down the child’s parched throat.
“We still need 20 more stretchers for the third row of shelters,” she shouted, her voice hoarse from hours of constant orders.
Nearby, Dustin was burning away infection from a patient’s rotting wounds with threads of golden light. The glow danced across torn flesh, incinerating the squirming maggots as it passed.
The elderly man trembled in pain, but he bit down on a wooden stick to keep from crying out. When he saw sweat rolling down Dustin’s face, he realized his own suffering wasn’t the worst thing happening here.
The medics moved with growing efficiency.
One of them funneled thick mugwort smoke into ceramic tubes, guiding it through cracks in the floor to purge the foul air lingering in the underground cellars.
Another pried open the jaws of unconscious patients with sticks, then slowly spooned in a paste of crushed herbs and honey.
Meanwhile, a third kneeled in the muck, performing chest compressions on half-frozen children until their shallow breathing steadied.
A hundred yards uphill, Tristan stood beneath a makeshift canvas shelter.
Dressed in full protective gear, he watched Grace rush between patients through the quarantine zone with a blank expression.
“Your Highness, perhaps we should head back? This place feels cursed,” Milton suggested from behind him. Tristan didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the soldiers racing between stations.
The medical supply crates at their feet were more than half empty, and some men had collapsed directly into the mud from exhaustion, gasping for air.
“Incompetent,” Tristan muttered under his breath, clearly displeased.
Ever since the strain had mutated, infection and mortality rates had skyrocketed. That was precisely why he’d chosen the containment approach, locking up every infected civilian in one place. He felt that it was better to risk sacrificing the innocent than to let the disease spread unchecked.
What he hadn’t anticipated was Grace rushing over from Reedcrest with a rescue team. If they managed to cure the infected, it would be great. But if they failed, his own forces would get caught in the disaster.
Behind Tristan, 30 of his personal guards stood at attention, their boots completely free of mud. They’d been ordered to keep watch from 30 feet away because he didn’t want them to breathe the air from the infected zone.
Just like that, another day had passed.
Grace had finally finished treating the critical patients in the western shelters. The moment she stood upright, dizziness nearly knocked her over. She grabbed a wooden post to steady herself.
Dustin handed her a piece of flatbread and gently touched her forehead. Golden light pulsed beneath his fingertip, driving away some of her exhaustion.
“There are still over 200 mild cases left on the east side,” he said, his voice carrying the faintest rasp. Even the gold embroidery on his white robes had turned dark brown with dried blood.
When night fell, dozens of campfires blazed throughout the quarantine zone. In the flickering light, Grace supervised soldiers building makeshift cooking stations, Cauldrons bubbled with tonic as the bitter scent wafted through the air.
Suddenly, a sick woman convulsed and lunged at Grace, fingernails nearly scratching her face.
Dustin reacted instantly. He caught the woman’s wrists and held her steady. After the golden light flowed into her body, she gradually calmed down, and tears streamed from her cloudy eyes.
Under the shelter, Tristan yawned as he watched the last grains of sand fall through the hourglass. It was already midnight, yet the quarantine zone still blazed as bright as noon.
Harlan approached and offered warm soup with a fawning smile.
“Your Highness, look at them working themselves into the ground. At this rate, they’ll collapse completely.”
Tristan took a sip and noticed a soldier collapsing beside one of the fires from sheer exhaustion. Even as his comrades dragged him upright, the man kept mumbling about medicine.
Tristan let out a derisive laugh. “What a waste of effort.”
As dawn approached, the last bowl of tonic had been fed to the final patient. Grace pulled herself upright using a wooden staff. The eastern sky began to glow, bringing some color back to her ashen face.
The golden light around Dustin had dimmed considerably, but he still forced himself through one last shelter inspection.
Medics lay scattered across the clearing, too exhausted even to snore properly. Only the occasional coughing proved they were still conscious.
Then, someone dropped to their knees. It was a teenage boy with both hands missing. He used his elbows to brace himself as he bowed his head deeply in Grace’s direction.
Others began following suit-first the infected from the western shelters, then healthy civilians from the east, and finally even mild cases who could barely stand.
Over 5,000 people dropped to their knees, like a rolling wave across the muddy ground, the wet slap of bodies hitting the earth echoing in every direction. Filthy water splashed onto their faces, but no one moved to wipe it away.
“Long live Your Royal Highness!”
Someone started the chant, then thousands joined in a deafening roar.
Gray-haired elderly men lifted blood-stained earth above their heads, women raised their dead infant’s swaddling clothes, and children copied the adults.
Grace watched the scene unfold and felt her eyes suddenly well up with tears. She tried to speak, but there was a lump in her throat. All she could do was raise a trembling hand and give the people a deep bow.
On the hill, Tristan hurled his soup bowl to the ground. The porcelain shattered with a sharp crack. He stared at the sea of kneeling figures, his fists clenched until his knuckles went white.
Harlan barely dared to breathe beside him. One look at Tristan’s thunderous expression told him this resentment would fester for weeks to come.
These people should have revered Tristan. Instead, they were kneeling before a woman. For Tristan, that scene stung worse than death.
