March 28th, 1788.
Later that evening.
Lancelot was on his way to his father's bedroom. He was escorted by Alicia who was walking ahead of him.
They reached the King's door. Two royal guards stood at attention, clad in their formal uniforms, halberds upright. Their expressions were unreadable, but both saluted the moment Lancelot approached.
"Open the door," Alicia ordered, standing with hands clasped behind her back.
"With all due respect, Lady Viremont," one of the guards began, "His Majesty has requested no disturbances. He is already asleep—"
"You seem to misunderstand," Alicia cut in smoothly, taking a step forward. "The orders I carry come from the Regent. Do you defy the authority of the Crown?"
The men stiffened. There was a pause—but not long enough for doubt to take root.
"No, milady," the lead guard said, bowing his head. "Forgive us."
The guards unlatched the doors and pulled them open with care, revealing the dim room beyond.
Lancelot turned to Alicia. "Thank you. I'll speak with him alone."
Alicia gave a single nod and stepped back without protest. The guards closed the doors gently behind him.
The room smelled faintly of burning herbs and lavender oil. Thick curtains covered the windows, keeping out the cold and the moonlight. A single lamp sat on a table beside the bed, casting a low amber glow across the chamber.
There, beneath layers of embroidered blankets, lay the King of Spain.
His frame had shrunk. The once-imposing figure that had towered over courtrooms and battlefields now seemed barely larger than a scarecrow. His skin had turned pale, his cheeks sunken, and a tremor ran through his chest with each breath. The rasping sound was subtle—but constant.
Lancelot approached the bedside slowly.
"Father."
The King stirred, his eyes fluttering open. It took a moment before they focused.
"Lancelot…" His voice was rough, cracked from dryness and strain. "Still chasing ghosts in the halls at night?"
Lancelot knelt beside the bed, offering a weak smile. "No ghosts. Just worries."
The King coughed—his entire body quivering as he turned his head slightly. A cloth had already been stained red on the bedside table.
"A miracle I'm still breathing," he muttered. "Each morning I expect it to be my last. And yet… I remain."
"You will continue to remain," Lancelot said firmly. "I won't allow otherwise."
The King chuckled weakly. "Stubborn, like your mother. But no amount of will can chase away the rot in my lungs."
He struggled to shift slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position.
"The doctors tell me the truth now. No more hopeful tinctures. No more lies. Just time. Short time."
"They're wrong," Lancelot said and continued. "There's a way, Father. I believe there's a treatment—one that could fight the sickness in your lungs."
The King turned his head toward him again, with difficulty.
"From where comes this belief?" he asked, tone soft but skeptical. "You were never one for medicine. Politics, yes. War, even. But healing?"
"I've been reading," Lancelot said carefully. "Learning. Observing. The symptoms match a sickness I've seen described in other lands. A slow-burning disease that eats away the lungs, leaving blood and weakness behind."
"And you think there's a cure for that?" the King asked.
"I believe so," Lancelot replied. "Not from herbs or poultices. From a compound—a refined medicine, created from soil and carefully processed. It targets the disease directly."
The King stared at him, breathing shallowly. "You speak as if you're not my son, but a foreign scholar."
"I don't need to be either," Lancelot said. "Just someone who refuses to accept death as inevitable."
The King gave a slow exhale. "And what would you have me do? Drink strange powders? Risk more pain in my final days?"
"I'll speak to the royal physician tomorrow," Lancelot said. "Share with him the preparation. He can supervise its use. If he agrees to it, we begin immediately. If not… then I'll find another way."
There was a long pause. Then the King's cracked lips curled faintly.
"You truly believe you can stop death itself."
"I believe I can delay it. Long enough for us to finish what we started."
The King's eyes shimmered with something close to emotion. "And the kingdom?"
Lancelot straightened slightly. "We're turning it around. The Royal Trading Company has begun shipping branded goods across Europe—wine, salt, oil—bearing the Royal Seal. The nobility clamor to fund my future reforms, hoping for titles and sashes. And the Church, in all its pride, has started placing its wealth in our trust, convinced they're safeguarding God's treasury."
"And the people?"
"The Royal Lottery is wildly popular," Lancelot said. "No grand winners yet, but the money keeps pouring in. "I plan to use it to fund infrastructure projects that will benefit the nation. All without raising a single tax. Or abolishing one."
The King blinked slowly. "And no blood spilled?"
"None," Lancelot said. "I'm buying time with dreams and illusion—and converting every Ducado into power."
There was a flicker of approval in the King's eyes.
"You… you are no longer just my son," he whispered. "You are a statesman. You have changed a lot. My courtiers told me."
Lancelot's throat tightened. "I'm still your son, first and foremost."
The King reached out, fingers trembling, and placed his hand on Lancelot's wrist.
"Then do this… not just for the crown. But for yourself. For your brother's memory. For your mother's faith. If there is truly a cure, I give you my blessing. But let it be… not for pride. Let it be for love."
Lancelot bowed his head. "It is."
The King's hand slipped away, resting gently on the sheets.
"I tire now," he said softly. "Leave me to sleep. If I awaken tomorrow… then bring your physician. And your cure."
Lancelot rose quietly, brushing dust from his knees.
"I will."
He turned, stepping silently toward the door. Just as his hand reached the handle, the King's voice came again—faint, but clear.
"Lancelot."
"Yes, Father?"
"If I do die… rule wisely. And forgive the world for its ignorance. It knows not what greatness it resists."
Lancelot paused.
"I'll remember."
Then he stepped out, closing the door behind him. Alicia stood waiting in the corridor, arms crossed but eyes alert.
"He's stable," Lancelot said. "For now."
"And the doctor?"
"Summon him first thing. I'm going to have a talk with him."
"As you wish, Your Highness. Do you still have any agenda for today?"
"I do, I want to visit my little sister. I hope she is not sleeping."
"At this hour, she probably is asleep."
"I want to see for myself."
"As you wish, Your Highness," Alicia bowed her head slightly.
They started walking along the hallway towards his little sister's bedroom. Soon, they arrived at a smaller door nestled between two marble columns—unadorned, but guarded. The guards nodded in acknowledgment, stepping aside without needing a word.
Lancelot knocked softly. "Is she asleep?"
A faint rustling came from within, followed by a sleepy voice. "You can come in…"
He opened the door gently.
The room was warm and cozy, filled with soft tapestries and plush cushions. A fireplace crackled quietly. Sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, was a young girl with golden-brown hair that spilled over her shoulders. Princess Juliette—barely nine years old, with a delicate frame and a pair of bright, sleepy eyes that lit up when she recognized him.
"Brother!" she chirped, instantly more awake.
Lancelot smiled and stepped inside. "Still awake, I see."
"I was listening to the wind," she said, patting the space beside her. "It whistles through the tower bricks sometimes. It's like a song. I didn't want to sleep yet."
He sat down on the edge of her bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You've always had an ear for strange music."
She giggled lightly. "I knew you'd visit. Sister Alicia told me you've been very busy. You're always busy now."
"I've had to take on a lot lately," he said gently. "But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about you."
"I know," she said, her expression growing thoughtful. "But… maybe you can take me out soon? Just the two of us. Maybe to the palace gardens, or the park by the river. Like we used to?"
Lancelot nodded immediately. "Of course. I promise you that."
"Really?"
"Truly. I'll make time. You can pick the spot and I'll bring your favorite pastries."
Her eyes lit up again. "And we'll bring the swan bread! You remember that?"
"Of course," he chuckled. "With honey glaze."
She leaned into him, hugging his arm. "Thank you. You always keep your promises."
He stroked her hair gently, savoring the moment. "I will always keep them for you."
There was a pause—peaceful, quiet.
"Now, get some rest," he said, slowly rising. "Tomorrow is another day."
"Will you tell me a story tomorrow night?" she asked sleepily as she laid her head back on the pillows.
"I'll tell you two," he promised.
She smiled, eyes fluttering closed. "Goodnight, Brother."
"Goodnight, Juliette."
He turned, stepping out into the hallway once more. Alicia was still waiting nearby, her arms now loosely folded.
"She's alright," he said softly.
"She always is when you visit."
Lancelot gave a quiet nod, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.
"Now… I'll rest too," he muttered.
Alicia bowed slightly. "Then I'll see to it that your schedule tomorrow begins later. You've earned that much."
"Thank you," he said with a tired but sincere smile.