March 29th, 1788
Royal Palace of Madrid — Morning
The breakfast table was set with royal care.
A silver carafe of hot chocolate steamed in the middle, surrounded by crystal dishes of honey-glazed bread, citrus slices, and warm almond cakes. The Royal Chef himself stood a few paces away, nervously adjusting his cuffs as the final plate of omelet soufflé was brought in.
Princess Juliette sat with her legs swinging beneath the table, humming a little tune as she poured syrup on her swan-shaped brioche. Her golden-brown hair had been brushed into neat curls, and her blue dress matched the morning sky visible through the tall windows.
Lancelot sat across from her, still in his formal black coat from the early morning meetings. Though tired, his smile was gentle as he sliced a piece of pastry and placed it on her plate.
"Too much sugar again?" he asked knowingly.
She shook her head quickly. "Just enough. I need energy today. We're walking later, remember?"
"After my next meeting," he promised.
Juliette tilted her head, chewing thoughtfully. "You're always meeting someone. Lords, soldiers, bishops… now who?"
He chuckled softly. "An old man. Our father's doctor. I need to speak with him about something important."
"Is Papa worse?"
Lancelot hesitated. "Not worse, but not better either. That's why I'm trying something new. Something that might help."
She looked down at her plate, solemn. "I want him to get better."
"I do too," he said. "And if there's even a chance… I have to try."
Juliette nodded, quiet. She reached across the table and took his hand.
"Then go. I'll be here when you come back."
Lancelot gave her hand a soft squeeze. "Thank you, sister."
An hour later, the hallway outside the King's chambers was quiet save for the low footsteps of Lancelot and the sharp clack of his cane against the marble floor.
Beside him walked an older man—thin, straight-backed, and dressed in somber gray. The Royal Physician, Don Emeric de Salvatierra, was in his late sixties. His white hair was neatly combed, and his hands, though veined, were steady as stone.
He spoke in a calm tone as they approached the door.
"I must remind you, Your Royal Highness… the King's condition remains extremely delicate. Any agitation, stress, or false hope may cause more harm than good."
Lancelot stopped at the threshold. "I understand, Don Emeric. But I believe this is a conversation worth having."
The guards opened the door without hesitation this time. The chamber was warm with morning light, one curtain drawn aside to let the sun fall across the King's bed.
To their quiet surprise, the King was already awake—propped against two pillows, a thin blanket covering his chest. His eyes, though tired, were alert.
"I was wondering when the two of you would arrive," he rasped, managing a faint smile. "The birds beat you to it this morning."
"Majestad," Don Emeric greeted, bowing low.
"Father," Lancelot said, stepping forward. "You're looking stronger."
The King gave a huff. "No lies in this room, please. I look like a man being hollowed out by a chisel. But I can sit up, at least."
Lancelot offered a half-smile. "That's something. And it's why I brought Don Emeric with me."
The King turned his gaze to the physician. "He claims to have a cure. For what's killing me."
Don Emeric blinked. "A cure, Your Majesty?"
Lance stepped forward. "A potential treatment. I've been researching conditions with symptoms like his—persistent coughing, chest pain, fatigue, blood in the sputum. Everything matches what some call 'the white plague.' I believe we're dealing with a pulmonary disease that can be countered—not with herbs, but with a medicinal compound derived from soil cultures."
Don Emeric's eyes narrowed slightly. "You speak of a mold?"
"A refined derivative," Lancelot clarified. "A substance used to kill the infection itself. It doesn't ease symptoms. It targets the root."
Don Emeric folded his hands. "And what is this compound called?"
"I… haven't named it," Lancelot said carefully. "But in some foreign studies—undocumented, of course—it's been shown to stop the progression of lung afflictions like this. I have reason to believe it could work."
The physician glanced between him and the King. "Your Royal Highness, forgive me—but as impressive as your command of the symptoms is, medicine is not your field. What you describe borders on alchemy without empirical proof."
"I know what it sounds like," Lancelot said quickly. "But I'm not asking you to blindly trust me. I want you to oversee it. Supervise every step. Monitor my father. I'll have the preparation made under your observation."
The King exhaled, his breath rattling slightly. "Don Emeric. I have no illusions left. If he offers hope, even a thin one… I'll take it."
Still, the physician hesitated. "Your Majesty, we must be cautious. The body, especially in this weakened state, may reject unknown treatments. There are no testimonies. No records. No noble doctors supporting this."
"There will be a record if it works," Lancelot said calmly. "You'll write it yourself."
Don Emeric looked again at the Prince, then slowly straightened. "And if it fails?"
Lancelot's expression hardened. "If we do nothing, he dies. That's a guarantee. If we try, there's a chance he lives. You swore an oath to preserve life, did you not?"
The old man closed his eyes briefly. "I did."
"Then preserve it," Lancelot said. "You answer not just to the King, but to the future of Aragon."
There was silence in the room.
Then, at last, the King coughed again—his eyes watering slightly. "I command it, Emeric. Begin the process. Let my son lead. If this is folly, let it be mine."
Don Emeric bowed low. "As you wish, Your Majesty. I shall begin the preparations immediately. I'll require a clean room in the infirmary wing, and permission to collect whatever compound the Prince refers to."
Lancelot gave a solemn nod. "You'll have it."
The physician turned and left the chamber.
The King leaned back slowly against his pillows, eyes fluttering shut.
"Perhaps I'll see another spring," he murmured. "Not to rule… but to see the almond trees bloom again."
"You will," Lancelot said softly. "I'll see to it."
Don Emeric returned an hour later, freshly robed and with a leather-bound satchel clutched in his gloved hands. Lancelot had been waiting in the infirmary wing, seated at a wide writing desk where parchment notes and labeled vials were laid out in careful order.
The moment the physician entered, Lancelot stood.
"Good. You're here. We begin now."
Don Emeric raised a brow. "You spoke of a compound. What is its name?"
Lancelot exhaled, then said clearly, "Streptomycin."
The physician repeated the word slowly, testing it. "Strep…tomycin. Never heard of it."
"It's the name I invented," Lancelot lied and continued, this time with truth. "The compound is a byproduct from a species of soil bacteria, which produces it naturally to suppress competing microorganisms."
He picked up a sheaf of paper and handed it to the physician.
"This is a detailed description of how it may be synthesized. I wrote it myself. The bacterium in question is Streptomyces griseus, which can be isolated from agricultural soil—especially from places that have never been disturbed or chemically treated."
Don Emeric studied the note carefully, frowning. "This process… it's unlike anything we do in our current medical practice. Isolation, fermentation, filtration… this will take weeks to prepare."
"I know," Lancelot said. "You'll need a series of samples from different soils. I've already instructed the Royal Garden staff to collect earth from various untouched corners of the estate—especially around the orchard and the vineyards."
He tapped the notes. "You'll use simple nutrient-rich media. Try cow's milk broth or gelatin infused with glucose and nitrogen. Once the cultures grow, observe for zones of bacterial suppression—clearings around the colony. Those are your best candidates. From there, extract the liquid and distill it. That liquid contains the compound."
The physician looked up slowly. "How are you knowing this, Your Royal Highness?"
Lancelot just ignored him and continued.
"I've already begun drafting a simple lab inside the old alchemy wing. It has fireproof walls, access to clean water, and enough room to grow the cultures safely. You'll have what you need."
Don Emeric's face remained unreadable, but he finally said, "Even with perfect conditions, it will take a month. Maybe longer."
"Then you start today," Lancelot said. "I will supervise once I am freed with my constitutional and birthright duties. Expect sudden visits."
He handed over a smaller envelope. Inside was a folded parchment written in his own hand—a step-by-step synthesis note, with simple illustrations, filtration procedures, and dosage estimates.
"Once you have the crude extract, we'll test microdoses. On mice, rats, pigeons—any small creatures we can monitor safely. Then… when it's safe, we treat my father."
Don Emeric held the envelope carefully, as though it were a relic. "You understand, this will need secrecy. If word spreads we're testing mold on the King, the court may erupt."
"I've already drafted a cover story," Lancelot said. "You'll tell them we are trialing a new immune tonic extracted from tree bark and fungi. The kind once used by indigenous tribes in the colonies. Something exotic but harmless-sounding."
The physician gave a tired sigh, then nodded once.
"It's dangerous, Your Royal Highness," he said, voice low. "But… so is doing nothing."
Lancelot offered a faint smile. "Then let us risk it. For my father. And for a future where we can fight death, not fear it."
"As you wish, Your Royal Highness."
"I'll take my leave."
Lancelot left the room, leaving Emeric inside alone. At this point, he was still confused. Was he talking to the prince of a genius scholar? And what's more, he knew the prince and his reputation, so it's very confusing for a person like him to know much more about medicine.
Nevertheless, he would try it, for the King. His reputation is also in the line if he failed to save the monarch of Aragon.