The weretiger led him through the capital’s winding streets without a word.

This was not quite a friendly escort, he noted. The weretiger’s massive frame moved through the evening crowds, confident that people would get out of his way, and people did. His eyes never once glanced back to check if Roarke was following. He simply assumed obedience.

The assumption was correct, though. Father Rohan, humble temple healer, who was just coincidentally strong enough to have a humanoid form, would not dream of refusing a summons from a noble house. Father Rohan, humble temple healer, had no reason to refuse.

But, Father Rohan, humble temple healer, was also mentally calculating the distance to the Dawnoro Capital Residence and the time remaining before the birthday celebration began, and the result... was not encouraging.

They arrived at a residence that could only be described as modest for nobles by the most generous possible definition of the word.

The Vasiliev name carried weight. Old weight. Tiger King weight.

The family had ruled the northeastern territories for generations, had produced warriors and statesmen. Their official capitaNortheaster, the one used for diplomatic functions and the hosting of foreign dignitaries, was, by all accounts, magnificent. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

But this was not that residence.

This was a personal residence perhaps. Arzhen Vasiliev’s private retreat. And it was, to put it charitably, small. A townhouse, really. Squeezed between a bookbindery and a textile merchant’s shop, its facade unremarkable, its windows dark.

No guards at the door, no banners bearing the Vasiliev crest, no indication whatsoever that a prince of the realm lived here.

It could not be compared to the Dawnoro Capital Residence, that sprawling, elegant estate where Arkai and his Luna hosted banquets. It also could not be compared to the Vasiliev official residence, which sat in the noble district like a peacock among pigeons.

Perhaps this was a place a man lived when he did not want to be found. Or when he could not afford better. Or... both.

Interesting.

The interior was no grander than the exterior. He saw a sitting room, sparsely furnished but clean with a few books on a shelf and a cold fireplace. Also a narrow staircase leading to what were presumably sleeping quarters.

And there, sprawled across a long, soft couch was Prince Arzhen Vasiliev.

He looked terrible.

’Woe-is-me terrible’ might be popular for noblemen performing illness for sympathy these days, but this wasn’t it. This was quite genuine, body and mind locked in a protracted war and neither side was winning.

Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes. His skin was pale, almost grey, stretched a bit too tight over the sharp bones of his face. His hair, usually impeccably styled, was lank and unwashed, falling across his forehead in limp strands. His ailment, whatever it was, looked marrowed, bone deep.

He looked like he had tried to sleep and failed. Or had refused to sleep and was scared of it.

His eyes, when they tracked to Roarke’s face, were sharp despite everything. It seemed he had not forgotten how to be dangerous even if his body had betrayed him.

"Father Rohan." He greeted him flat and unwelcomingly. He clearly needed help, yet resented every syllable of the admission.

"Apparently, the procedure of borrowing a temple healer is quite complicated. One would think the temple would be eager to serve a prince. One would be wrong."

Father Rohan, the character Roarke was playing, did not flinch. Father Rohan was a humble healer, accustomed to difficult patients. He was playing someone who was immune to the barbs of men who lashed out because they were in pain and did not know how to ask for help.

But beneath everything, Roarke was assessing.

Arzhen was, as described, pale. Tremors plagued his hands, and his breathing was too shallow. Too controlled? Like he was holding himself together by sheer will? Obsession?

"Prince Vasiliev..." he said softly, gentler than Father Rohan’s usual clinical tone. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing with what appeared to be genuine worry. "You are relapsing."

Well, what could Roarke say seeing a body that was cannibalizing itself to keep its mind upright?

"Medicine." The word snapped out of Arzhen’s mouth. Impatiently. "I just want medicine. Provide me with medicine through my men and tell no one."

The prince’s eyes narrowed further, still bloodshot. He hissed, "No one... should know about this."

Roarke gently shook his head, "But... you know that the temple requires me to note every medicine I prov—"

"I said NO ONE!" Arzhen exploded. His fist slammed against the arm of the couch, and the aide beside him flinched.

Ah. He has lost his sanity.

Well, that was not exactly news. Roarke had known Arzhen Vasiliev had lost his sanity a long time ago. The elixir had healed his body and reinforced his brain, given him a temporary reprieve from whatever internal demons were gnawing at his grey matter.

But the reprieve had been just that. Temporary. The lack of sleep and the stress his mind was putting his body through had burned through the elixir’s benefits like a wildfire through dry grass.

This deterioration was too rapid, though.

Roarke wondered what had broken the proud Tiger Prince so badly. What had pushed him so far down that he could not even begin to climb out?

Eh. Roarke didn’t care.

But Father Rohan was a healer, so he should, at the very least, act like he cared. So Roarke reached into his robe and produced a small, muddy vial.

"You will have your medicine." Roarke said. In the unassuming cheap glass with a cork stopper, the liquid was the color of weak tea. Quite cloudy and unappealing.

It was the elixir Lady Sees had provided. Or rather, a version of it. She had explained that this batch had been diluted to the maximum until the most minimum of its benefit. Just enough to help, but not enough to stand out.

After all, the kind of mission Roarke was conducting required him to be unremarkable. A temple healer with miracle cures would attract questions, but a temple healer with mildly effective calming draughts would attract almost nothing.

"Please take this for now. This is merely a concoction with calming properties in it, so do not expect much from it, my prince."

He held the vial out.

Arzhen’s eyes flicked to the vial, then back to Roarke’s face. "I want the medicine you gave me previously. The one that cured me."

He sounded like someone who had been given a sip of real relief and was now being offered a sip of dirty water. Ungrateful bastard.

"That medicine requires more expensive ingredients. It will be difficult to provide that without the temple knowing, Your Highness." Roarke said as he walked closer without fear, even though the aide beside him immediately brandished his claws.

Roarke ignored him and knelt beside the couch. His hand rose and pressed gently against Arzhen’s forehead.

The prince stiffened. His eyes fixed on Roarke’s face with fury and confusion.

"You need more specific medication and a detailed medical assessment. Forgive me for saying this, but I begin to suspect the problem is more psychological."

Psychological?

Arzhen’s eyes faltered.

He knew he had been driven crazy. He knew the white mist had been creeping back into his dreams, that the Dragon Lord’s face haunted his waking hours, and the weight of everything he had done and failed to do was pressing down on his skull.

But to hear it named—no, diagnosed...

By a temple healer, no less.

He had gone insane?

Clinically?

This—

Has he fallen this pathetically?

"How dare you..." a growl rumbled out of Arzhen’s chest.

But Father Rohan just looked at Arzhen with sincerity. "It is something I have seen more times than I would like to admit, my prince." Roarke said softly, steadily. "A lot of strong people find themselves in this predicament later in their lives."

Arzhen’s mind halted.

Strong people...?