The Prince's Script

Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Healing Secrets

The smell of antiseptic and stale incense hit Kirun like a physical blow. He groaned, his side screaming in protest as he tried to sit up. The movement was sluggish, hampered by layers of thick, linen bandages.

"Careful, Your Highness. You move like an old man who’s lost his marbles," a voice drawled from the shadows of the room.

Kirun squinted against the dim light. Sartika was sitting in a velvet armchair, a book in her lap, her eyes tracking his every twitch.

"I’m alive?" Kirun rasped, his voice sounding like gravel.

"Unfortunately for you, yes," she said, closing her book with a soft thud. "The physician said you’re stubborn. Even for a royal, that’s quite an accomplishment."

"Is that a compliment, Sartika? I think I might be dreaming," Kirun muttered, leaning his head back against the pillows.

"Don't flatter yourself. It’s a diagnosis of stupidity," she shot back, standing up and walking toward the bed. "You fought like a common street brawler back there. Since when does the Prince know how to use a serving platter as a weapon?"

"It’s called improvisation," Kirun countered, trying to keep his pulse steady. "Desperation makes you creative. Didn't you know that?"

Sartika loomed over him, her shadow cast long and sharp by the flickering candles. "Desperation, or preparation? You were predicting his moves before he even made them. You weren't fighting for your life, Lucius. You were following a script."

"You’re overthinking this. I just got lucky," he said, offering a weak, lopsided grin. "You’re just upset because you didn't get to kill me yourself."

"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have woken up," she murmured, her tone losing its sharp edge. She reached out, her cool fingers grazing the bandages on his side. "What really happened in that ballroom?"

Kirun felt his throat tighten. "The same thing that happens every day in this place. Someone tried to make me an 'ex-Prince.' It’s becoming a boring trend."

"You’re hiding something," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’ve changed. You look at me like you’re seeing a ghost, and you fight like you’ve been trained in an alleyway, not a fencing ring. Who are you, really?"

"I’m the guy who’s currently bleeding out and needs a drink," Kirun deflected, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Could you pass me some water? Or is that against the rules of your interrogation?"

Sartika sighed, a sound of genuine frustration, but she reached for the carafe on the bedside table. "You’re infuriating."

"And you’re persistent. We’re a match made in hell, aren't we?" he teased, accepting the glass. Their fingers brushed, and for a second, the air in the room felt heavy, charged with something that wasn't just suspicion.

"Don't try to charm your way out of this," she warned, though she didn't pull her hand away immediately. "I know about the diary, Lucius. I saw you holding it. I saw the ink move."

Kirun froze, the water glass mid-air. "You saw that?"

"I’m not blind," she replied, her eyes narrowing. "It’s not just a journal. It’s an instruction manual, isn't it? Is that how you survived the tea? The assassins? The diary tells you what to do."

"And if it does?" Kirun asked, setting the glass down. "Does that make me a villain or a survivor?"

"It makes you a puppet," she spat. "And I don't dance with puppets."

"Then why are you still here?" he challenged, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in his ribs. "You could have turned me in to the King. You could have walked out that door and left me to the guards. But you didn't. Why?"

Sartika hesitated, a flicker of something—fear? curiosity?—crossing her usually stoic face. "Because I’m the one who stands to lose the most if you die, you idiot."

"Is that so? Or are you just curious to see how the story ends?" Kirun pushed, his gaze locking with hers. "Admit it, you’re hooked."

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his skin. "I’m hooked on finding out what you’re planning to do next. And believe me, the moment you become useless, I’ll be the one to hand you the shovel for your own grave."

"I look forward to it," Kirun whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "But for now, I think I’ve earned a nap."

"Sleep," she commanded, turning toward the door. "But don't think for a second that this conversation is over."

As she exited, the heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving Kirun in the oppressive silence of the medical wing. He breathed a sigh of relief, his body sagging back into the mattress. His hand drifted to the nightstand, seeking the weight of the diary.

It was lying there, cold and unassuming. But as his fingers brushed the leather, the surface rippled.

‘9:15 AM: She’s lying. She didn't stay to protect you, and she isn't interested in your survival. Check the seal on her glove.’

Kirun frowned, pulling the book into the dim light. He flipped to the back, his heart skipping a beat.

‘She has the royal stamp of the usurpers under her ring. She isn't a guard, Lucius. She’s the one who authorized your death warrant. And she’s coming back in ten minutes with the poison.’

Kirun felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at the locked door, then back at the ink, which was now pulsing with a rhythmic, sickening glow.

‘She’s not just a spy. She’s your sister.’