Chapter : 759

And then she told her of his theory. The revolutionary, heretical idea that the Qadir boy’s sickness was not of the body, but of the spirit—a disharmony that could not be fought, but only soothed.

Lady Anissa, a woman raised on a diet of courtly intrigue, was a pragmatist. She did not believe in fairy tales. But Sumaiya’s belief was so absolute, so fierce, that it was impossible to dismiss. The story was insane. But what if it was true?

“A slum doctor?” Lady Anissa said, her voice a mixture of skepticism and a dawning, reluctant wonder. “And you wish for me to approach Timur Qadir—the Master of the Royal Armories, one of the proudest and most stubborn men in the kingdom—and tell him to entrust his dying son to this unknown, unlicensed healer?”

“I do,” Sumaiya said, her gaze unwavering. “I am asking you to help me get a message to him. To tell him that there is a man who may have an answer, who has succeeded where all the great physicians have failed. I am asking you, Aunt, to help me give that family one last, desperate chance.”

She took her aunt’s hand, her voice dropping to an intense, personal plea. “You have known me my entire life. Have you ever known me to be a fool? Have you ever known me to chase fantasies? I have seen what this man can do with my own eyes. I believe in him. I am begging you to believe in me.”

The plea, coming from her stoic, ever-composed ward, was a powerful, emotional blow. Lady Anissa looked into Sumaiya’s eyes and saw not the delusion of a desperate woman, but the unshakeable conviction of a true believer.

She was silent for a long moment, the fate of a great house resting on her decision. To interfere in the affairs of Lord Qadir was a dangerous political gambit. If this doctor was a fraud, the backlash could be catastrophic. But if he was real…

Finally, she let out a long, slow breath, her decision made. “Very well, my dear,” she said, her voice filled with a new resolve. “You have made your case. The lion is proud, but he is also a grieving father. And a grieving father will listen to any song that promises a new dawn.” She walked to her ornate writing desk and took up a quill. “I cannot guarantee he will see your doctor. But I will get you through his door. I will write a letter to Lady Qadir. She is a mother before she is a lady. Her heart may be more open to a miracle than her husband’s head.”

She began to write, her elegant script flowing across the heavy parchment. Sumaiya watched, her heart hammering in her chest. She had done it. She had leveraged her unique, cherished relationship with one of the kingdom’s most powerful women. The bridge had been built. Now, all she had to do was convince the grieving, desperate family on the other side to let her doctor cross it.

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The Qadir estate was a fortress of sorrow. Located in the most exclusive district of the capital, it was a magnificent compound of white stone and dark, polished wood, surrounded by high walls and immaculate gardens. But the beauty of the place was a hollow shell. A palpable aura of grief hung over it like a shroud, silencing the birds in the trees and chilling the very air. The guards at the gate, elite soldiers handpicked from the army, stood with a somber, stoic stillness, their faces grim. The usual hustle and bustle of a great house was gone, replaced by a funereal quiet.

When Sumaiya’s carriage arrived, it was not stopped or questioned. The guards recognized the crest of Lady Anissa on the door and immediately, respectfully, opened the gates. Their salute was crisp and formal, their eyes showing a flicker of surprise and renewed hope at the sight of the woman within. Her presence here was a significant event.

The steward, a stern, gray-haired man whose face was etched with the strain of his master’s tragedy, met her at the bottom of the grand steps. He did not treat her as a common messenger. He bowed deeply, his posture one of profound respect for her station, whatever it might be.

“Lady Sumaiya,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “We were not expecting you. An honor.” He accepted the letter she offered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the royal seal. He led her not to a common receiving hall, but to a small, private solarium at the back of the estate, a room filled with wilting flowers that seemed to be mirroring the fate of the house’s heir.

Chapter : 760

She waited. The minutes crawled by, each one a small eternity. She could hear the distant, muffled sound of a woman’s weeping from somewhere in the floors above. The sound was a constant, heartbreaking reminder of the stakes of her audacious mission.

Finally, the door opened, and Lord Timur Qadir entered. He was a man who seemed to have been carved from granite. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a hawkish face and a neatly trimmed black beard, he was the very picture of martial power. But the grief had taken its toll. The granite was cracked. His eyes, the color of dark, stormy seas, were bloodshot and sunken. The immense power he radiated was banked, smothered under a heavy blanket of despair. He held Lady Anissa’s letter in his hand, his knuckles white.

“Lady Anissa speaks of you in glowing terms, as she always has,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that held no warmth. “She says you are a woman of great sense and compassion. Which makes what she has written here all the more… baffling.” He looked at her, his gaze a physical weight. “She speaks of a miracle worker. A slum doctor. She suggests I allow this… person… to see my son.”

His tone was one of utter, weary disbelief. It was clear he saw this as a final, desperate insult, a piece of fanciful nonsense sent to torment him in his darkest hour.

Sumaiya met his gaze without flinching. She stood and gave a respectful, but not subservient, bow. “My Lord Qadir. I know how this must sound. I know it is an imposition of the highest order. If our situations were any different, I would never dare to bring such a story to your door.”

She took a deep breath, marshaling all of her conviction. “I will not waste your time with tales. I will speak only the truth of what I have witnessed. I know a man, a doctor named Zayn. He works in the Lower Coil. He seeks no fame, no fortune. I saw him save a child who was dying of the same wasting sickness that afflicts your son. The city’s healers had given up. Doctor Zayn dismissed their talk as superstition. He identified a sickness of the lungs, and he created a cure from two herbs that our finest alchemists believe to be mere legend. He journeyed into the Dahaka Jungle himself to retrieve them.”

She let that last detail sink in. A man who had faced the Green Hell and returned.

“I was with him,” she continued, her voice low and intense. “I saw his courage. I saw his knowledge. It is a knowledge that is not of our time. He sees things others cannot. He does not guess; he knows. He is the most brilliant, compassionate, and capable healer I have ever met. And I believe, with every fiber of my being, that he is your son’s last and only hope.”

Her speech was a masterpiece of passionate sincerity. She did not plead or beg. She stated facts as she knew them, her belief in Zayn a burning, unshakeable fire.

Lord Qadir listened, his stony expression unreadable. For a long moment after she finished, he was silent. He walked to the large glass window and stared out at his perfectly manicured, lifeless gardens.

“I have had a dozen ‘miracle workers’ in this house over the past month,” he said, his back still to her. “They have all taken my gold. And they have all left my son weaker than he was before.” His voice was a flat, dead thing, the sound of a man who had had his hope systematically amputated, piece by painful piece.

“My wife… she no longer leaves his room,” he continued, his voice cracking for a fraction of a second. “She sits and waits. And I… I, the Master of the Armories, the man who can level a city… can do nothing but watch my own bloodline turn to dust.”

He finally turned to face her, and she saw the raw, naked agony in his eyes. The great lord was gone. This was just a father. A broken father.

“Why should I believe your doctor is any different?” he asked, the question a raw, desperate plea. “Give me one reason to allow another charlatan to torment my family with false hope.”

Sumaiya met his gaze, and her answer was simple, direct, and devastatingly effective.

“Because he asks for nothing,” she said. “He did not send me. He does not even know I am here. He laments his inability to help you because of his low station. He seeks no gold, no favor, no fame. His only desire is to heal. And because, my Lord, you have absolutely nothing left to lose.”