CHAPTER 454: THE AFTERMATH: REUBEN

Reuben was carried into his chambers on a stretcher, his body limp, his breathing shallow. The royal physicians swarmed over him like vultures over a battlefield, their hands slick with ointments, salves, and blood. The air stank of iron, sweat, and crushed herbs.

"The legs..." one physician whispered after peeling away the makeshift splints. His face drained of color. "Shattered. Even if he survives, he may never walk again." He murmured, shaking his head.

Another bent low, examining the crude but effective stitches that bound the torn flesh together. "Who realigned the bones and did these sutures?" the head physician asked, astonishment clear in his tone.

Jethru, still spattered with another man’s blood from saving the royal guard, even if it was Orion that Lara had begged, glanced up with cool indifference. "Why do you ask?"

"Whoever he is, he did a good job, and we wanted to ask for pointers," the head physician replied while putting on ointment on the other parts of Reuben’s body.

The head physician dabbed thick green ointment into a wound, shaking his head in disbelief. "Because whoever did this work saved his life. The alignments are precise, the stitching—clean. We’d ask for pointers."

"My friend and my disciple," Jethru replied flatly, as though the subject bored him.

The physicians exchanged startled looks. A disciple who could outmatch their own years of training? Before they could ask further, Jethru rummaged through his satchel and produced something alien—clear, coiled plastic tubing.

"It will not be convenient for the crown prince to move in the next two days," Jethru said, matter-of-fact. "Should he need to relieve himself, use this."

"This..." the head physician blinked, baffled, then slowly understood. His lips parted in awe. Practical. Ingenious. His curiosity to meet this so-called disciple deepened into hunger.

...

Queen Helga burst into the chamber, newly bathed and robed in fresh silks, her face pale with fury and fear. She swept to her son’s side, her eyes devouring his bandaged form. His legs were encased in layers of cloth, reinforced with smooth wooden splints, hardened with waxes and resins.

"How is my son?" she demanded, her voice cutting like a blade.

"Your Majesty," the head physician said carefully, "his life no longer hangs in the balance. But his injuries are severe. It is possible—" he hesitated "—that he may never walk again." He tried to deliver the message as gently as possible.

The queen froze. Then her eyes ignited. "No!" she hissed, her hands trembling over Reuben’s pale face. "My son cannot be a cripple. He will heal. By the gods, he must heal." She spun on the physicians, her fury like fire. "Spare nothing. Use every tincture, every herb. Drain the treasury if you must. But if he does not stand again—" her voice dropped into a venomous whisper "—I will see you all crippled beside him."

The head physician’s blood ran cold. He was horrified by the queen’s outbursts. Did she mean it?

"Your Majesty," he tried, voice trembling, "please calm yourself. The crown prince needs rest—please do not disturb his rest"

"Are you telling me what to do?" Helga’s scream split the room. Her hand lashed out, striking the physician hard across the face.

The physicians were shocked. When had the queen become so violent?

Before anyone could react, Jethru moved. A blur. A pressure point struck. The queen collapsed in a heap at the bedside.

Gasps echoed. The three physicians froze, eyes wide with horror.

"What are you staring at?" Jethru said evenly, brushing his hands together. "The queen was overcome with grief and fainted. Send her back to her chambers."

...

When the chamber finally quieted, Reuben stirred. His eyelids fluttered. For a heartbeat he thought he was dead—but no, he knew this ceiling, these walls. He was back in his room. Four figures hovered near him: the physicians, and Jethru watching with unreadable eyes.

"Where is Amielle? Where is my mother?" His voice cracked with dread.

Jethru arched a brow. Good, he thought. He does not ask for Mira. Perhaps he understands the folly of his choices at last.

"They are safe, Your Highness," Jethru said calmly. "Rescued and resting in their rooms." The physicians busied themselves, pretending not to hear.

"What happened? Did the reinforcements from Uncle Duval and Uncle Malik arrive and subdue the Zurans?" The crown prince asked while rubbing his temple.

"No. Duval and Malik’s armies were under Turik’s control. It was Prince Alaric, General Odin, the commanders under him, and the Phoenix Legion army that subdued the Zurans and saved the kingdom of Northem." Jethru explained.

Reuben frowned but did not ask further why Alaric and General Odin were here. He also did not ask about Duval and Malik.

But knowing that Northem was safe, he exhaled a trembling sigh of relief. Then memory struck him like a hammer: the cruelty in Turik’s eyes, the sound of his own bones shattering. His gaze dropped to his legs. Bandaged and looking weird.

"My legs..." His voice faltered, trembling. "Will they heal?" His gaze sought that of the royal physician.

The royal physician knelt beside him, forcing his face into a mask of calm. "Your Highness, you are fortunate. Someone realigned your bones and closed your wounds in time. It saved your life. With time, you may stand again."

But the words were only half-truths—they were a balm, nothing more. Reuben’s eyes narrowed. He had been trained from childhood to sense lies. "You are deceiving me," he whispered hoarsely.

"Your Highness," the physician stammered, "the injury is still fresh. Let us wait for the bones to mend before we—reassess your condition."

Reuben’s face twisted in fury and despair. "Turik," he spat, his voice full of hate. "Has he been caught?"

The physician hesitated, then flicked a desperate glance at Jethru, hoping that he would be the one to break the news.

Jethru folded his arms. His tone was dry, almost mocking. "Turik proved as cunning as ever. He took the queen, your consort, your concubine, even your sister as hostages. The hostages were recovered... but Turik escaped."

"Escaped?" Reuben’s face contorted. "How?"

Jethru’s lips curved with sarcasm. "Why not? He entered the palace with ease, wreaked havoc at will. Why should escape be beyond him? But take comfort—General Odin broke his legs, just as he broke yours. Northem has had its vengeance, in part. And one more thing: we have declared war on Zura."

Reuben’s eyes widened. "We—declared war?" He tried to rise, but his ruined body betrayed him. "How long... have I been unconscious?"

"Long enough," Jethru said. His words were edged, deliberate. "The war was approved by King Heimdal himself."