27

  Galen and Hector moved swiftly through the grand corridors of the castle, their robes trailing behind them as palace guards fell into step at their sides. The torches along the walls flickered with a restless flame—mirroring the urgency in their steps. Galen kept glancing toward Hector, whose expression was grim and unwavering.

  “We must speak directly to His Majesty,” Galen said, his tone firm. “If we delay any further, her condition may advance beyond our ability to save her.”

  The guards announced their arrival at the Hall of Audience, where King Aurelius of Aurum sat upon his golden and sapphire throne. His presence was commanding—broad shoulders, graying beard, eyes that once held the warmth of a father now hardened by exhaustion and fear.

  When Galen requested permission to treat Princess Sophia, the king’s brows furrowed sharply.

  “Hector,” the king said, voice low with suspicion. “I know of your brilliance. The archives still record your feats from Diospyrus. But your name is also tied to unorthodox practices… experiments on fallen soldiers… hybrid beasts…”

  Hector did not flinch. “Your Majesty, if I had time to debate my past, I would. But your daughter is cursed. The noble who died at the banquet was not acting of his own will. This is not madness. It is craft. Cursed craft. She does not have injuries of the body, but of the spirit.”

  The King rose from his throne. His voice trembled—not with fear, but with the pain of a father.

  “I will not allow untested remedies to harm her further—”

  “Your Majesty,” Galen interrupted softly, “the princess has begun hallucinating insects crawling beneath her skin. The royal physician is lost. The longer we wait, the curse will take root. That noble… was the beginning.”

  The king froze. Tremors broke across his stern face.

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  Finally—he nodded.

  “Take me to her.”

  They walked quickly to the princess’s private chamber.

  The curtains were drawn. The air was cold. Princess Sophia—once radiant—was pale, shivering beneath layers of blankets. Her breathing was uneven, her hair disheveled. When the door opened, she flinched and drew her knees to her chest, her eyes darting wildly as if expecting something to crawl across the floor.

  “My daughter…” the king whispered, voice cracking as he knelt beside her.

  Sophia’s eyes widened.

  “Father… they’re crawling again… I can feel them—”

  But her arms showed nothing.

  The royal physician stood nearby, shaking helplessly.

  Hector approached slowly. His tone became gentle—almost painfully kind.

  “Princess Sophia. Do you remember any sound, any word, spoken by the noble before the attack?”

  Sophia trembled. She shook her head, but her father encouraged her softly.

  “Think, my child. Please.”

  Sophia closed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks.

  “There was… a song…” she whispered.

  “Soft… like a lullaby. It made me feel safe… then cold… then afraid…”

  She swallowed, voice breaking.

  “And at the end… I heard it clearly…

  ‘All Hail… Great Barang.’”

  Galen and the King exchanged horrified looks.

  But Hector’s expression merely hardened—because he expected this.

  “It is as I feared,” Hector murmured. “The curse was planted before the banquet—woven into her spirit. We are not dealing with a simple assassin. We are dealing with a practitioner of the Old Hex Craft—curse magic used only in forbidden blood clans.”

  The king’s hands clenched into fists. “Can you save her?”

  “I can try.”

  Hector withdrew a small golden vial from his bag—the same vial he and Galen had crafted in the alchemy lab. He pressed it into the king’s hand.

  “Have her drink.”

  The King lifted his daughter gently and brought the vial to her lips. Sophia swallowed weakly.

  At first—nothing.

  Then—

  Her back arched violently.

  Sophia screamed, her body convulsing.

  She clutched her throat, gagging—retching—vomiting.

  Food came first.

  Then bile.

  Then—

  Eggs.

  Small, white, translucent eggs spilled from her mouth onto the sheets. Some cracked—releasing tiny wormlike larvae that writhed and twitched on the bed.

  The royal physician collapsed to the floor in horror.

  Galen’s breath stopped.

  The King screamed her name—gripping her shoulders.

  Hector’s face went pale, eyes widening—not with surprise, but with dread.

  “We are too late,” he whispered.

  The curse had already taken root.

  And somewhere in the dark places of Maharlika—

  Great Barang smiled.