Chapter 31: Power of Healing

It was already nighttime when Ilaria stirred awake, the world outside her window was already swallowed with the cold night air of Noctharis. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with the weight of the day’s exhaustion, and she blinked against the soft glow of the lanterns that cast warm, flickering light across the room.

The balcony doors were firmly shut, shielding the interior from the cool night air. The curtains remained still, not disturbed by any form of breeze. She turned her head against the pillow and her gaze fell on Melyn who sat uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, eyes closed in what seemed like a light doze.

The sight tugged at Ilaria’s chest. Relief stirred within her at the thought that someone remained by her side, though it mingled with the dull ache of fear and exhaustion. After all, only Melyn could endure her demands. She shifted beneath the covers, fingers curling into the pillow she clutched, inching closer to her handmaiden.

The day had been long, filled with shadows and whispers that clawed at her courage. Now, in the quiet of the night, she could not help but feel a creeping reminder that the darkness might return, and that The Blithe was never truly gone. Even so, seeing Melyn there offered a small, stubborn ember of comfort in the otherwise oppressive gloom.

A faint smile flickered across her lips for a fleeting beat, only to vanish as a breath of whisper swept past her cheek, raising goosebumps along her skin. Ilaria’s gaze subconsciously drifted toward the center of the room, an empty stretch of polished floor illuminated only by the trembling glow of the lanterns.

She had not meant to imagine, but the longer she stared, the more certain she became that something unseen was persisting there, watching her.

Before the horror could take hold of her completely, she tore her eyes away, unable to endure the weight of that invisible gaze any longer. Her twitching fingers reached for Melyn’s hand to ground herself. Then, with a small shiver, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. The motion roused the maid into drowsy alertness.

“Princess…?” Melyn’s voice was soft, heavy with sleep, but touched with a hint of concern.

Closing her eyes, Ilaria forced herself to breathe, willing her body into rest. “It’s fine…” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Just stay close…”

Because if she could just sleep…just slip back into the numbness, then perhaps the shadows would not follow her into her dreams.

When Ilaria opened her eyes again, it was already morning. The balcony was already wide open. She stirred beneath her covers, squinting against the brightness as though it was a physical presence trying to pull her from the lingering fear of the night.

Her blurry eyes settled on Melyn, who was already fussing about the room with her usual morning duties. Suppressing a yawn, her gaze drifted to a few unfamiliar faces. They wore the same gown as Melyn, so she assumed they must be her newly assigned maids.

“Good morning,” she stretched her arms and slowly rose from the bed, smiling as Melyn approached with her usual diligence.

Melyn sat on the side of the bed, her eyes were attentive as she gently took Ilaria’s hand to inspect the bandage from yesterday. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

Ilaria looked down, only now noticing the white cloth tied neatly around her skin, making her squint her eyes at it in question. “Oh…this? Why do I have this?”

“You scraped it yesterday, but it’s not that bad,” Melyn said, not wanting the princess to linger on the memory. “I patched it before it worsened. Does it hurt?”

Ilaria tilted her head, watching her fussing over the bandage with careful touch. “I hardly remember it,” she admitted, her voice was faint with wonder. Then, with a small, sheepish laugh, she shook her head. “I didn’t even feel anything.”

“That’s because you were trembling so hard you wouldn’t have noticed if I stitched your whole arm,” Melyn muttered softly, though the hint of relief in her tone betrayed her worry.

Melyn gently unwrapped the last strip of bandage, revealing the small stitch. Ilaria’s gaze lingered on her scraped hand. Melyn was right, it was not that bad. Yet when she moved her thumb, it felt as though her flesh were being torn apart, causing her to wince.

With a small purse of her lips, an idea sparked in her mind. Determination flashed in her eyes as she brushed her hair back and ready herself.

“Watch this.” She drew in a deep breath and pressed her fingers gently to the wound, biting her tongue in concentration. The instant her touch met the stitch, a faint white glow shimmered across her skin, and the flesh knitted together under Melyn’s wide eyes.

“There…” Ilaria muttered, her voice a mix of pride and awe as she smiled proudly when the swell disappeared, “all~ better.”

Surprised, Melyn gaped at the sight and her mind raced, recalling the countless stories she had heard about Caelwyn blood; about how it was said to be a blessing that could mend the gravest of wounds, cure diseases thought incurable, and even temper the toll of age on its bearer.

To witness it firsthand was something she had never imagined, especially from a descendant of the divine White Dragon itself. She had seen magic with her own eyes, but nothing quite like the healing she had just witnessed. Well, Ilaria was always so buoyant she sometimes forgot she came from a bloodline of immense power.

“Incredible…You healed it yourself,” Melyn whispered in astonishment.

“It’s just a scratch, but it feels amazing to be able to do this,” Ilaria wiggled her brows, looking at her now smooth, restored hand and lifting it proudly. Then she glanced at the antechamber, asking, “Is my jasmine bath ready, Mel? The one with all the petals?”

Melyn nodded with a gentle smile, raising on her feet to help the princess. “Yes, just as you like it.”

“Perfect! I’ve missed it so much! It feels like it’s been forever since the last time I took a nice bath,” Ilaria clapped her hands, bouncing lightly while babbling in glee as she followed Melyn to the bathroom.

She felt like she just gained extra energy. The bathwater steamed gently, wrapping her in comforting warmth that chased away the lingering chill from the night before. She slept too much yesterday, causing her to be inevitably hungry considering she had skipped both lunch and dinner after the turmoil.

When she was done, Ilaria let out a soft, contented sigh, the warmth of the bath still lingering on her skin even after she stepped out. The new maids helped her into her dress, their careful hands smoothing the fabric without a word. One of them, who was brushing the front of her skirt, trembled slightly.

Upon noticing this, Ilaria bent down with a light smile. It must be overwhelming for her to serve a royalty for the first time. But Ilaria did not want them to feel uneasy in her presence; she wanted them to feel welcomed, not intimidated.

“Hello there~” she cooed warmly. “What’s your name?”

The girl blinked, startled by the princess’ friendliness. “V-Vivienne, Your Highness,” she stammered, bowing her head as if she was already doing something guilty.

Ilaria chuckled softly, reaching out to lightly pat Vivienne’s shoulder. “Vivienne…such a lovely name! Don’t look so nervous, you can speak freely with me.”

But Vivienne hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the hem of the princess’ dress before she meekly pulled away. “I…I was warned by…by His Highness not to approach you improperly, princess. To…to behave with utmost caution.”

Ilaria’s brows furrowed, a quiet frown tugging at her thoughts. Why would he intimidate the staff like that? The notion unsettled her. They had not done anything wrong. First, he replaced them, and now he frightened them. He was impossibly picky!

Without meaning to, her mind suddenly drifted back to the encounter with Levan and Seraphine at the library, and she stilled. The intimate gestures, the closeness, the way she spoke so casually with him…each memory pricked at her. She pressed a hand over her heart, blinking away the fleeting sting.

“Princess?” Melyn’s voice called gently, already accustomed to ask first as the princess might be in the mood for a stroll. “Do you want to go to the kitchen, or shall I bring your breakfast here?”

Ilaria blinked and forced a small smile, shaking off her thoughts. “No, I want to go,” she said brightly.

“We’ll chat later,” she said, smiling and giving Vivienne’s hand a reassuring squeeze before she let go and hurried after Melyn, eager to start the day.

When they arrived at the royal kitchen, the warm aroma of fresh bread and simmering stews greeted them. Staff bustling about stopped working at the familiar sight of the princess, then instinctively dipped their heads in deep bows, murmuring polite greetings before resuming their work.

Ilaria’s eyes immediately found the head chef, a short, middle-aged man bustling over a tray of steaming dishes. The moment he noticed her chiming in with that familiar cheerful smile, a knowing grin spread across his face.

“Ah, look who’s here,” he squinted one eye, watching Ilaria bounding to him like some eager kid. “The little sunbeam has finally risen,” he teased, as if it were a secret only they shared.

Ilaria’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned slightly forward, continuing the line with a radiant smile. “…and demands extra cheese in her omelette!”

The head chef barked a laugh, shaking his head fondly. With the napkin from his shoulder, he dabbed the sweat from his brow before turning back to the open hearth. “Always the same, princess. Come closer if you like, but mind the fire! One wrong step, and this little sunbeam might get singed.”

Ilaria leaned over the counter, eyes wide as flames leapt from the skillet. “It’s so big! How do you control it?”

He flicked the pan with a practiced flick of his wrist, sending a sizzle through the kitchen. “Years of practice…and a bit of stubbornness. Not for the faint of heart, I promise.”

“Wow…” Ilaria whispered, as she sniffed the air. “Everything smells amazing. Did you restock the honey and cinnamon like I asked?”

He raised a brow, squinting one eye. “Of course! The pantry is bursting with all your favourites, even the vanilla pods from the southern markets.”

Ilaria hopped a little, bouncing on her toes in sheer excitement. “And my baking stuff too? New rolling pins and molds?”

“All safe and sound,” the chef laughed. “Don’t worry, little sunbeam. You can make as many pastries as your heart desires.”

“Then…” She peeked into a tray of eggs, eyes sparkling. “Do you think I could try making omelettes with you today? I promise I’ll stay out of the flames.”

The head chef gave her a mock stern look, narrowing his eyes as he wagged a thick finger at her. “Ah-ah, no tricks, little sunbeam. This fire eats fingers for breakfast. Promise me you won’t go near it, or else…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “No extra cheese.”

Ilaria’s lips parted in a tiny gasp, then she pouted. “You’re cruel!”

“And you’re reckless,” he countered tenderly, already cracking eggs into a pan over the roaring hearth. The flames flared beneath the skillet, sending a golden glow over his weathered face. “Rest assure, princess, your breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

Ilaria sighed theatrically, then broke into a grin. “Okay~ I’ll behave, but the cheese better be worth it.”

Leaving him to his work, Ilaria skipped toward the far corner of the kitchen to her littlebaking corner. A neat stack of clay jars and wooden crates had been freshly arranged there, just like she asked.

She bent down, eyes widening in delight as she uncovered new sacks of flour and sugar tied neatly, jars of honey glinting in the light, even small vials of imported vanilla and cinnamon sticks.

“They restocked it all!” she exclaimed, brushing her fingers reverently over the smooth jars. Everything she loved was neatly lined up for her. She could not wait to decide what kind of pastries she would bake next.

But then her gaze caught on something odd. There was a small clay jar pushed carelessly to the edge of the table, its lid half-tilted as if someone had placed it there in haste. A fine brown powder clung to the rim.

“Chocolate…powder?” she murmured in wonder. She was certain she had not asked for it. Glancing back toward the stove, she raised her voice just enough to carry over the crackle of fire and clatter of pans. “Chef, is this chocolate powder mine?”

The man did not so much as glance her way, busy tossing the omelette into a pan with a hiss of steam. His voice came out rough but warm, carrying over the roar of the fire. “Everything on that table is yours, princess. If it’s there, it’s meant for you.”

Ilaria’s mouth circled into an ’O’ shape as she nods, glancing down at the jar. Curious, she lifted it closer, sniffing faintly at the earthy, spiced scent before shrugging. Well, whatever it was, it looked harmless enough.

She set it neatly between the other jars, slotting it into place. Unaware of its true nature, she turned back to her corner with a bright smile, humming to herself.

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