The sun rose over the grand estate, casting a soft glow through the windows of Beatrice's bedroom. The room, adorned with elegant furniture and delicate tapestries, seemed to radiate a sense of tranquility. However, the atmosphere within was far from serene.
Beatrice lay in bed, her face pale and beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Nausea consumed her, twisting her stomach with each wave of discomfort.
It had started early in the morning, and the relentless sensation had only grown worse as the hours passed.
Duke Orson, Beatrice's father, stood anxiously beside her bed, concern etched across his aging face. "My dear, we must call a doctor. This illness seems severe," he urged, reaching for the bell to summon medical assistance.
Beatrice weakly raised her hand to stop him. "No, Father, I don't think it's necessary," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "It will pass, I'm sure."
