The king sat at the edge of the queen's bed, his hand trembling as he held hers, his face worn and pale.
Three agonizing weeks had passed since his wife collapsed, and today, the healers had finally gathered enough information to diagnose her illness. His heart raced with a mixture of hope and dread as the healers stood before him.
They shifted nervously, exchanging anxious glances, their bodies tense as though they feared what was to come.
The chief healer, a stooped man named Balthor, took a small step forward, his voice low and careful. "Your Majesty, we have identified the nature of the queen's ailment. It is… it is a rare illness known as 'Nyrax Syndrome.'"
The king blinked, the name unfamiliar to him. "Nyrax Syndrome?" he echoed, sitting up straighter. "What is that? Can it be treated?"
Balthor hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor. He could feel the weight of the king's gaze, heavy and expectant.
