Days passed in a blur of exhaustive debate, but the grueling session of the Royal Court eventually drew to a remarkably peaceful conclusion. One by one, the high lords departed for their respective tribal territories, their compliance serving as a quiet endorsement of Theresa's sovereign rule over the nation.
While the local citizens breathed a collective sigh of relief—interpreting the quiet resolution as proof that a devastating civil war had been averted and a stable future was finally within reach—the Doctor found the entire display incredibly strange. The notorious sovereigns of the Royal Court had been astonishingly docile, offering almost zero resistance to Theresa reclaiming absolute authority over the state. That was completely out of character for that volatile bunch.
After all, when Theresis had first ignited his rebellion years ago, these exact same figures had chosen to stand idly by for their own selfish reasons, with several even providing covert backing to the Regent's advancing legions.
Otherwise, how could they have justified their absolute silence during the bloody internal strife? They had hidden behind the hollow, laughable excuse that as members of the ancient Royal Court, they were duty-bound to maintain strict neutrality, refusing to tip the scales for either sibling.
To the Doctor, however, that so-called neutrality was nothing short of a blatant betrayal. Remaining a passive bystander while a faction of rebellious warlords openly attempted to depose the rightful monarch of the realm was an act of treason, pure and simple.
What infuriated the tactician even more was that neither she nor Babel possessed the leverage to call them to account. They lacked the sheer muscle required to force the high kings into submission; attempting to press the issue would only risk driving their few moderate sympathizers straight into the enemy's camp.
Yet today, despite raising minor complaints regarding Theresa's proposed administrative policies, these fierce lords had willingly surrendered their governing authority back to the Demon King, even going so far as to pledge their unyielding loyalty. It defied all logic.
These ancient entities were far too powerful to be swayed by a mere display of military force. They understood better than anyone that Theresa's foreign allies were bound by political constraints and could not openly wage war against the core lineages of Kazdel.
Troubled by these thoughts, the Doctor requested Jeanne to guide her wheelchair through the palace corridors to locate Theresa. The moment they entered the sovereign's private study, the tactician didn't even waste time with formal greetings, pressing immediately for answers.
"Theresa, what manner of catastrophic concessions did you yield to those lords during the assembly?"
The Doctor was absolutely certain that the Monarch must have bartered away significant leverage to secure the future of the capital—perhaps compromising on her cherished dream of dissolving the ancient blood feuds separating the Sarkaz from the rest of Terra, or watering down her progressive policies regarding the Infected.
Her deepest fear was that the Royal Court had used their collective influence to reduce Theresa to a glittering puppet on a throne. If the Monarch had been stripped of her actual governing authority, then their hard-fought triumph meant absolutely nothing.
Seated across the room, Kal'tsit cast a fleeting glance toward Theresa, her expression practically screaming, "See? I told you she would march straight in here demanding answers." It looked as though the two women had actually placed a wager on the tactician's predictable behavior.
Now that the truth was out, it was glaringly obvious who had won. The simple satisfaction of besting her friend in a bet caused the ancient Lynx to arch a subtle eyebrow over the rim of her teacup, her usually grim mood remarkably bright and sunny today.
Theresa's serene smile made it equally clear that her spirit was light, indicating she hadn't sacrificed anything of genuine substance. Still, the Doctor remained stubborn, waiting intently for an explicit breakdown of the negotiations.
Rather than offering a frantic explanation to soothe the invalid's anxiety, Theresa merely took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. Her voice had grown heavy from days of nonstop political arguments, and she clearly needed a brief window to collect her breath before speaking.
"There were no extreme demands, Doctor. To be quite frank, those fierce lords were cooperative to a degree that would stagger your imagination. Even the Sanguinarch, who has historically acted as my most venomous critic, remained astonishingly quiet throughout the entire process. The proceedings flowed with absolute smoothness."
Theresa offered a gentle smile. In truth, the primary headache keeping her awake before the council had been the Vampire Grand Duke; the ancient patriarch had always stood as the most unyielding pillar of opposition against her peaceful ideology.
Looking at the surviving structure of the Court, the Wendigos and the Cyclopes had completely abstained from the summons, and the Gargoyles hadn't put forward a single living representative in centuries. That left the active governing votes solely to the Vampires, the Banshees, the Nachzehrers, the Damazti, and the Liches.
As Theresis's most fanatical loyalist, the Sanguinarch had been expected to orchestrate a spectacular disruption during the assembly. Yet, to everyone's astonishment, the ancient bat had barely uttered a syllable.
What the Monarch failed to realize was that the old Vampire's absolute silence was driven entirely by an overwhelming terror of Jeanne's presence. The memories of his immortal flesh being scorched to the bone by her sacred waters were far too fresh, and the sheer agony was something he refused to experience ever again.
He knew with absolute certainty that if he pushed Theresa too far and ignited her temper, the Monarch might simply wash her hands of him and unleash the platinum haired executioner. And the Grand Duke was painfully aware that Kal'tsit would absolutely never step in to rescue him a second time.
If he pushed his luck, the capital might decide it was time to elevate a more compliant Vampire to the grand seat. For all he knew, the entire reason Babel had permitted him to enter the palace was to bait him into a blunder so they could replace him with a loyal puppet.
Driven by these dark calculations, the historically arrogant Sanguinarch had chosen to swallow his pride and maintain a thoroughly low profile. With the tides of fortune so clearly favoring the Demon King, he had no intention of inviting his own destruction.
When the other plotting lords observed the notoriously volatile Vampire acting so completely cowed, they collectively assumed that the political currents beneath this assembly were treacherous beyond comprehension. Since this was the Monarch's inaugural session since her return, they decided it was best to grant her a smooth victory and preserve the peace.
Consequently, outside of routine legislative friction, Theresa hadn't been forced to bow her head a single time. The entire restructuring had unfolded with miraculous ease.
Hearing the detailed account, the Doctor didn't suspect for a moment that Theresa was spinning a deception; the Monarch had zero reason to lie regarding such vital state matters, especially when the tactician's strategic counsel remained indispensable.
This meant that while the lords undoubtedly harbored hidden motives, the immediate outcome was flawless. In fact, the current reality surpassed their most optimistic projections.
A soft sigh of relief escaped the Doctor's lips. It appeared she truly didn't need to burn away her remaining vitality worrying over the nation's immediate transition. At the very least, today's victory provided Theresa with an exceptional foundation to build upon. Whether those ancient lords truly believed in her vision was irrelevant for now; their current submission bought the Demon King the critical window she required to carefully map out the realm's future.
"However, Doctor..." Theresa began, her smile fading into a look of deep hesitation. She gazed down at the frail figure resting in the wheelchair, her voice laced with an uncomfortable reluctance.
"..."
The Doctor remained entirely silent. She could easily deduce the trajectory of the conversation, but the proposal Theresa was about to voice was something she was fiercely resolved to reject. To avoid giving the request any momentum, she deliberately refused to answer.
"The war here has finally achieved a stable baseline," Theresa continued, her eyes searching the Doctor's hidden face. "With Kal'tsit and the rest of Babel managing the daily administration, we possess more than enough strength to navigate the early hardships. Don't you think it is finally time... for you to seek the treatment you so desperately require?"
Theresa's heart ached at the prospect. Authorizing the procedure meant the Doctor would have to depart from their side for a medical hibernation that would span several years, a process that required the temporary erasure of her memories.
It meant Babel would be deprived of an invaluable friend and strategist during their most critical hour, but the tactician's physical vessel was crumbling so rapidly that further delay was out of the question. The procedure needed to happen immediately.
"Just a little longer," the Doctor murmured, her voice tight. "I can sustain this condition for another window of time... once the foundation is completely secure, I will personally journey to Chernobog to undergo the restoration..."
"You expect to sustain this for what window of time?!" Kal'tsit interrupted, her sharp voice slicing through the room with absolute fury. She slammed her coffee cup onto the desk, her emerald eyes flashing with anger as she exposed the grim reality of the tactician's broken body. "If you try to push yourself a single step further, we will be forced to skip the medical treatments entirely and begin drafting the layout for your funeral! Or perhaps you would prefer to completely lose your mind and spend the rest of your days confined to a straitjacket?!"
The ancient feline's excellent mood had completely evaporated the moment the Doctor resisted the medical intervention. Had the stubborn tactician not been a critical patient hanging by a thread, Kal'tsit would have gladly hauled her up by the collar to shake some sense into her.
She fully understood the Doctor's psychological burden. Vanishing from the board at such a volatile juncture was a devastating blow to their faction, and it would undoubtedly embolden opportunists to test their limits.
But if maintaining the capital's stability required the Doctor to completely incinerate her own life force, it was a price neither Kal'tsit nor Theresa was willing to pay. They would absolutely never sit back and watch their strategist commit slow suicide.
Sensing the absolute finality in the Lynx's tone, the Doctor realized her objections were completely useless. She shifted her strategy, attempting to salvage whatever remaining days she could negotiate.
"How much time do I have left?"
"Relying on the sacred waters to suppress your neurological collapse, you possess a maximum of one month," Kal'tsit declared, her voice cold, rigid, and entirely non-negotiable. "The moment that month expires, I will personally see you sealed into that hibernation pod—even if I have to weld the hatch shut myself!"