Back in Vallerain, the Crown Prince had fallen gravely ill—so severe that he was confined to the palace ice cellar.
Four days earlier, during his birthday ball, the grand hall had glittered with extravagance. Nobles in silks and jewels flowed through the space like a living tide, tables groaning under platters of exotic foods and rivers of fine wine. Every rank of aristocracy had come to pay their respects—and, more openly, to parade their eligible daughters.
The Crown Prince, however, was bored.
His younger twin brothers found him leaning against a pillar, half-hidden from the crowd.
"Oi, big bro!" Durin grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Been hunting for you. Happy birthday, mate. All the girls are here tonight—better move fast and claim one before I do. Don't want me stealing your pick."
Drich sighed dramatically. "Yeah, right. It's going to be a long night. I'll probably have to keep smiling until my face cracks."
They were still laughing when an aged voice cut through the noise behind them. All three jolted, a flicker of instinctive fear passing over their faces.
" Crown Prince," the Priest said calmly, "you are enjoying the evening, I trust?"
Deric recovered first, offering a respectful bow. "Good evening, Your Grace. Indeed I am—and deeply honored by your presence at such an… unnecessary occasion."
"Unnecessary indeed." The old man's eyes were sharp beneath heavy brows. "I hear your parents arranged this spectacle to find you a bride. Come—drink this." He accepted a goblet from a passing servant, murmured a quiet incantation under his breath, and pressed it into Deric's hand. "With this, I wish you success and brilliance in the years ahead."
Deric accepted it with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Your Grace. The honor means more than you know."
The Priest had no malice in his heart—only grim necessity.
He left the palace soon after, his hunched back bearing the weight of centuries and coming calamity. Outside, beneath the thin crescent of a newborn moon, he paused and whispered to the night sky:
"Oh, please… let this work. It has been years. Time is running out. Gods, let him find his true path through the trial to come. Let her be his redemption, as you have foretold."
He sighed once more, then vanished into the shadows.
The Priest had lived more than three hundred years. Both commoners and royalty feared him in equal measure.
He had poisoned the Crown Prince because of prophecies received years ago: a devastating war loomed on the horizon. For ages the Priest had waited for the prince to mend his promiscuous ways. If this trial failed to change him, Vallerain would fall to ruin.
The ball ended in the pale hours of morning. Guests departed with little accomplished—the Crown Prince had shown favor to no lady.
He returned to his private wing, pushed open the door to his bedchamber, and froze.
There, curled on the couch by the wall, lay a devastatingly beautiful woman, fast asleep.
For a long moment his mind went blank. Then memory returned: Kahlan, his personal maid. He had told her to wait for him before leaving for the ball.
He crossed the room quietly and shook her shoulder. "Kahlan. Kahlan, wake up. Go to your room and rest."
She stirred groggily, blinking up at him. "Yes, Your Highness…"
Once she had slipped out, he bathed quickly and collapsed into bed.
That was when the poison truly began its work.
An unnatural heat bloomed inside him, feverish and relentless despite the cool night air. His strength drained away like water through cracked earth.
Three days later, Kahlan could bear it no longer. His skin burned so fiercely it could warm tea held against his chest. She soaked him in ice water again and again, but the heat only grew. Desperate, she sent two maids to inform the Emperor and Empress.
The imperial physicians arrived in waves—every healer of note in the kingdom. None could help. By the next day, Deric was carried to the deepest ice cellar, where even summer never reached.
After settling him there, the Emperor sought out the Priest.
When the ancient man saw the prince—skin glowing an angry, unnatural red even amid the frost—he gave a small, approving nod to himself.
"Send everyone out," the Priest ordered. "Irrelevant people have no place here. We will speak privately."
The guards and attendants obeyed swiftly, closing the heavy door behind them.
The Priest studied Deric's trembling form. "His skin burns like living fire. The ice cannot touch this heat—such is the severity. Everyone knows the Crown Prince is… indiscriminate with women. And now he reaps the consequence."
He turned to the Emperor and Empress, then fixed his gaze on the prince.
"Let me ask you something, young Deric. Since the days of your ancestors, the men of your line have touched at most three women in their entire lives. Do you think they lacked desire? Do you think they lacked opportunity? When you began consorting with harlots, I had your parents warn you. You dismissed it as the meddling of an old fool. Now behold the result."
He paused, voice dropping to a grave whisper.
"Your lineage carries a blessed—and cursed—physique. It absorbs yang essence through carnal union, relieving women of dangerous excess accumulation. But when yang saturates the male body beyond tolerance, it incinerates him from within. Long ago, my master and the first Emperor devised a solution: no male descendant may lie with more than three women in his lifetime. Even then, they would occasionally fall ill, but recover after a few days of rest. Tell me, Prince Deric—can you even count how many women you have taken? No. I wager you cannot."
The Priest's eyes were pitiless.
"You have one month to live. The only cure is now impossible. Your Majesties should begin preparing funeral rites."
The ice cellar fell silent except for Deric's labored breathing and the faint crackle of frost against unnatural heat.