Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 17

The chilling eye contact lasted only a moment before the Prince lost consciousness and closed his eyes.

It was but an instant, yet the resentment contained within it was blatant — the kind of hatred that declared, If I die because of this, I will never forgive you.

The Prince truly looked as if he were on the brink of death. Maeve crouched over his body and pressed her nose to the nape of his neck, taking in his scent. His breathing sounded as though his entire body was screaming from the terrible fever, and the sharp stench of sweat filled the air. If left like this, he might die. Or perhaps, when he woke the next day, he would be left broken by the fever.

Yet the potion the Prince had begged for would not actually cure the illness. It would only allow him to fall asleep peacefully, without feeling pain.

What will happen if the Prince dies like this? Maeve calmly calculated in her head.

Even if the blame were to fall on her, the party would still have to load the Prince’s body onto the carriage and return to Lutea. That would be troublesome.

It would be a lie to say that she didn’t find the duties of a maid tedious, but they weren’t particularly hard either. Besides, it would be difficult to find another group of travelers whose destination conveniently matched hers. The western continent was shunned by most people because of the strange rumors that had long circulated about it.

Where else could she find such a company — a carriage, horses, and even mercenaries who offered protection? Nowhere, most likely. If she lost this chance, she would have to travel alone again, just like the years she had spent wandering after running away.

Of course, unlike back then, she could manage traveling alone now. It would simply be less comfortable. Here, all she had to do was handle a few odd chores and sit in the supply wagon, which was rather convenient.

As those thoughts ran through her mind, Maeve looked down at the Prince. She knew a way to ease his suffering —or perhaps she only thought she did.

“……”

Maeve lowered her gaze to her own palms, then looked back at the Prince, who was groaning and sweating as if even in his sleep he could find no peace.

Her hesitation was brief. She lifted the golden hair covering his ear, tucking it aside. Carefully, she examined the skin behind it — and sure enough, there pulsed a strange scale, radiating heat even greater than that of his fevered body. The heat from the scale spread throughout the Prince’s body. That was the source of the illness.

After confirming again that the Prince had truly lost consciousness, Maeve slowly reached out her hand. Just before her fingers could touch the scale—

A large hand caught hers in a tight grip.

She had thought he had fainted, but the dying Prince had opened his eyes wide, glaring at her.

The hostility lasted only a heartbeat before his consciousness slipped again, and he closed his eyes once more — but his hand did not let go. Instead, he gripped her tighter, pulling her hand toward his cheek.

The Prince’s palm was surprisingly firm, and because of that, Maeve could feel the softness of his cheek more vividly against it. His face, like the rest of his body, was burning hot — so much so that the heat seeped into her skin. In that moment, the Prince’s body, moving on instinct alone, began to draw in Maeve’s magic, drinking it greedily.

No matter how many times it happened, she could never get used to that unpleasant sensation. Maeve resisted the urge to shake off his hand — to throw him away entirely — and instead allowed his body to keep swallowing her magic in steady gulps.

What she had once suspected was now certain. The source of the Prince’s illness was that scale — and it was the very thing that was destroying his body. Maeve’s magic could only suppress it temporarily, like quenching the thirst of someone who had long suffered from drought — a fleeting, momentary relief.

Maeve forced down her disgust and tried to focus calmly on reasoning through what had just happened.

Now, she could feel the steady, pounding pulse through her palm. Unconsciously, she opened the eyes she hadn’t realized were shut.

The Prince’s face appeared before her — serene, his eyes closed as if he had never been feverish at all.

Maeve abruptly pulled her hand away, almost flinging it off

“This is disgusting in its own way,” she muttered, then leaned forward carefully to check the Prince’s breathing.

The scale that had been radiating heat now glimmered quietly, and the Prince, breathing far more easily than before, looked as though he had fallen into a deep sleep.

The fever that had been boiling his body was gone. Vanished, as if it had never existed.

Her suspicion, tentative as it had been, had proven true — but Maeve found little satisfaction in being right.