Fantasy Clinic: Chronicles of a 3rd-Rate Doctor-Chapter 36: The Blade Beneath the Silence

The throne room shook.

Dust rained down from the ceiling as the marble floor cracked again—thin lines spidering out from the base of the throne like nerves exposed under skin. Elric stood still, one hand on the sigil, the other clenched as the glow on his wrist pulsed brighter than ever.

The Root wasn't attacking.

It was listening.

Taran staggered near the wall, one knee hitting the ground as the voices of memory began to echo—not just around them, but through them. The palace itself felt like it was remembering.

Then—

A sound.

Fast.

Wrong.

From the shadowed archway behind the throne, a figure leapt forward—one of the cloaked Root-bound guards who had pretended to be statues earlier. No breath, no soul. Just a jagged bone-blade drawn and aimed straight for Elric's throat.

Lira moved before Elric did.

Steel flashed.

A hidden blade—short, curved, and worn from use—sliced across the guard's chest in one smooth motion. The Root-touched flesh hissed as it reacted to Elric's sterilizing agent still clinging to the metal.

The guard screamed—a distorted, gurgling screech—and fell back, smoldering.

Elric blinked. "You...?"

Lira didn't meet his gaze.

Instead, she turned, placed herself between him and the throne's approach path, and readied the blade again.

"You think they sent me to serve tea and tidy your scrolls?" she said quietly.

"You were twelve when we met."

"I was twelve when I started hiding weapons in my apron."

Another guard stirred—but didn't rise. It had seen her now.

Elric exhaled slowly, realization dawning.

"You were trained."

She nodded once. "Palace protection detail. Shadow ward class. Until they reassigned me to you—'the broken prince.' They thought I'd have an easy life."

He stared for half a second longer—then smiled faintly. "Good thing they were wrong."

---

The ground cracked again.

This time, something rose.

A root—blackened and thick like an ancient spinal cord—curled upward from the center of the throne's base. It didn't attack.

It presented something.

A mask. Wooden, half-burned, shaped like a serpent with a tear carved into its brow.

Elric stepped closer, slowly.

"What is that?" Lira asked.

"A memory," he whispered. "No—a role."

He picked it up.

The moment his fingers touched the wood, images flared behind his eyes: an ancient healer with fire in one hand and blood on the other... a tribunal of masked figures deciding the fate of a kingdom... and a throne that whispered, "To heal the world, you must first wound it."

He staggered.

Lira caught his arm, grounding him.

"Elric?" she said.

"I remember," he murmured. "I've seen this before. Not in this life... but in another."

The serpent sigil on his wrist blazed brighter—and the marble floor split open with a roar.

A spiral staircase revealed itself beneath the throne, carved in bone-white stone, leading into blackness.

A voice—his own, but not—whispered from below:

> "Come see what the first healer left behind."

---

Meanwhile: Outside the Capital

Cai sat upright in the wagon, eyes wide.

He clutched his chest.

"It's open," he said.

Sylas gripped the reins. "What is?"

"The path to the Root's heart," Cai whispered. "It's calling him."

"Who?" Veyra asked.

Cai didn't answer.

He only looked at the horizon—toward the palace.

---

Back in the Throne Room

Elric turned to Lira.

"I have to go down."

She nodded. "Then I'm going with you."

"Lira..."

"You need someone who sees from the shadows," she said. "And I need to know why the palace trained me to protect someone they planned to forget."

He didn't argue.

Together, they stepped onto the first stair—toward the forgotten core of the kingdom.

And behind them, the throne quietly sealed itself once more.

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