I Got Isekai’d, Well Shyt!

Eamon turned to Quinus, his brow furrowed in astonishment. "Are you saying that Lady Rya is a... Healer? Like those legendary figures from the history books, who could mend wounds with a touch and breathe life into the weary?"

The Baron leaned in closer, captivated by the Crown Prince's bold claims about Rya’s extraordinary healing abilities. Legends whispered of healers long lost to time, their miraculous powers fading into myth—yet if Rya's abilities were genuine, the implications could shift the very fabric of their world.

"Indeed... She is a legendary healer capable of mending even the most grievous of wounds, not to mention diseases and curses," Quinus proclaimed, his eyes alight with fervor.

"Impossible! Such tales are nothing but myths!" Eamon exclaimed, skepticism lacing his voice. His brow furrowed as he tried to reconcile the fantastic stories with reality. A part of him longed to believe, but he hesitated to place his trust in what he thought might simply be a fanciful yarn.

Rya stifled a laugh, amused by Eamon's obliviousness to her presence. It was as if he had completely forgotten she was sitting right across from him, ready to demonstrate her healing magic. 

"You do know I'm here, right?" she teased, arching an eyebrow.

Eamon flushed, caught off guard. "Oh... Um... My sincere apologies, Lady Rya..."

Rya waved it off with a smile. "It's quite alright. I can understand your skepticism. Not many would believe a healer when she claims to possess such gifts—especially when she's a dark elf." 

"You're far too modest, Rya," Quinus interjected, taking her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to its back. Rya felt a delightful warmth spread through her cheeks at the gesture while Hilda cast a sharp, disapproving glare at Quinus. In contrast, Terenthiel sat in a brooding silence, the wheels in his mind turning as he prepared a devastating retort that would expose this dark elf's supposed treachery.

"Of course, those sub-human dwarves would fall for the likes of you... You must have tricked everyone into believing you’re a healer!" Terenthiel shot back, his voice dripping with disdain. "Only the Divine Three can perform true miracles of healing! You must be free of sin and surrender completely to their grace for healing to be bestowed upon you." He believed his words would finally dismantle Rya's facade.

But before Terenthiel could bask in his anticipated victory, Rya sprang to life, her wit quicker than he could fathom.

"Oh, so you’re saying I’m a god?" she retorted, a twinkle of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Wow, thanks for the ego boost! I never thought I’d hear that from you of all people. I guess it’s true what they say—don’t judge a book by its cover!" She flashed a teasing grin in his direction.

"What!? Are you out of your mind? You're nothing like a god!" Terenthiel's voice rose, his forehead veins threatening to burst.

"But hold on!" Rya continued, clearly enjoying herself now. "You just said, 'As long as you are free of sin and submit to their divine grace, healing will be bestowed.' That implies I must be a god if I can heal everyone, right?... Well, lucky for you all, I’m a benevolent goddess! For those who confess their sins might just find forgiveness through my powers. And trust me, I can be a real softie if the sinner truly repents," she said with a wink. "But don't let my charming looks fool you; I can be as cruel as any dark deity if the mood strikes me. So, what’s it going to be, Prince Terenthiel? Do I grant you forgiveness, or is it time to hand out a few punishments for your many sins?" Her grin was equal parts playful and ominous, the air thick with tension and anticipation.

Terenthiel was seething with disbelief. How dare this witch twist his words so effortlessly? The gall of her to mock the Divine Ones! It was infuriating to see her turn his statements on their head, making it seem as if he were proclaiming her a deity. He could no longer remain seated; the time had come to teach this Dark Elf a lesson about respecting her betters. As he rose to his feet and grasped the hilt of his sword, a ripple of tension surged through the assembly. The Royal Knights, watching his every move, stood up in unison, drawing their swords with cold determination, their eyes fixed on Terenthiel.

"Hold! What madness is this!?" Duval's voice boomed, frustration etched across his face as he directed his ire at General Douglas, who remained unfazed, his gaze fixed on the foreign prince.

"Prince Terenthiel... I advise you to leave or sit back down," General Douglas replied, his voice chillingly calm against the escalating chaos.

"I will not be ordered around by the likes of a common soldier... You are only a knight! I am the fifth son of the Holy Alliance of the Divine Three!" Terenthiel's defiance boomed through the hall, the arrogance radiating from him like heat from a flame.

Douglas straightened, his piercing gaze unwavering. "I'm more than a mere soldier... I was a Royal Knight of the Meredydd Family. I am the General of the Royal Knights of the Kingdom of Fiafyr. And we will put you down even if it means our deaths," General Douglas replied, the gravity of his words hanging thick in the air.

In a frantic bid to restore order, Duval fumbled for his gavel, his hands shaking with rage. Once he had it, he began banging it furiously, a desperate attempt to quell the brewing storm.

"Douglas!... Your Highness!... Enough of this madness! This is Parliament, the sacred Chamber of Major Lords, not a battlefield!" Duval's voice boomed, cutting through the chaos as he rose to regain control of the situation.

"Why should we sit idly by when he dares insult the Crown Prince and his Fiancée in front of all assembled?" Lord Johan shot back, leaping to his feet. His indignation was directed squarely at the haughty prince.

"Silence! I demand ORDER, for the love of reason!" Duval yelled, the threat of his frustration palpable amidst the cacophony. "General Douglas, command your knights to stand down! And you, Prince Terenthiel, take your seat this instant! You're jeopardizing our efforts to unite the Princess and the Prince. You risk tearing apart the peace treaty I fought tooth and nail to secure!" Duval's words sliced through the room, his tone sharp and unwavering.

“But—”

“NOW!!!” Duval's roar cut through the prince’s protest like thunder.

With a tense motion, Douglas signaled for his knights to lower their weapons. Terenthiel slumped back into his seat, a storm brewing in his gaze. Glaring daggers at everyone around him, the tension still electrified the air.

It took a moment for everyone to settle down again, the tension gradually giving way to an uneasy peace. The knights returned to their seats, though the wariness and hostility between the two camps were palpable.

Rya was reveling in the chaos around her, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. She had successfully provoked Duval into an explosive confrontation with his ally, Terenthiel, and that delightful spectacle made all the commotion worthwhile. More importantly, Duval's fury had left him dazed while Eamon watched her with a mix of intrigue and fascination, as if she were a tantalizing puzzle begging to be unraveled. She was eager to showcase her healing abilities, and fortune smiled upon her when Eamon decided to put her claims to the test.

“Miss Rya, if you truly are a healer… prove it,” Eamon requested, an anxious tone lacing his words.

Rya arched an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Hmm?... How can I? No one here has a wound that will make you gasp in awe at my skills,” she replied, glancing around the room.

Eamon shook his head, determination brightening his gaze. “It doesn’t have to be anything drastic... Just something that reassures me of your abilities.”

Intrigued, Rya tilted her head and scrutinized the Baron. A smirk crept across her face as she noticed the flicker of red particles swirling beneath his skin, which wasn't as simple to see at first glance. She needed a closer look to pinpoint his injuries, and it was being blocked by the table.

“Alright then… Let’s make this interesting. Baron Eamon, please stand up,” she instructed, a playful lilt in her voice.

Eamon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at her directness, yet he rose from his chair, trying to exude an air of dignity despite the flutter of nerves in his gut.

Rya's gaze drifted to Eamon's right knee, where a swarm of red particles swirled ominously. Well, that certainly doesn’t look comfortable. I can't help but wonder what happened to him,' she pondered, her curiosity piqued.

'Well, that doesn't look comfortable... I wonder what he did to his right knee to have that many red particles floating around there?' Rya thought.

As she met Eamon's eyes, she noticed the glistening sweat on his brow, a sign of both discomfort and an inner struggle. A warm smile spread across her face as she stood up from her chair, her intention to offer comfort evident.

“How long have you been dealing with that knee injury?” she asked, her tone gentle yet probing.

Eamon blinked, momentarily taken aback. How could she know? After all, he had kept the scar of that day buried deep within—never revealing the story of his encounter with the ferocious Raging Quad Horn, a monster that had wreaked havoc across his homeland. Seven years had passed since that fateful day when he had faced the creature. The memory was etched in his mind: the ground shaking beneath the thunderous hooves, his fellow soldiers rallying to fight back, and the heart-stopping moment when the beast had charged directly at him. His horse, a loyal companion, had been trampled mercilessly, and Eamon had been thrown to the ground. The beast's front leg had come crashing down onto his right knee, shattering it and leaving him with an injury that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Despite countless potions and remedies, the damage had healed incorrectly, binding him to a constant ache that he masked with practiced ease.

“How did you know?” he asked, vulnerability flickering in his eyes.

“I have sharp eyes,” Rya quipped with a playful smirk, the lightness in her tone contrasting with the weight of his memories. “Now, stand still and don’t move—this might feel a bit strange.”

The Dark Elf, Rya, raised her right hand, her eyes fluttering shut as she summoned her mana, weaving it through the air like a delicate thread. Eamon fidgeted nervously, his heartbeat quickening. 

“Wait a min—”

“Relax… and don’t move,” she instructed her voice a soothing melody against the tension in the room.

As her invisible aura brushed against him, Eamon felt a warmth bloom at his knee. It began as a gentle tickle but swiftly transformed into a remarkable sensation akin to a hundred knuckles cracking all at once. Then, just like that, the pain vanished. Stunned, he turned to Rya, disbelief etched across his face.

The room was enveloped in a heavy silence; all eyes were fixed on the two of them, as most of the people wondered if she truly was healing the Baron or if it was some sort of trick. With a graceful movement, Rya opened her eyes, lowering her hand as she settled back into her seat.

"There! You’re right as rain, Lord Eamon,” she declared, a triumphant smile lighting up her face.

Eamon could only stare at her in awe. The doctors had promised he’d never walk properly again and might find himself confined to a wheelchair in a decade. Yet here he was, feeling as if a miracle had just unfolded before his eyes.

"Y-You truly are a healer?..." Eamon muttered.

Quinus chimed in, "Yes, Lord Eamon... If it weren't for her healing, the Ironside army would have lost two-thirds of its men. She healed all the wounded, even those who had lost their limbs. They regained four-fifths of their forces in just two hours... That's why the citizens of Ironside see her as their Saintess... If she were expelled by the Major Lords of Fiafyr, then I fear that the Galfrei Domain would leave the kingdom."

Eamon felt a tightening pit in his stomach when the Crown Prince uttered those words. The prospect of the Galfrei Domain severing ties with the Kingdom sent waves of unease through him. Losing access to the precious purple slag, a vital fertilizer, would spell disaster for his agricultural endeavors. Without it, his crops would falter, leaving him more vulnerable than ever to Duval’s whims. His domain already struggled to produce enough crops to sustain its people—a precarious situation that could tilt perilously toward ruin. The writing was plainly etched on the wall: Duval was losing his grip, and his fervent wish to stave off war was rapidly becoming a distant hope. 

Eamon found himself at a crossroads, faced with a decision that bore the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. On one hand, he could remain loyal to Duval, clinging to the fragile hope that the Prime Minister would steer the Kingdom back to stability. On the other, there was Alaric, who commanded the allegiance of most Minor Nobles, a faction that could ignite a civil war with the slightest provocation. Alaric was sharp-witted and cunning, often seeming to anticipate events even before Duval did. Eamon shivered at the thought of what Alaric’s rule might look like; the Duke’s ambition was as unsettling as it was palpable. 

Then there was the Royal family and the Crown Prince, a figure who had always exhibited wisdom beyond his years. The rumors surrounding him—the whispers of a Demi-God mana vein coursing through him—seemed to hold more than a grain of truth, given the astonishing speed at which he ascended as a Maja. He stopped the monster stampede and Ironside's invasion with this healer's aid. Eamon’s earlier perception of the Prince had been clouded by his innate kindness towards the commoners and lack of support among the nobility. But that view had shifted dramatically; the Prince had revealed an unexpected ferocity when those close to him were threatened, a fierce protectiveness that made Eamon see him in a wholly new light.

Quinus, the Crown Prince, wielded strength that surpassed all others, bolstered by his burgeoning confidence in leadership and his growing rapport with the common folk. His charisma radiated like a beacon, outshining Duval’s more reserved demeanor. And then there was the Prince’s enchanting dark elf fiancée, a woman whose beauty eclipsed the stars. Her intelligence was sharp as a blade, complemented by her abilities as a healer. Eamon couldn’t shake the feeling that the Prince had become a force of nature, more potent than any leader he had ever encountered. Yet, what gnawed at Eamon the most was the uncertainty surrounding the Dark Elf's intentions. She claimed to be in love with the Prince, but Eamon couldn’t help but wonder if this affection was merely a guise for a more sinister ambition—to usurp power after the Crown Prince succumbed to the ravages of time. As an elf, she would find it challenging to bear an heir, and if she did, would the people and nobility accept a half-elf royal as their next king or queen? This brought up another troubling question in his mind: if the Meredydd family line were to end with Quinus, who would challenge her claim to rule Fiafyr? Could anyone challenge her?

The weight of the situation pressed heavily upon Eamon’s mind, a tempest of thoughts swirling in chaotic disarray. He knew he needed to gather the other nobles to discuss these mounting concerns. However, that would have to wait for the moment, as all eyes were fixed upon him, waiting for his next move.

"I thank you for healing me, Milady. I owe you a great debt," Eamon said, easing himself back into his seat while delicately rubbing his right knee. A flicker of uncertainty danced across his face as he weighed his options. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Duval cleared his throat, breaking the tension.

"Lord Eamon," Duval demanded, his tone clipped and authoritative. "We cannot afford any more delays; end this farce."

Eamon blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What? Oh... right. It’s just... I have a lot on my mind," he stammered, diverting his gaze from the Crown Prince and his enigmatic Dark Elf fiancée to the Prime Minister.

"Why the hesitation, Eamon?" Duval pressed, tension etched on his brows, suspicion creeping into his voice as he sensed the Baron’s wavering resolve.

Eamon took a breath, the weight of his decision weighing heavily upon him. "It’s complicated... I refuse to endorse a deal that seems unfairly stacked against my people, considering the outrageous prices imposed by your tariffs. Lord Nathaniel, if you can assure me of your sincerity, I will consider the lady’s proposal. But let me be clear: the moment you breach our agreement or overstep your bounds in any of our territories, this deal is off. Do you understand?"

"Eamon! Call it off!" Duval erupted, frustration boiling over.

"No, Duval. We cannot let the South suffer a food shortage. I... I wish to recast my vote on the emergency session—"

"NO! NO, YOU CAN'T! IF YOU DON'T THEN—"

"WHAT!... I'm doing Prime Minister, is what is best for the kingdom. I want it on the record that I vote present for the Expulsion of the Dark Elf. Let all the Major Lords be aware that I remain a loyal subject of Fiafyr. But I believe it’s unwise to act against her until we truly understand her intentions before doing something that may hurt the kingdom... And until that happens, we should find a way to test her loyalty before acting rashly..."

Duval slammed the gavel down with a forceful crack, his frustration palpable as he shouted, "This Emergency Session is now in recess! We’ll reconvene in an hour!... Eamon!... Thaddeus!... You two, my office. Now!"

The Foreign Prince, Terenthiel, shot an incredulous glance at Duval, disappointment etched across his face. With a low voice, he murmured to Prince Zane, "If this is what Fiafyrian Nobles have become... Then maybe we need to reconsider marrying Hilda and strike now before this Kingdom falls to the north...”

Zane’s expression mirrored his concern as he fixed a steely glare on the Prime Minister. “Or perhaps we should have bypassed him entirely and gone straight to their King. The Prophet is not going to take this lightly.”

Across the ornate table sat Duke Alaric, his eyes keen and calculating as he took in everything that just transpired. It was one of the few times he felt powerless, and he hated it. Next to the Duke was a visibly shaken Viscount William, who was gradually coming to terms with the unraveling of his once-unchallengeable grip on shipping. Alaric had long imagined this moment, dreaming of the day when Duval’s allies would finally turn against him. But as he sat there, the reality was far from the triumph he had envisioned. It wasn't his cunning that had pushed the House of Major Lords to the brink; it was his own nephew and that sly dark elf who had stolen the spotlight, bringing the chamber crashing down around them.

Now, it was Quinus and his whore who were gaining the favor of the Major Lords, and Alaric couldn't shake the gnawing sense of defeat. Yet, amidst the mounting chaos, a flicker of hope ignited within him. Strange as it felt, he knew he needed to maneuver Duval into securing the pact with the Holy Alliance. That would force an unwanted marriage on his nephew, throwing the royal family into turmoil—a chaos he could exploit. If he didn't, then the dark elf's meddling was unsettling that plan to get his revenge.

His mind raced, plotting the next steps amidst the swirling tides of power.

“What’s the plan?” William whispered, oblivious to the shifting tides in the House of Lords.

“We have to help him…” Alaric whispered, his voice barely audible while staring at a flustered Duval.

“What!? Why?” William's surprise was evident.

"Sheath your tongue, William," Alaric hissed. "It's not safe to whisper here. Just follow my lead…”

“Y-Yes, milord…” William responded, his hesitation replaced by a tinge of resolve as he prepared to journey down this uncertain path with the Duke.

Duval was frantically gathering his papers and belongings, the chaos of the chamber swirling around him as his aides hurried to keep up. His frustration mounted as he prepared to storm out, the weight of the day's discussions pressing heavily on his shoulders. Suddenly, the tall wooden doors swung open, revealing a gentleman with a neatly tied ponytail, his attire crisp and formal. Adorning his lapel was a pin emblazoned with the official seal of the King, its gold gleaming under the dim chamber light.

Duval's expression soured further at the sight of the newcomer. "Lord Brice... I don't have time to deal with his antics..." he muttered under his breath, irritation creeping into his voice. The Head of the King's Council had just returned from Lomar, where he had been in discussions with the King himself, and Duval had little patience for him as he was the only other person who had an encyclopedic knowledge of the bureaucracy who could really throw a wrench in his plans.

"Well... about time you opened the chamber," Lord Brice remarked, a smirk playing on his lips as he stepped into the room. His eyes twinkled with curiosity as he heard the raised voices and heated exchanges through the giant wooden doors. He had been stuck in the lobby, waiting for the session to recess, as no one was allowed in when a session started. But now he could enter, carrying a vital letter from the King—a missive that needed to be delivered to all the Major Lords without delay.