B.R. Quinn

Corwin watched Lillian leave the room, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Why should he check out this new physician? What could possibly make this one any different from the parade of physicians his mother had already summoned over the years? Magical or not, none of them had been able to break his curse.

The few who had seemed helpful at first always pushed too far. They would claim Corwin could manage something beyond his strength, and inevitably, he would get hurt. He could tolerate those more than the ones who looked at him once and declared him a lost cause. The magical physicians especially could sense the curse’s strength as soon as they laid eyes on him and were quick to declare him unfit for magical remedies.

Corwin clenched his fists. He was not a lost cause. He could still do things on his own, as long as there was breath in his body. Yet, at times, it felt like that determination was part of the curse. If only he could accept that he would never get better. It would be easier just to fade away, to stop being a burden. But no, even in his darkest moments, some spark within him refused to let go.

He couldn’t surrender his independence—not at fifteen.

Wiping away any stray tears, Corwin turned to Lora. “Well, you heard Lillian. Mother can’t find out when I do things on my own. Shut and lock the door, and stand behind me. But let me get into the chair myself. I promise to wait if you promise only to help when I ask.”

Lora smiled, her loyalty unwavering. “Yes, Prince Corwin.” She curtsied before hurrying across the room to secure the door. Returning, she stood a respectful distance behind him, arms ready but not in his way.

Corwin grunted, a rare sound of approval. “Swift.”

Lora’s face lit up. It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d received from him in years. She was his longest-serving maid, a testament to her patience and cleverness. She never hovered too much but was always there when he truly needed her—something Corwin silently appreciated.

Lillian was right, he admitted to himself. He liked Lora and how she let him handle himself some days. He’d lose his mind if he lost her and ended up with a maid who followed his mother’s every command.

“Right. Just stay braced like that, but only help if I fall,” Corwin instructed.

“Of course, Prince Corwin.”

Corwin eyed the wheelchair. He wasn’t sure Lora would truly obey if she sensed danger. Still, he was too curious about this physician, despite his frustration at Lillian for withholding details.

“Say, Lora—have you heard anything about this new physician?” Corwin was exhausted from merely leaving his room earlier in the day to listen to the Voice of the Square and felt reluctant to make another move towards his chair. But he wanted to test this new trust between himself and Lora, hoping that he could try it for himself.

“I’m afraid not, Prince Corwin. I rarely leave your side, as you send most other maids away in tears. I basically know the same things as you.”

Corwin winced. It was true—he often lashed out in frustration, not at the maids themselves, but at the relentless pain. He regretted it afterward but couldn’t stop the tide of anger when the agony overwhelmed him.

“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose we’d better get on with it.” He glared at his wheelchair. His cursed chair. He was supposed to sit on a throne, not this wretched thing.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Corwin began to edge himself toward the side of the bed. His lower back flared with a sharp, familiar pain. Blinking away tears, he moved his left leg first, carefully swinging it over the edge. But when he tried to move his right, a spasm shot through his back, and his right arm buckled beneath him.

He screamed. The pain was blinding.

Lora caught him as he fell sideways, steadying him until the spasm subsided. Once Corwin braced himself on the bed again, Lora backed off, her arms still hovering just close enough to intervene if needed.

Corwin stared at the wheelchair with pure loathing. Yet, despite his hatred for the object, he knew he needed it. Slowly, painfully, he slid off the bed, his feet barely catching the floor. Lora moved as if to help but froze when Corwin managed to keep himself upright, his hands gripping the bed for support.

Bent over like an old beggar, Corwin began to shuffle toward the chair. He misstepped, his left foot slipping awkwardly onto his right, and another spasm tore through his back.

He cried out again, and Lora, faithful to her word, held her arms out but didn’t assist. Corwin endured the pain, knowing that while his body screamed in agony, he was doing this on his own—mostly. It was small, but it was something. It mattered.

As the pain ebbed, Corwin looked at his cursed chair again. Should he ask for help or try again? The pain would be excruciating either way, but he felt a stubborn spark inside—a need to try once more. He adjusted his stance, bracing himself.

The chair was positioned awkwardly next to the bed, not facing it, and Corwin realized for the first time that its placement had always been wrong. The maids usually helped him too quickly for him to notice, but now it became clear. He would have to learn how to position it himself if he truly wanted to be more independent.

Still determined to finish this task, Corwin reached out with his right hand, gripping the wheelchair arm. His body protested as he bent forward, pain shooting up his spine. He shuffled his feet, trying to align himself better, but the effort was exhausting.

Then, a knock on the door. His mother’s voice rang out. “Corwin! Why is your door locked? Are you all right?”

Corwin froze, and panic flashed across Lora’s face as she stood by, unsure of what to do.

Corwin’s mind raced. He couldn’t afford to be found like this, half-draped over the bed and struggling to stand. He wouldn’t give his mother the satisfaction of seeing him so weak. And he didn’t want to give his mother a chance to fire Lora as his maid.

“Lora,” he whispered urgently. “Hold your arm out. I’ll use it as a brace.”

Without hesitation, Lora positioned herself, one arm ready to catch him, the other held firm to brace his weight.

“Corwin! Why aren’t you answering me?” His mother’s voice grew more insistent.

The sound of keys clinking filled the room. The Queen was unlocking the door.

Summoning the last of his strength, Corwin pulled himself toward the chair, his body trembling with the effort. With Lora’s steady support, he lowered himself into the seat just as the door burst open.

The Queen stood there, eyes wide with worry—and suspicion.