Inside the royal palace of Jerusalem,
Laughter echoed through the chamber.
The guards outside exchanged puzzled glances.
It was rare for the king to laugh.
"So the boy wasn't boasting after all. Wouldn't you agree?"
Baldwin IV said between shallow breaths.
His thin, bandaged hand rested atop a stack of parchments.
The documents were detailed proposals—drafted jointly by young Baldwin and the Venetians. Clearly written among them was the annual payment of twenty thousand dinars for exclusive port rights.
"Summoning merchants from rival cities to pressure Venice… It was an excellent move."
The man standing opposite him spoke calmly.
Balian.
"The most impressive part, however, was his use of the military orders to secure letters of credit."
Baldwin IV tapped the table lightly.
"How did he know precisely what the Venetians wanted?"
"Perhaps he has informants within the fondaco… or even the orders themselves."
"From a thirteen-year-old?" Baldwin replied dryly. "Perhaps."
Balian's scar twitched slightly as he spoke again.
"Saladin will not remain idle while we expand into the Red Sea. He will look for any excuse to intervene."
"Saladin is gathering strength in Cairo," Baldwin IV answered. "Aleppo and Mosul come first. And we still have a truce. He lacks justification—for now."
His gaze sharpened as it fell upon the map.
Egypt and Syria marked in yellow.
Jerusalem pressed toward the sea.
"If the port takes root, the Venetians themselves will defend it with considerable force. Even if trouble comes, we will not stand alone."
Balian nodded slowly.
"It is unfortunate that Reynald controls that region."
"Yes," Baldwin said thoughtfully. "But if this succeeds, we gain a firm southern stronghold."
He allowed himself another faint smile.
"The boy handled it too smoothly. Unless he prepared in advance… it makes little sense."
"Prepared? You suspect Lady Sibylla?"
"Perhaps. But Baldwin insisted on going to Eila personally. My sister would never devise something so dangerous."
He leaned back.
"This has become… interesting."
"You truly intend to send him?"
"It may be dangerous. But he must build his name."
A cough shook him, and he waved away Balian's attempt to steady him.
"I do not have much time, Balian. And I will not leave the crown to that fool."
He did not need to name him.
Guy.
The very mention of his brother-in-law seemed to sour the air.
"The matter I asked you to investigate?"
"It appears Guy has indeed withdrawn funds from the royal treasury," Balian said quietly. "The treasurer confessed. He has used Lady Sibylla's name to divert considerable sums."
"So he intends to purchase loyalty."
Baldwin's eyes hardened.
"Then we shall act."
"You mean…?"
"I will entrust the boy with greater responsibility. Let us see if he is worthy. And I will require your assistance."
"As you command, Your Majesty."
The King of Jerusalem turned toward the window.
The Holy City's air was hot and dry.
And time was running out.
The land of milk and honey.
Jerusalem.
I hadn't expected that phrase to be so literal.
"Bring me one more bowl. And apples."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The maid bowed and left.
Dishes were piling up on the table.
For the first few days after arriving here, I could barely eat.
Now?
Now I was devouring everything.
Bananas. Melons. Grapes. Cherries. Apples. Nuts.
Sugar. Salt. Honey. Cheese.
Say the word, and it appeared.
If heaven existed, this might be it.
Well.
Except for sword training.
That part was pure hell.
Garnier's words echoed in my mind.
"You possess natural instinct, but your skill is that of a child."
Well, I am thirteen.
My limbs ached constantly.
Even the basic fencing I learned at the academy did little to help.
And then—
A knock.
"Your Highness."
Garnier entered.
"You are not scheduled for training yet," I said cautiously.
"On the contrary. I have come regarding your diet."
"…My diet?"
"I have instructed the kitchen that you are to follow the regimen I provide."
I blinked.
"Can you do that?"
"Until Eila, you will eat as a soldier does."
He crossed his arms.
"And we must measure you for armor."
Armor.
"…You expect me to travel without it?"
He smiled faintly.
Soon after, I found myself riding through Jerusalem's streets.
This was my first time seeing the city properly.
Muslim merchants in turbans.
Jewish traders in distinctive caps.
Women veiled.
Spices perfuming the air.
It felt like a medieval New York.
The Hospitaller headquarters stood beside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Inside—crowds of pilgrims.
Behind it—smoke from the forge.
The blacksmith, Jernal, was introduced to me.
He measured my shoulders, arms, chest.
"For the helm," he said, "His Majesty once wore this."
He handed me Baldwin IV's old nasal helm.
Functional.
But exposed.
"Can you make one that fully encloses the face?"
"A fixed faceplate? Breathing will be difficult."
"Only for battle. Add air holes."
He studied me.
"You wish for a rounded crown to deflect blows."
"Exactly."
He grinned.
"You know more than most."
We left the forge—
And I saw it.
The infirmary hall.
Beds packed together.
Blood. Pus. Vomit.
Monks rushing between the sick.
"This is our hospice," Garnier said. "We serve Christians, Saracens, and Jews alike."
I scanned the patients.
Too many.
Far too many.
"Several weeks ago, illness spread rapidly," Garnier continued. "Vomiting and severe diarrhea. Hundreds have died."
My stomach tightened.
Inside the palace, I was eating like a king.
Here, people were dying in droves.
"Water does not save them," he said.
Of course it doesn't.
Because they're not dying of the disease alone.
They're dying of dehydration.
And suddenly—
It hit me.
They don't know.
They have no idea about oral rehydration.
Salt.
Sugar.
Boiled water.
A solution so simple it saved millions in my world.
And here?
It was unknown.
I slowly turned toward Garnier.
"Bring me salt," I said.
"And sugar."
He frowned.
"…Why?"
Because this world is about to learn something five hundred years too early.
And Jerusalem—
Jerusalem will not fall because of something as trivial as dehydration.