The corridor had grown quieter since the boatmaker departed.
Bootsteps traveled farther now.
Echoed longer.
Nux did not walk quickly. He never did.
Liora followed half a pace behind, hands folded neatly at her back, fingers interlocked as though they had always belonged there.
"Have you completed the evening preparations?" he asked.
"Yes, Master Nux."
"You are dependable."
Dependable.
Useful.
Her shoulders drew inward at the word.
He slowed.
She adjusted without thinking.
His fingers closed around her wrist — sliding slightly higher than necessary before settling.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
Present.
Her pulse betrayed her once.
"You seem uneasy."
I must not be.
"I am not, Master."
His thumb pressed lightly against her skin, as though confirming something beneath it. Then he released her.
They turned down the narrower passage.
The chamber doors ahead stood ajar.
That was wrong.
Servants did not leave royal doors open.
Nux reached past her and pushed one wider. As she stepped forward, his palm settled briefly at her lower back, steering.
It lasted only a breath.
A correction.
A reminder.
"Go on."
The ruler lay upon the bed as though resting between thoughts. One hand atop the coverlet. Sheets undisturbed. Curtains half-drawn.
No sign of struggle.
No rise of breath.
Lavender hung in the air — and something beneath it.
Stillness.
He looks smaller.
Behind her, Nux stepped inside.
"His Majesty's heart was weaker than he allowed the physicians to admit. It seems it failed him in the night."
The explanation fit too neatly into the room.
"There is a matter requiring discretion. If the body remains until morning, rumors will spread. Panic invites sickness. Sickness invites unrest."
Sickness travels downward.
Toward kitchens.
Toward servants.
Toward my sister.
"You understand how quickly illness travels in close quarters."
"Yes, Master."
No pause.
Because hesitation is noticed.
Because hesitation becomes a question.
Because questions become consequences.
"It must be handled properly. Tonight. If it is not, and disease finds its way into the lower quarters…" His voice remained mild. "That responsibility would rest with those who delayed."
I understand.
I understand what happens if I do not.
"I understand."
"Good."
He stepped away as though the matter were already finished.
"See that it is done before the bells."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Liora stood alone with the king.
For a moment, she did not move.
He asked for honey in his tea yesterday.
She approached the bed.
Up close, the lines at his eyes had softened. His mouth rested slightly parted, as if caught mid-thought.
She reached for his hand.
It should not be this cold.
Kings are not supposed to be this cold.
His fingers were heavier than she expected.
She folded them neatly over his chest.
"I am sorry," she whispered.
For not speaking.
For still breathing.
For understanding too well.
The corridor beyond remained empty.
She fetched linen first. Wrapped him carefully.
Not like refuse.
Not like something to be hidden.
Gently.
The body resisted in quiet ways — weight uncooperative, joints reluctant. She worked in silence, bracing her shoulder against the mattress to ease him free.
If I am careful, this will feel like care.
By the time she maneuvered him onto the servant's cart, her arms trembled openly.
She placed a cloth over his face.
Not to hide him.
To preserve him.
The wheels made little sound against the stone.
The postern gate near the unused eastern wall stood unguarded.
Of course it did.
The path beyond sloped downward through wet grass and sleeping reeds.
The lake lay still beneath the moon.
Too still.
She maneuvered the cart to the water's edge.
Cold air gathered at the surface.
She removed the cloth from his face.
"You were kind," she said softly. "When my sister dropped the tray."
Her voice thinned in the open air.
"I remember."
I remember because you did not look at us like we were stains.
She gripped the linen at his shoulders.
The water lapped once against the stones.
Just once.
It will be quick.
She pushed.
The body shifted.
Slid.
Stopped.
The cart tilted sharply as the weight caught against the rim.
She adjusted her footing.
Mud gave way beneath her heel.
The king's shoulder struck stone with a sound that did not belong to sleep.
Her breath fractured.
No.
She pulled again.
The linen slipped in her hands.
The body rolled halfway — then caught against the reeds, pale fabric blooming in the dark water like something alive.
Not sinking.
Not gone.
Watching.
The surface rippled outward.
Moonlight clung to him.
Why won't you sink?
Her hands shook now.
She stepped into the water to push him farther.
Cold swallowed her ankles.
Her hem drank greedily.
The lake moved differently once disturbed.
It did not accept.
It shifted him back toward her.
The reeds tangled around his arms as though holding him in place.
The widening circles of water carried outward.
Toward the opposite bank.
Toward unseen windows.
Toward anyone who might look.
They will see.
Her breath came too fast.
The linen drifted open at his face.
Eyes closed.
Mouth parted.
Accusing nothing.
And yet —
This is wrong.
She stumbled backward.
The cart, unbalanced, tipped fully into the shallows with a hollow splash.
Too loud.
Far too loud.
Birds burst upward from the reeds.
The sound tore across the water.
She froze.
Listening.
Nothing.
Everything.
Her heart hammered so violently she felt it in her throat.
The body floated crooked near the shore, half-submerged, fabric luminous against black water.
Not hidden.
Not gone.
Proof.
He will know.
Nux will know.
It will be seen at dawn.
Servants gather water at dawn.
Reeds will part.
Someone will scream.
Her name will follow.
Her sister.
Her sister.
She backed away from the water, slipping in mud, nearly falling.
She did not fix the cart.
She did not try again.
The lake lapped quietly, indifferent.
The bells had not yet rung.
But they would.
And when they did —
She turned and ran.
Up the slope.
Through the reeds.
Through wet grass that caught at her ankles.
Her breath tore in her chest.
She did not look back.
Because if she looked back,
she might see him watching.
—
Water moved.
Slow.
Measured.
The scent of algae clung to her skin.
Liora's eyes opened to darkness shaped by firelight.
For a moment she did not move.
Her hands were not behind her back.
They were curled into fists.
Mud beneath her nails.
She stared at them as though they belonged to someone else.
Then, slowly, she drew them toward her chest.
The fire crackled.
Someone shifted nearby in sleep.
The bells did not ring.
Only water.
And breath.
And the certainty
that morning would come.