Merol came in quietly, the weight of the world somehow pressed into the careful way he carried the tray—balanced with the same practiced care he always used, steam lifting in curling tendrils from the covered dishes.
He set it down on the duvet beside me as if placing something fragile; his hands hovered a second before he folded them back into the sleeves of his robe, steadying himself as if steadiness could undo what had been done.
I turned my head and gave him a glare so sharp it felt like a blade. My voice came out low and bitter.
"Your Majesty, are you fine?" he asked, too softly, like testing a glass for cracks.
I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh that scraped raw in my throat. "How dare you ask me that after you betrayed me." The words landed heavy between us. For a heartbeat his face flickered—something like hurt, something like apology—but he exhaled through his nose and folded it away.
"I didn't betray you," he said.
