Later, Heimdal entered Reuben's chamber. The room smelled faintly of medicine and stale air. His son sat in a wheelchair by the window, his body bowed toward the glass as if seeking light where none shone. Once broad-shouldered and proud, he was now gaunt, his hair unkempt, his hands trembling weakly on the armrest. His spirit seemed as fractured as his body.
The king did not speak at once. He stood silently, his heart heavy, and watched. Memories rose unbidden: the boy he had lifted onto his shoulders, the youth he had trained to rule, the heir he had once trusted would outshine them all.
"I am sorry, Father," Reuben whispered at last, his voice brittle and cracked. "I did not listen. I failed you."
Heimdal's chest tightened.
"People fail," he said softly. "Even I made mistakes, unforgivable ones." I thought to protect Alaric by neglecting him, by keeping him at a distance. But my silence only wounded him more deeply than any enemy could.
