That night, sleep—a solace so often sought in times of trouble—was an alien concept to Malen. He lay still beneath a canopy of silk sheets, their luxurious touch a cruel contradiction. What comfort could such softness offer when his heart was a crucible of anguish? Each breath was a burden, each blink a resistance against tears. His mind became a battlefield, overrun by the ghosts of memory. Duke's laughter echoed in the hollow chambers of his soul, sharp and bright—a memory too alive to be forgotten, too painful to be borne. That laughter, once the music of their dreams, now sounded like a mournful hymn.
Restless, Malen rose, the gravity of despair drawing him to the window like a tide impossible to resist. Moonlight cast pale silver across his face as he stared into the quiet dark. He yearned to scream, to shatter the silence with his grief, to rage against a world that could tear Duke from him. But his voice caught—trapped behind a wall of sorrow—and crumbled into silence.
Deep down, he knew Duke could not be saved. The specter of death had curled its frozen fingers around him, and no plea or plan could break its hold. All that remained was resolve. If he could not save Duke, then he would fight. He would resist. Even if it meant standing alone against the crown. Even if it meant defying King Torin himself—a ruler whose heart was as frigid and unyielding as the steel that adorned his throne.
Across the kingdom, in a chamber warmed by firelight, Lord Marcellus stood motionless, a crumpled parchment clenched in his hand. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the letter, a whisper of gentler days. The Queen's handwriting blurred before his eyes, not from the ink, but from the tears he refused to let fall. He had read her message three times, and each word struck deeper than the last.
"Aurelia," he said at last, his voice rasping, thick with emotion. He turned to face her. The flames cast flickering shadows across her face, mimicking the turmoil etched in his. "The Queen… she summons us to Eldrado."
Lady Aurelia's gaze snapped to his, breath caught in her throat.
"It's urgent," Marcellus continued, the parchment trembling in his grip. "She says Jasmine asked for me." His voice cracked then, and a tear slipped down his cheek, trailing like a star falling through the night.
Aurelia's eyes welled, and she whispered, "Sister," as though the name itself could summon Jasmine back to them.
"There is an urgent summons from the palace," Lord Marcellus announced, his voice quivering with elation. "I must make haste to the court at once, and thereafter to Queen Lyra."
Aurelia nodded, her sorrow giving way to a fragile smile—a bloom of hope in the ash of loss. She reached for him, her fingers curling around his arm with quiet strength. "Then go Marcellus. May the winds carry you swiftly."
Marcellus turned and strode to the door. The letter remained in his hand, pressed to hi
s heart like a vow.