The cell is too quiet.
Too quiet except for the sound of shallow, ragged breathing that scratches at the air like a blade dragged across stone. Suzan lies slumped against the cold bedding, her chains slackened, a medic crouched desperately beside her. His hands move quickly, trying poultices, pressing herbs to her lips, checking her pulse over and over as though afraid to find nothing.
She lay half-buried in her own shadow, cuffs slack around wrists that had gone too thin. The air smelled of iron and herbs — crushed poultices and blood gone dry. Her blanket was soaked through, and each time her chest rose, it did so with effort that made even the guards flinch to hear.
"Come on… breathe for me," the medic whispered, voice cracking from overuse. His hands trembled as he pressed another poultice to her lips. "Just one more, little one. You can do that, can't you?"
Her answer came as a faint wheeze, almost soundless. Her head tilted to the side, eyes half-lidded, lashes trembling.
He dabbed at the corner of her lips with a cloth, then checked the pulse along her neck. Weak. Barely there.
He frowned, adjusted the bowl beside him, and began mixing the next batch of herbs.
"Still breathing," he muttered, not to anyone, but to the air. "Barely."
From outside the bars, two guards stood watching. One older, one young. The elder leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Does it matter?" he asked in a tired voice. "They'll just drag her to court again when she wakes."
The medic didn't answer. He lifted the girl's wrist, pressed his thumb gently, and felt the pulse again.
Slower.
He dipped the cloth again, pressed it against her forehead, and watched.
"She's just a child," one whispers hoarsely, fists clenched so tightly his nails dig into his palms. "What are we doing?"
No one answers. None dared.
The others only stared at the ground, eyes hollow, guilt dripping from them like sweat.
Outside, the corridor was heavy with silence. Even the torches seemed to burn quieter, their light shivering against the walls as if unwilling to intrude.
---
Far above the prison, the palace was alive with candlelight and whispers.
In the King's chamber, the air felt different — sharper somehow, touched with something cold. The King sat at his desk, back straight, eyes unfocused on the parchment before him.
He wasn't reading. He was listening.
The whisper and reports had reached him minutes ago: The child — the accused — had collapsed. The medic had been sent to keep her alive "until further orders."
He sat in stillness for a long moment, then straightened. "Send for my aide."
The door opened not long after.
A tall figure stepped through the archway — silver-blue hair brushing the collar of a dark, immaculate coat, its edges trimmed in the faint gold of royal command. His eyes, a tempered amber, swept the room with quiet calculation. Every movement was precise, deliberate — the discipline of a man who measured before he struck. Sir Kael Drosven. His very stillness carried authority, the kind that did not need to be declared; it was simply understood.
He bows low. "You called, Your Majesty?"
The King didn't turn immediately. His hand rested against the desk, fingers tracing idle patterns into the grain of the wood.
"There's talk," he said finally, "of the child prisoner collapsing."
"Yes, sire," the aide replied. His tone was steady, respectful. "I've heard the same. The medic was ordered to maintain her life — nothing more."
The King's eyes darkened. "Maintain," he repeated quietly. "As if she were a broken instrument."
He turned then, studying the man before him. The aide did not flinch.
"You've always spoken the truth to me, Kael," the King said. "Even when others chose silence."
Kael bowed his head. "I serve the throne, my lord. Not whispers."
The King's voice dropped lower. "Then serve it again. Go. See her. See what they've done in my name."
Kael's eyes lifted. "Shall I speak in your stead, sire?"
"No," the King said, voice cold but tired. "Only observe. And when you return—"
He paused. "—we'll see the truth whether mercy still has a place in this court. I want the truth— no matter how it sounds."
Kael bowed deeply, his movements precise, full of old discipline. "Your Majesty."
He rose, cloak swaying behind him, and left without another word. The heavy doors shut softly in his wake.
The King remained motionless long after the sound of boots faded from the corridor.
The parchment still lay on his desk, the ink beginning to smudge beneath the faint tremor of his fingertips.
The descent into the prison always felt longer than it was. The air grew colder with each step, thick with damp stone and the faintest trace of salt. Kael's boots rang against the stairs, steady and sharp, a rhythm that echoed down the hollow corridors.
When he reached the main hall, the guards straightened at once.
"My lord," the captain said, voice low, "you honor us with your presence."
Kael didn't waste words. "Take me to the prisoner. Where is she?"
The guard swallowed. "Last cell, my lord. The medic's still there."
Kael nodded once. "Lead the way."
The men exchanged uneasy looks but obeyed, leading him through the narrow passage lined with iron doors. The clatter of keys echoed down the corridor. Chains clinked faintly somewhere in the dark, and a rat scurried across the floor. The deeper they went, the heavier the air grew — until the torches burned lower, and a smell of medicine and blood replaced the damp.
They stopped at the final cell.
Inside, the medic was kneeling beside the girl, whispering under his breath as he wrung a cloth into a bowl of water.
When Kael stepped through the threshold, the medic lifted his head — startled at the sight of a man wearing royal insignia. He stood quickly, bowing without a word.
Kael's expression did not change, but his silence deepened. He took one step forward, then another standing beside the medic.
The medic spoke first, voice quiet but taut. "She's alive, my lord. For now."
Kael glanced down at him. "Explain."
"I was told to keep her breathing," the medic said flatly. "So I do. Nothing more."
"And yet," Kael said, his tone almost soft, "you haven't left."
The medic hesitated. His fingers tightened around the edge of the bowl. "…Orders don't say when to stop."
Kael's gaze drifted on the girl as he studied her closely eyes narrowing and for a heartbeat the air left his chest.
'No...'
He knew her.
Not like this — not pale, not broken. But alive, wild, laughing in the streets as she darted through the crowd, hands full of stolen apples. He'd seen her once during a royal patrol, shouting playfully at the guards who chased her, her voice bright with defiance. The kind of child who seemed untouchable — too stubborn to fall, too wild to bow.
The city's spark
He stared at her for a long moment, something cold lodging itself in his chest. What have they done to you?
"Why is she still here?" he asked quietly, though the quiet made his voice more dangerous than a shout.
The captain faltered. "My lord—she's under trial orders. The court—"
"She's dying," Kael said, his tone cutting like a blade. "Or can none of you see that?"
No one spoke.
Kael's jaw tightened and he knelt beside her, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. Slowly, he brushed the damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her skin was burning cold, her breathing shallow, erratic.
The medic didn't look up. His hands were shaking too much to mix the herbs. "I'm trying," he muttered, voice trembling. "She's slipping, my lord. I am doing what I can."
Kael rose, turning sharply toward the guards. "Tell me everything."
And they did.
They told him how the nobles demanded trials, how the court refused her rest, how the guards themselves were forced to drag her through mud and halls when she could barely stand. They spoke of their own helplessness, their guilt. One lowered his head in shame; another muttered a prayer through clenched teeth.
Kael listened, silent. His jaw tightened more with each word.
One of the younger guards stepped forward, his voice shaking. "Please, my lord—can you help her? She won't last if this continues."
Kael looked around at them — at their shame, their bowed heads, the guilt carved deep into every face.
His voice came softer now, but edged with quiet rage. "The court swore to protect this kingdom," he said. "Not destroy children."
The captain swallowed hard. "My lord, we only followed—"
"I know," Kael interrupted. His voice softened just slightly. "You obeyed. As you must. But this—" his eyes flicked toward Suzan's still form, "—this is not justice."
He turned, cloak brushing the floor as he strode out. The guards stepped aside as he passed, none daring to meet his gaze.
His steps echoed, measured and sharp, until they faded into silence.
He turned sharply, his cloak flaring behind him.
The King was pacing when Kael returned.
Candles burned low, their light flickering against the chamber's high walls. The Queen's embroidery still lay untouched on the table — forgotten. The King stopped mid-step as Kael entered.
"Well?" he demanded.
Kael bowed, the movement precise. "She is dying, sire."
The King froze mid-step. "Dying?"
Kael lowered his gaze, voice steady but grim. "Yes, sire. They did not spare her even after she collapsed. The medic does what he can, but her body is spent beyond limit. If this continues, you will not have a prisoner to judge—only a corpse to bury."
He paused, then added quietly, "This is no trial, my lord. It is slow execution."
The words fell like stones. The chamber grew cold. The King's hands tightened behind his back, shoulders rigid. "And the council?"
"They push for a verdict before you can intervene," Kael replied carefully, still bowed. "They fear your interference. They would rather see her fade than lose control. They know your patience runs thin. If she perishes, the blame dies with her."
The King's jaw flexed. "Instead of seeking truth, they'd rather bury it."
"So it appears," Kael said, bowing his head lower. His posture was precise, unshaken, every word measured—he spoke only when permitted, eyes fixed on the floor as respect demanded.
The King turned toward the tall window, his reflection pale in the black glass. "Did my warning drive them to this? Are they so desperate to end it before I intervene?"
"It seems so, my lord," Kael murmured.
The silence that followed was long and heavy. The King's voice came again, low and fierce. "I gave them five days. If she perishes before then…" His eyes darkened. "No. I will not let it happen."
Neither man moved. The only sound was the faint hiss of the brazier near the wall.
Finally, Kael spoke, carefully choosing his words. "Then perhaps, sire, we should assign someone—someone loyal—to remain near her cell. To watch, and report every change and condition directly to us. If they twist the truth, we will have record."
The King studied him, thoughtful. "You have someone in mind?"
Kael lifted his gaze only enough to meet his sovereign's eyes. "Not yet, sire. But I will search for one who serves without ambition. Someone from the prison ranks—an officer respected by both sides. His word would carry weight if the council dares to dispute it."
The King gave a slow nod. "Do so. And report to me before dawn."
Kael bowed low, one hand to his chest. "By your command, Your Majesty."
When he withdrew, the great doors closed with a hollow echo.
The King stood alone, his reflection wavering in the window's glass, his breath steady but heavy—
the kind of silence that comes before a storm.
That same night, deep in the prison's lower corridors, Captain Arven returned from his rounds.
The air felt heavier than usual. The torches burned low, and the guards spoke in hushed tones, glancing at her cell every few minutes as though afraid to listen too closely.
When Arven stepped through the door, the sound met him first — shallow, ragged breathing, a child's body fighting to stay alive.
He froze.
The medic was still there, sleeves rolled up, face lined with exhaustion. "Captain," he said without looking up, "she's worse."
Arven moved closer, his boots echoing softly. "How worse?"
The medic's hands didn't stop.
"Worse than I've ever seen. Tell me, are you feeding her something unusual? Something to weaken her? Maybe poison in her food?"
Arven's head snapped up. "What? No—by the gods, no!"
"Then something is happening," the medic hissed. "Something not natural. She fades faster than medicine can catch her. Her blood clots, then flows again. Her heart slows, then races. This isn't sickness — it's something done to her."
Arven's breath caught. 'Something done to her?'
He stared at the girl — pale, trembling, skin stretched too thin. The faint light flickered across her face, her lips still stained red.
His thoughts turned inward, stabbing deep it haunted him. 'You gave the order to arrest her.'
He gripped his knees, his jaw tight. 'You put her there.'
The medic's voice still echoed again in his head: "Something's being done to her."
The implication was clear. Someone — somewhere — was making sure the girl didn't live long enough to be proven innocent.
His hands trembled. He had sworn loyalty to the crown, to the law — not to cruelty. Not to this.
He rose abruptly, the chair scraping across the floor.
He couldn't bear to sit in that silence anymore.
If I stay still, she will die.
His voice came low, breaking. "This isn't justice…" and he walked away.
The guards nearby said nothing. They didn't need to. The guilt was shared.
He hadn't planned to go to the palace.
He hadn't even noticed when his feet began to move.
The palace halls stretched endless at night — silent, marble, cold.
Arven's boots echoed through the corridors, each step heavy and unsure. He had never come before the King without summons. It was unthinkable. Orders flowed to him, not from him.
And yet tonight, he walked toward the great doors on his own.
The royal guards crossed their spears in reflex as he approached, but froze when they saw his face.
"Captain Arven," one said quietly. "His Majesty awaits you."
Arven blinked. Awaits me?
He hesitated — then nodded once, and pushed the doors open.
The King stood near the center of the chamber, tall and still, haloed by the pale glow of lanterns. His gaze lifted as Arven entered.
"Captain Arven," he said evenly. "You have come."
Arven dropped to one knee at once, head bowed low, the weight of armor and guilt pressing hard upon his shoulders.
"Your Majesty… forgive me. I can remain silent no longer."
The King's tone softened. "Raise your head, Captain. Speak freely."
Arven obeyed, though his voice trembled. "There is a child in your prisons, my lord — being mistreated without mercy. Her trials, her condition… they have gone beyond punishment. What they do now is cruelty. She will not survive another day."
The King said nothing, his expression unreadable.
Arven swallowed, desperate words breaking through restraint. "I gave the order to arrest her. I believed the charges. I believed the traces. But what I saw tonight—" his voice cracked, "—she is barely breathing, Your Majesty. Barely alive."
He bowed lower, palms pressed to the cold floor. "I beg you, sire… do something before it is too late."
For a long moment, silence filled the room. Then the King spoke, voice low, almost sorrowful.
"What makes you certain she is worth saving, Captain?"
Arven's answer came rough and unguarded. "Because she is a child. Because she suffers, and no one listens. Because I was blind—and now I see it. That is reason enough."
The King exhaled slowly. He stepped closer and rested a hand upon Arven's shoulder — not as rebuke, but understanding.
"Then we are of one mind," he said softly. "For I, too, see a child breaking… and a court blind to its cruelty."
He met Arven's eyes. "Rise. There is much we must decide."
Arven's head bowed again, emotion tightening his throat. "Then… there is hope, my lord?"
The King did not answer. His gaze turned toward the window, where the faintest glimmer of dawn touched the horizon —
and for the first time in days, the silence did not feel like despair
Down in the depths below, the lantern's light trembled once more.
The medic sat by her side, silent now, his hands stained and weary. He had done all he could — checked her pulse again and again, trying to stabilise her, whispered useless words to fill the air.
Her chest rose, fell, and rose again.
Barely.
After long hours, the medic leaned back, exhaustion clouding his eyes. "Stubborn girl," he whispered. "You're still fighting come on hold on."
No answer came.
Only the faint sound of chains shifting, the whisper of her breath — thin, fading, fragile.
And above, in the palace, the King stood unmoving, his hand still resting on his captain's shoulder, the weight of unspoken decisions pressing like iron between them.
The night stretched long.
The candle burned low.
And beneath the stone and silence, a dying child clung to the thinnest thread of life, waiting — as the world above her hesitated.