One week had passed, and for the first time in years, the palace felt a better place with the presence of every royal heir. The Crown Prince's return had restored a superficial sense of order, yet beneath the gilded ceilings, King Iramo was failing. He moved slowly from his bed to the chair, masking his declining health behind layers of heavy silk and a stoic expression, desperate to keep the rumors of his frailty from escaping the royal chambers.
His physical pain was only matched by his growing unease. The volatile behavior of Ainsley and the deepening rift with his eldest son weighed heavily on his mind.
"Your Majesty," his most trusted attendant murmured, bowing low as he presented a tray. "Prince Sullivan came to your doors last night, persistent in his inquiries. He has a sharp eye; he noticed your absence from the morning walks and sensed the shift in your constitution."
Iramo stared into the dark, bitter tonic in his cup.
