Since Sylvia was not moving, Lorraine looked at Emma. "Emma… ask him here…"
Aralyn held Lorraine's hand, soothing and comforting her. But Lorraine was not getting comforted. She wanted him by her side. She wanted to die in his arms.
Sylvia froze, her eyes flicking toward the tent flap, torn between duty and truth. Her throat worked around the words she didn't want to say. Emma blinked.
How could they tell her?
How could they admit that King Leroy… her steadfast, stubborn, fiercely loving husband, had refused to come?
Outside the tent, Leroy stood frozen, palms pressed to the canvas as if he could feel her through it… her breath, her pain, her fear. His own breath came in uneven, ragged bursts, and his eyes were wild, unfocused, like a man staring down the edge of a cliff he was about to fall from.
"How can I go in?" His voice cracked. "Aldric…tell me. How can I walk in there?"
