Instead of curling up on the rope bed, which would have offered warmth and comfort and solace. Sapphire quietly slid down to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest as she settled on the cold, hard wooden boards near the hearth. The faint crackle of the flames offered the only comfort in the unfamiliar room.
The flickering light danced across her damp skin, drying the last remnants of rain clinging to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly as if trying to hold her world together. Her breath was shallow, her heart heavier than her bones.
Then, softly, so softly it was barely audible — she began to hum. A tune from long ago. A lullaby she used to sing to her son, back when life was gentler, back when love still lived in her arms. Her voice trembled as she hummed, grief knotting in her throat, but she sang anyway.
It was all she had left.
Tears slipped silently down Sapphire's cheeks, warm against the chill of the night.She cried for the pain she had buried for so long.
She cried for her son — for his innocence lost too soon. She cried for the uncertain future that lay ahead of her child — a boy robbed of a mother's embrace.
And so, curled on the hard floor, beneath the hush of a crackling fire and the weight of a thousand regrets, Sapphire wept.
That night, she cried herself to sleep it was the least she could do.
The sun had barely risen when the palace's farther side became a gathering ground for the desperate. Mud caked the hems of skirts and trousers, eyes were sunken from lack of sleep, and voices trembled, not from fear, but from hunger and despair.
The storm had been brutal. Barns reduced to broken planks, livestock buried under collapsed roofs, and fields that once promised harvest now lay drowned beneath thick sludge. Even the king's own lands bore the wrath of the rain, the crops swept into the river like forgotten offerings.
"We need to speak to the King," one man urged, his voice carrying the weight of many.
"We've lost everything," said another, holding a child who coughed weakly. "The water is foul. People are falling sick from it. What are we to drink now?"
But their pleas found their way to the mayor, a portly man whose wealth had been carved from their backs. Clad in fine robes with gold threads, he looked down on them from his shaded platform like a god addressing ants.
"Enough, you lowly peasants!" he barked. "The King? You dare speak of audience with the King?"
"We are his people!" one brave soul shouted. "His land is our land—we tend it! If we suffer, he should know!"
The Mayor's eyes narrowed. Without warning, he raised his hand A sharp crack echoed.
A guard's fist met the man's jaw, sending him sprawling.
"Bind him," the Mayor snapped. "Flog him until he forgets his place."
As the helpless serf was dragged off, silence fell like a shroud.
"Who is next?" the Mayor hissed, eyes scanning the trembling crowd.
None moved. None spoke.
"Good. Now return to your miserable homes and forget this foolishness ever happened."
And so, heads bowed and hearts heavy, the people dispersed — swallowed by mud and injustice.
The Mayor stood tall atop the raised stone platform, his robes swaying in the light morning breeze, His lip curled in disdain as he watched them disperse
"Fools," he muttered, shaking his head. "They think they are worthy to demand an audience. Mere tools in the King's field, yet they dream of standing in his presence."
He turned to his steward, a lean man who never spoke unless asked.
"On my command," the Mayor said coldly, "Tell the town crier to announce that no one is to approach the palace gates without written summons. And any man who stirs unrest again flog him publicly."
He paused, his gaze lingering on the path the peasants had taken. "Let them starve if they must. That will teach them obedience."
Without waiting for a reply, he descended the steps with slow, heavy strides—each one echoing with the weight of unchecked power.