The room was quiet, thick with the smell of crushed herbs and smoke from the fever candles. Carlos sat beside the bed, his arms folded, eyes fixed on Erevan's still form. The king had not stirred for hours—not since they carried him from the prison where the scent of blood and rot had overwhelmed his fragile heart.
The root had done its work, but recovery came slowly. Erevan's chest rose and fell steadily now, no longer rattling—but he hadn't yet opened his eyes.
Carlos leaned back in the chair and turned toward the healer. "What's your name?" he asked, voice low.
Lumira raised an eyebrow, surprised that he'd only just asked. She had been by his brother's side for days, worked tirelessly through the nights, and even helped clean the blood from Carlos's cracked knuckles.
"Lumira," she said plainly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she ground herbs into a paste. "I thought you would've asked sooner, Duke."
Carlos exhaled softly through his nose. "Too much going on."
Their quiet exchange broke as a soft, broken voice echoed from the hallway:
"My son… Are you awake?"
The words were syruped in sorrow, coated in motherly tremble.
Carlos froze. Lumira stiffened, hands halting over her mortar. They glanced at the door, and neither said anything for a breath.
Then Carlos slowly stood.
"I didn't expect her so soon," Lumira murmured.
"She never shows up unless it benefits her," Carlos replied.
"She's still his mother."
Carlos gave her a look. Cold. Flat. "No, she's not. Not really."
Lumira's expression didn't change, but there was a quiet fury in her eyes as she looked to the bed—her patient, not just a king. She had kept him alive. She had watched his skin turn gray and brought him back from the brink. She didn't care for the politics, but she would not let a man she healed die from a wound he couldn't see coming.
"You should handle it," she said simply.
Carlos nodded once.
As the door creaked open, light poured into the room. The Queen stood in the threshold like a shadowed statue, face veiled, hands folded, a performance of grief and elegance.
She looked between the sleeping Erevan and the young man beside his bed. Her expression faltered just slightly when her gaze met Carlos's eyes.
He said nothing.
She stepped forward, each footfall measured. "I heard he was recovering. I—" her voice broke, just enough to be convincing, "I needed to see him. I needed to know he was alive."
Carlos blocked her path.
"No closer," he said. "He's not awake. And he doesn't need your tears."
The Queen blinked, startled. "Carlos, I am his mother—"
"No," Carlos cut in, firm and low. "You gave him flowers that almost killed him. You served him poison and called it wine. You let your loyal chef vanish without a word. You were ready to bury him."
Her lip trembled. "I don't know what lies you've heard—"
"They're not lies." He stepped closer. "I carried him while he was dying. I heard him whisper your name. Not in love. In fear."
Silence fell between them. Thick. Heavy.
Behind him, Lumira remained silent. She let the boy stand his ground—her hands still covered in medicine, her heart thundering with quiet support.
The Queen looked at her son—her son—and for the first time, realized she no longer held anything over him.
Carlos's voice lowered to a whisper.
"If you ever come near him again without my permission…" He pointed to the root, still bound to Erevan's chest like a lifeline. "You'll answer to me. Not as a duke. Not as a brother. But as the fire that survived the gods."
The Queen said nothing more. Her veil trembled. Her fingers twitched. But she turned, gracefully, slowly, and left the room.
When the door shut, Lumira exhaled.
"You're dangerous," she said softly.
Carlos turned back to Erevan, his eyes tired. "She made me this way."