"Even in death, a true guardian bends the future around his will. The Kingdom breathes today because he chose the hour of his last breath."
The North Wing was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where the King could shed the weight of the Crown. But tonight, it felt like the most heavily guarded pressure cooker in the Kingdom. The air was charged, thick with the scent of sterile disinfectant from the adjacent royal nursery and the sharp, metallic tang of unexpressed grief. It had been thirty-six hours since Ostel had given me the official report on Silas's passing: "Rested early this Morning."
