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No, it is what you expect of my life, Cael signs, stepping forward to lean over the mattress. His hands snap through the air while burning tears well in his wide eyes.

King Raelith parts his lips to answer, his jaw tightening. A rattling gasp leaves his throat instead. His chest seizes. A harsh cough rips from his lungs, doubling his frame over toward his knees.

Cael’s hands freeze mid-motion, his anger vanishing. He drops to his knees beside the mattress, his shoulders shaking while his palms support his father’s back. He watches, a dark crimson stain spotting the white linen sheet. He guides his father to sink against the pillows again, the tears welling in his eyes.

Waiting for his father to adjust and meet his gaze, Cael steps back. What is wrong? Why is there blood?

King Raelith drifts his gaze away, swallowing. “I have not been meaning to tell you this news soon. Especially not now.” He clears his throat, wincing at the pain. “My son, I cannot hide it from you anymore. Nurse Elsher and the physicians investigated my illness. It is not a common cold. They found a decay inside my lungs, a black rot that spreads with every breath I draw. There is no tonic to reverse the damage, and no cure exists to halt the decline.”

Cael’s legs weaken, but his hands grasp the sheets for support, his eyes wide while his breathing becomes heavier.

“My strength leaves me,” Raelith whispers, looking into his son’s eyes. “The truth, Cael. I am dying.”

Cael’s heart skips a beat. What little strength he has left flees. Turning his face away, he blinks hard and attempts to sign. His hands do not move.

“I am not saying this to frighten you,” his father murmurs, his hand landing on Cael’s shoulder. “I am telling you because you deserve to know the truth. You have spent years preparing for this title without ever being told how close the moment rests. It is time, my son. The throne must pass to you. Not in a year. Not when matters grow calmer, or when the borders stand stronger, or when the people become more willing to accept the transition.” A shuddering breath leaves his frame. “Soon.”

The word hardens over Cael with a density that feels physical. King Raelith reaches forward and places his palm over Cael’s hand. The grip is weaker than the last.

“You are ready,” his father says. “You have been ready for longer than you realize. The only barrier standing between you and that crown is your own belief that you are not enough.” He smiles. “You are enough. You have been enough. I witness the prince you have become. I witness the burden you carry for this kingdom and for its people, even when they offer nothing in return.”

Cael’s eyes burn with moisture. He keeps his gaze lowered.

“I request one thing of you,” King Raelith adds. Cael lifts his gaze, meeting his father’s identical gray eyes. “Let Elara stand beside you when the time arrives. Not because the law requires the match, and not because the court expects the alliance. Stand with her because a solitary king is an easy target for the council. She belongs to a lineage that understands the weight of a throne, and her presence at your side will form a defense that our enemies cannot fracture. You must secure her loyalty, Cael, for she is the partner who will ensure your rule survives the trials ahead.”

Cael takes in his father’s words and the manner he addresses Elara. His thoughts return to his admission of his sickness and him dying. No, he signs. You need to find more physicians or nurses, other than the ones we possess in Riverath. I will send messengers across the seas and kingdoms to inspect your condition. It is a common cold.

“Cael.”

Yes, a common cold, Cael signs, his head nodding while his shoulders ease at his own desperate reassurance. I will call Nurse Elsher and force her to examine your chest again. In front of my eyes. Or I will remove her from this palace for her incorrect analysis⁠—

Tears stream down his father’s cheeks. Cael’s hands drop to his sides, his breath catching.

“Son,” he inhales a shuddering breath. “The physicians investigated the decay. They checked the progress multiple times a day. Every day. I have taken more medicines than my frame can tolerate.” He tilts his head, avoiding his son’s wide eyes. “The cause of my decline is beyond a common cold. It is death.”

Cael forces his hands up to sign a counterargument, but his fingers lose their strength and fail him. His father lets out a sob, shaking his head. “This reality breaks my heart, my son. For your entire life, my sole wish was to witness your success. I know I mention your title and your ascension to the throne, hoping you become a better ruler than I have been. The truth remains, I pushed you because I knew my presence would not remain to guide your path.”

“I love you, my son. I do not admit it much, but I love you and Kaera. You are both my pride.” Raelith extends his hand forward.

Cael glances down at his father’s hand, unable to move.

King Raelith’s eyebrows furrow. “I think you need rest. Go to your quarters. You have earned it today.”

Cael nods. He rises from the floor, his knees weakening while his palms use the mattress for support. He turns and opens the door to leave, only to find Kaera standing in the corridor. She has not left, and was listening to King Raelith’s words. Her wide eyes fill with terror, a soft shuddering breath of shock escaping her mouth.

“Cael, is Father dying?” She murmurs. “No. No, please.” She lunges forward and throws her arms around his torso, holding him while her body shakes. “He cannot die. We cannot lose him!”

Cael places his hand on Kaera’s back, his fingers trembling while he stares ahead into the dim hallway. His younger sister takes a long moment to slow her tears, looking up at his face. “Cael? Why do your hands remain still? Why are you not weeping?”

Cael cannot force his fingers to move. He untangles Kaera’s arms from his waist, giving her a nod to urge her into their father’s presence. He turns away, leaving her behind in the upper corridor. His feet carry him down the stairs. He intends to find Nurse Elsher to demand a real explanation, but the weight of his father’s words fractures his strength with every step.

By the time he reaches the lower floor, his vision blurs and his lungs heave in a desperate fight for air. He stumbles into the dining hall, unable to walk any further toward the infirmary.

“Cael?” Elara calls, seated near the fireplace. She stands and rushes toward his frame. “Are you alright?”

Cael only stares at her. Before his fingers can lift to sign, she guides him to the other chair near the fireplace.

“You are pale,” Elara whispers, her eyes searching his features. “And trembling.” She brings her fingers to his palms, feeling his cold skin. Her posture shifts forward while her touch moves to his shoulder to shake him. “What happened? Please, tell me.”