◆ VAMIR ◆

For many years, the west wing of the Royal Palace lay deserted, save for the ghosts of the departed glory of our forefathers. Much of the palace dwellers believed it haunted ground, but three years ago, Isarrel proved us wrong when he moved his entire family—his consort Nenaias, his two children Aran and Braegen, and all their stewards and manservants—to the west wing. Soon enough, the west wing, a place once avoided like the plague, swiftly transformed into a place of intense activity, the brightest and liveliest in all of the Royal Palace, always filled with songs and laughter.

Today, I feel as though I stand on hallowed ground. A tomb, cold and empty, the silence broken only by heavy footsteps, the creaking of shutters, and the rusty hinges of a door. As Orrian and I walk down the dimly lit hallway, a pair of manservants step out of the room at the far end of the hall, carrying with them two large basins and what appear to be strips of bloody cloth. The servants bow low as I approach, faces somber as they quietly explain Isarrel's present condition.

"He is awake, Your Highness," says one of the servants, tone low and cautious. "The physician advised him to get as much sleep as he could. But... the ulcers on his hip and leg are only getting worse. His Majesty is in so much pain, he could barely sit up."

"If the new healing poultice fails to work," supplies the other servant, "the physician strongly advises surgery to remove the dead flesh. Or else, the infection will spread and eat away the bones." He lets out a dreary sigh as he stares down at the bloodied cloth in his arms. "His Majesty is in bad shape, Your Highness. I'm afraid he's not going to la—" His words are abruptly cut off as his companion surreptitiously nudges him with an elbow. "F-forgive me, Your Highness! It is not my place to speak of such things," the servant sputters. "If you'll excuse us, it's almost time for His Majesty's luncheon."

I nod and clear my throat, waving them in dismissal. "Very well, then. Prepare His Majesty's meal, if you please." The servants nod back and scuttle off to the opposite direction before I could utter another word.

Orrian is already at the door to Isarrel's bedchamber. On his second knock, the door opens and we are greeted by Ievos, the longest-serving steward in the palace and my brother's trusted aide.

Orrian pulls to the side to make way for me. "I shall wait for you here, Your Highness. Unless you want me to send word to the royal entourage?" He gives me a telling look, one that says, Forgive me, but you need to make it brief. We are running out of time.

I nod knowingly and turn to Ievos, who gives me a curt bow as he lets me in. Immediately, the sickly, acrid smell of blood and pus, mingled with medicinal herbs, assaults my senses. I scrunch my nose, trying to ignore the foul stench.

Ievos points me to the far corner of the chamber where they had moved my brother's bed closer to the window. My heart stutters at the sight: Isarrel laying propped up among pillows, his consort Nenaias in a stool by his side, holding his hand as he speaks in a soft voice that only two people could hear. Isarrel's eyes are closed, but his eyebrows would move up and down with each word that is spoken.

"Your Majesties," Ievos's voice breaks into the quiet of the chamber. "His Highness Prince Vamir has arrived."

Isarrel opens his eyes and both men turn their heads to look at me. I almost scowl at the steward for breaking the intimate moment before us.

I shift uncomfortably and clasp my hands together, feeling like an intruder. But the moment I see my brother's face light up, a weak smile forming across his lips, the vice on my heart uncoils. I bow and return his smile.

Isarrel holds out a bony hand and beckons me gently. "Mirre." He calls me by my pet name in a breathy and broken voice I am not accustomed to hearing. "How nice of you to come and see me."

Nenaias promptly gets up and walks over to me, gently grasping my forearm. "Thank you for coming, brother," he says, in a voice filled with gratitude. "I understand you are pressed for time, but Isarrel has been asking for you, wondering if he could see you before you depart."

I rest a hand on his arm and gave a reassuring squeeze. For a moment, I search Nenaias's face, wondering what I could say that would not hurt him further. "The servants...they told me most of the details of his condition," I say in a hushed whisper, glancing over Nenaias's shoulder to make certain my brother could not hear us. Nenaias begins to protest, but I interrupt him. "Please do not punish them. It is better we do not discuss it around Isarrel."

Nenaias nods in assent as he drops his gaze, letting out a sniffle that tells me he is about to cry. The sunlight peeking through the window gives me a better view of his countenance. Nenaias is visibly weary and perturbed, face sallow and gaunt with deep, dark circles around his eyes. He gets thinner and paler with each passing day. It pains me to see him like this, and I begin to fear he would soon fall ill.

"The physician used a new poultice of night sage and linden oil. Says it's good for healing ulcers," Nenaias explains, looking up at me with renewed hope. "Three days, he said. If all goes well, Isarrel will find no need for surgery."

I turn my gaze back to my brother's frail form. This time, I notice the fresh nightgown he is wearing, the front opening unbuttoned to his belly revealing the freshly changed bandages wrapped over the wounds on his chest. His breathing is regular yet shallow, his skin taking on a sickly yellow pallor. He looks no better than the last time I had seen him, and that was only two days ago.

I purse my lips and look back at Nenaias. The hope in his eyes is almost painful in its intensity. When you are about to lose your mate, you will want to grab all the chances you can get, hold even the smallest glimmer of hope. I do not want to be the one to take that away from him.

Nenaias seems to sense my unease, and he gleans to change the subject. He takes my hands and gives them a gentle squeeze. "I suppose I should leave you two alone...to talk," he says, craning his neck slightly in Isarrel's direction. "The boys and I shall see you off. We shall be in the courtyard."

Ievos escorts Nenaias outside the room, and I find myself alone with my brother.

"I know you have a lot in your hands at the moment," Isarrel says, once more beckoning me to come closer as he gestures to the stool beside him, "but I am glad you have made time for me."

I quickly walk the few steps so I can sit down next to him. Isarrel extends the sapphire-encrusted signet ring of his finger for me to kiss, thus putting himself in subjection to me as the king of the Azuries—the Sapphire Court. I take his hand, cold and clammy against mine, and press a light kiss on the ring that was once worn by my Alpha father and all the other Alpha kings before him.

I let out a deep breath as I leaned over and rest a cheek on my brother's palm, never letting go of his hand. "I miss consort-father," I admit, hating the tremor in my voice, every emotion bubbling to the surface. I feel ashamed to bare myself like this before my ailing brother, but instead, he lets out a throaty laugh.

"I am here, on my deathbed, and you are thinking of someone else," he jests, followed by a hoarse, wet cough that worries me.

I pinch my lips, failing to see the humor in his words. "There are things of which no jest must be made," I say severely, voice thin and fragile. In the Glass Empire, where war and famine are more common than rainfall and a bountiful harvest, meeting a peaceful death is a privilege—an honor.

But how can I believe there is honor in illness, when the unseen enemy ravages my brother completely defenseless?

Isarrel holds up his free hand in a placating manner. "Humor is a part of life and death, Mirre. If you ask me, I cannot think of a better time to be making wisecracks than when you are about to die."

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste the metallic tang of my own blood. I grasp for something to say to him, something encouraging or meaningful, something to tell him he is wrong. You are not dying. Nobody is dying. Not on my watch.

Instead, I say, "Wisecracks aside, consort-father always seemed to know exactly what to say in any situation."

Isarrel's eyebrows shoot up in mild surprise. "Oh. I thought I was the only one who noticed that about him." He leans his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes. "I remember one particular day. I have never cried so hard the way I did that day. Tannivh, our brother born after me, had just passed from the blood sickness. I was still fraught with grief over the death of Galhad, our other brother. I was...I was so mad. So mad at our fathers, for being so painfully reticent. It seemed to me they had simply moved on as though my brothers had never existed. But most of all, I was mad at myself. I did not understand what death meant then—the permanence and finality of it. For a long time I believed Tannivh and Galhad had just...fled away from me. That I was the problem. They hated me so much they had to leave."

Another fit of coughing racks my brother's body, but he shakes his head. I quickly fill a glass of water from a nearby pitcher and hand it to him. When he finally settles, he continues: "I went to consort-father and demanded answers. I asked him why my brothers had run away, leaving me behind." And then, he closes his eyes as if remembering something pleasant. "But consort-father just smiled that soft, silly smile of his. Ruffling my hair, he said, 'But Isarrel, they did not run away. Your brothers simply went on a long journey. They had to. But one day, you will meet them again. Perhaps not anytime soon. But someday, as sure as the sun rises in the morning. And I promise you, you will never be alone.'"

Slowly, he turns his head to me, his eyes glistening with unbridled mirth. I bite my lip as I try to keep my tears at bay. "A few cycles later, you were born. I was right there by consort-father's side, and I made sure I was the first to hold you. You were so small, so fragile. I never wanted to let you go. Father almost demanded I leave their chamber. But consort-father allowed me to stay, and asked me what name I should give you." My eyes widen in surprise. Isarrel looks at me with kind whisky-brown eyes, the corners crinkled with fine lines. "I named you after the sky. The sun sets, the moon fades, but the sky is always there. Father, consort-father, and I need to have someone who will be like the sky. Vamir. There has never been a more perfect name."