The King and Queen spent so much time alone in their minds that they didn’t hear the whispers. 

Time passed, but the color in Gwynnyth’s cheeks never returned. She lost weight. Timid, reticent, and often dizzy, she was nothing like the chatty, confident monarch the people knew. She wore a vacant stare, like a specter trapped in a statue. Her first love, the night sky, failed to fascinate her like it did before. The stars shone like her baby’s empty eyes.

Anders fetched water from Welbournehale’s famous hotsprings for her to drink, since they were supposed to have healing properties. It had no noticeable effect. Doctors offered guesses to her condition. The faithful midwife now refused to see her.

Even after the rest of the kingdom moved on from the failed pregnancy, the King and Queen still dressed in mourning. Still, Anders knew royal business couldn’t stop. For the first time in months, he held a ball at the palace. He pretended to enjoy the commotion. 

Gwynnyth wouldn’t drink or dance. She tried to hide her frailty in front of the crowd, but to no use. Lights blurred before her. She fell.

Anders rushed to her side, and Krystofyr spread his cape to shield the sight from the muttering crowd. This was not the first time she had lost consciousness, but it was the first time in front of a large gathering. Leering noblemen whispered to their wives as Anders and Krystofyr carried Gwynnyth out of the room. The ball ended scarcely as soon as it began.

Anders strove to run the kingdom as smoothly as he could while Gwynnyth rested and tried to recover. Overwhelmed trying to balance political drama, a kingdom-wide drought, social trifles, an ailing wife, and his own burning guilt, the King ignored any issue that wasn’t right in front of his nose. 

Meanwhile, word about Gwynnyth’s strange behavior continued to spread around the palace. Rumor said the Queen had given birth to a monster.