Graystorm walked in silence down the stone-paved corridor of the castle, making his way toward the guardroom. Typically, the entire royal guard would be resting there, but tonight only Isaac Grant sat by the hearth.

Unbuckling his heavy broadsword, the knight set it against the wooden rack by the wall and, with a restrained sigh, began removing his sword belt and pieces of plate armor.

“Did you report to the King?” Isaac asked without looking up, methodically cleaning his blade with an oiled rag.

“No. His Majesty is in the Queen’s chambers,” the burly knight replied in a cold, muffled tone, sinking onto the bench across from Grant with a heavy thud.

“Sitting by her bedside again, talking to himself?” Isaac pressed, sympathetic yet with a slight sigh.

“No.”

“Graystorm, has anyone ever told you that human speech involves more than a single word?” Grant rolled his eyes dramatically, holding the blade up to the lamplight to inspect the edge. “Why didn't you report?”

“Because the King is with the Queen.”

“Why, I ought to...” Isaac cut himself short mid-sentence as the true meaning of the words finally registered.

He slowly set his sword down upon the oak table. A quiet, awkward silence fell over the guardroom.

Isaac twirled the rag in his hands, cast a fleeting glance at his silent comrade, and could not help but shake his head.

“I still don't understand it. The King holds absolute power now. The lords on the Council are practically howling, shoving portraits of their daughters into his face. Why on earth is he clinging to a girl whose entire house was just branded as traitors? It’s political suicide. He should find himself a new queen, and as for this one...”

“Not our concern,” Graystorm cut him off, not even bothering to raise his head.

“Oh, come off it! We trained on the very same grounds together! Don't tell me you don't think he's simply…”

“Be quiet, Grant,” Graystorm said, his deep voice heavy with weight as he rested his elbows on his knees. “It is not our concern.”

Isaac stared at him, taking in the giant’s stubborn set of shoulders, and realized he wouldn't extract another unnecessary word out of him tonight.

“Fine, fine, I’m quiet,” Grant scoffed, rising from the bench and sheathing his blade. “I’m heading to sleep. Back on shift at dawn.”

He gave a careless nod in farewell and exited the guardroom.

At this hour, the castle corridors were steeped in deep silence, broken only by the sporadic crackle of wall torches. Isaac walked unhurriedly, hands tucked into his pockets, maintaining the air of a man simply retiring to his quarters. As he rounded the corner at the east wing, a young servant carrying a tray moved silently toward him.

As they passed, the servant did not so much as raise his eyes, merely brushing against Isaac’s sleeve for a fraction of a second.

Isaac’s fingers curled imperceptibly - a tiny piece of thick paper was pressed into his palm. Without slowing his stride or looking back, Grant flicked the note into the cuff of his leather glove with a practiced motion. His face remained impassive, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

The main palace hall was drowning in false opulence and splendor. Hundreds of wax candles in massive gilded chandeliers flooded the space with a blinding, warm light. The air hung thick with a suffocating cocktail of heavy perfumes, roasted game, fine wine, and the cloying scent of lilies.

The guests - the high nobility of the capital who had been trembling in terror of executions only yesterday - now dazzled in their finest silks and jewels. From every corner came false laughter, the clinking of crystal goblets, and quiet, venomous whispering. The lords and their ladies tried with all their might to make amends, vying to curry favor with the young monarch.

Ashheim hated such gatherings with every fiber of his soul. The noise, the hypocrisy, and the slick, sycophantic gazes of the nobility stirred only a dull irritation within him. His thoughts kept straying back to Adelissa. Though she had gradually begun to recover and respond to his care, her body and spirit remained terribly frail. Ashheim had made a firm promise to himself: the moment the obligatory portion of the gala concluded and etiquette no longer demanded his presence, he would return immediately to the quiet, dimly lit chambers of his queen. To her.

Yet the noble guests were in no hurry to release their king.

“Your Majesty, you have wrought a true miracle!” yet another noble praised, beaming with a subservient smile.

“Yes, yes! You are entirely correct!” his wife chimed in, nodding vigorously as a cascade of diamonds sparkled around her neck.

Lacking the strength or desire to remain in their company any longer, Ashheim silently plucked another goblet from a passing servant's tray and drained the alcohol in one gulp. The spirits burned his throat, and within a minute, the contours of the lavish hall began to blur before his eyes.

“Your Majesty, you ought not to drink any more,” Sir Graystorm whispered softly yet warningly from behind.

“He speaks true - that is quite enough for tonight,” Sir Grant said, deftly taking the empty goblet from the king’s hand. “Perhaps you should step out for some fresh air. I am sure those present will forgive your early departure.”

The king gave a heavy nod. His head felt leaden. Bidding the lords farewell with a curt gesture, he made his way toward the exit leading to the quiet inner garden. Sir Grant hurried after him, leaving Graystorm behind to distract the persistent guests.

The cool night air briefly revived His Majesty, but the illusion of sobriety quickly vanished - the world spun entirely out of focus. The ground slipped from beneath his feet.

“You really shouldn't have had so much to drink,” Isaac Grant caught the stumbling monarch just in time, supporting his heavy weight against his shoulder.

“If I don't drink my fill tonight, I won't be able to later...” the king mumbled softly, his tongue thick and clumsy. “Take me to Lis. I want to see her...”

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Grant replied, his tone smooth and almost sympathetic.

Isaac led the king into his chambers. Dragging the helpless monarch across the room, the knight carefully set Ashheim down on the wide bed.

“Why are your hands so cold, Lis?..” the king muttered, finding the slender fingers of the girl seated on the bed and tenderly kissing her palm.

“I shall leave you now,” Isaac said with an obsequious smile, giving the young woman a subtle nod.

The moment the heavy door closed behind him, Grant stretched contentedly, immensely pleased with himself, and patronizingly patted the shoulder of the guard posted outside. However, his attention was immediately arrested by a figure standing motionless near an open window at the end of the corridor.

“Your Majesty...”

Sir Isaac Grant bowed low before the queen. Without waiting for her permission to rise, he lifted his head and neatly folded his hands behind his back.

“I need to speak with the King,” Adelissa said softly.

She looked mortally exhausted. Isaac was genuinely surprised that the queen had found the strength to leave her chambers at all. Her snow-white locks were slightly tangled, and a ringing emptiness lingered in her bright blue eyes. Adelissa possessed a delicate, refined beauty rare in these lands - a legacy inherited from her late foreign mother.

Ice-cold, clear eyes. Whatever did Ash see in them?

“I am afraid that is impossible right now,” Isaac replied with false courtesy. “His Majesty is resting.”

“It does not matter. I will wake him.”

Adelissa stepped toward the doors, but Grant unceremoniously blocked her path, catching the queen by the elbow. Sharp bewilderment flashed across Adelissa’s pale face.

“Forgive my rudeness, Your Majesty, but I must stop you,” Grant said, lowering his voice. “The King is not alone right now. He is resting... with a lady.”

Adelissa recoiled as if struck physically. Her shoulders slumped, and the last flickering ember in her gaze died out. Without another word, without so much as a glance at the knight, she turned sharply and hastened away down the dark corridor.

Forgive me, Your Majesty, but right now, this is the best outcome for us all, Grant thought, watching her retreat.

The facade of composure that Isaac Grant had maintained for years was fracturing at the seams. Beneath his tight, lifeless smile lurked a calculating killer, yet tonight that smile appeared more hollow than usual - a desperate attempt to drown out the clammy fear and creeping guilt rising within him.