Isaac ran with every ounce of strength left in his body.

His lean, frail frame was covered in fresh cuts and bruises, his lungs burning with a desperate lack of air. His father had gambled away their last copper piece in an underground den once again, and brutal enforcers had come to collect the debt in family blood. In all his worthless life, Isaac had mastered only a single skill: running away.

Until today, when that skill had failed him.

Lying in the dark corner of a filthy alleyway, curled into a ball under a rain of heavy boots, Isaac had already made his peace with death. He was fairly certain a couple of his ribs were broken.

“Ash, over here! Quick!” a ringing girl’s voice suddenly pierced the whistle of blows.

Isaac tried to pry open an eye swollen shut by a hematoma. All he could make out through the veil of blood was the toes of expensive shoes ruthlessly trampling a muddy puddle, splashing murky water in every direction. Beyond that... a light bursting forth amid the squalor of the slums. Snow-white hair and clear, luminous blue eyes looking down at him with pure compassion.

Sir Isaac Grant snapped his eyes open, cursing coarsely under his breath for having drifted off while stationed right outside the royal bedchamber.

Rubbing his stiff neck, Isaac stretched lazily as he sat on the wide stone windowsill. Sticky, dead silence still reigned over the castle corridors. A full moon hung high in the dark sky outside the window, bathing the floor tiles in a sickly pale light.

“Has the guest departed yet?” he asked the guards at the door with a yawn.

“No, Sir Grant.”

“Good.”

He blinked, yawning again, and slid off the windowsill to roll his tight shoulders.

The sound of quick, frantic footsteps - or rather, a desperate run - caught his attention. Turning, Isaac spotted a maid from the queen’s personal retinue. It appeared to be the very girl Ashheim had recently ordered returned to Adelissa.

The moment the girl reached the royal chambers, Sir Grant roughly caught her by her delicate wrist and dragged her deep into the corridor’s shadows. Leaning in close, he fixed her with a glare so heavy and chilling that the maid shrank back in terror. Wild panic was frozen on her pale face, her cheeks flushed red from running, and her swollen, tear-filled eyes brimmed with dread.

“His Majesty is resting. Do not disturb him,” the knight cut in, his tone arctic.

“I must... I need to report to His Majesty immediately!” Rose cried out, attempting to wrench her wrist free.

“You may not,” Isaac drawled playfully, tightening his grip on her wrist. “Rose, was it? You can report to me. His Majesty is not alone right now.”

Fresh tears spilled like hail down the girl’s cheeks. She began to tremble, unable to catch her breath.

Isaac frowned. A sudden wave of bad intuition - which had never failed him - rose like an icy lump in his throat.

“Her Majesty...” Rose’s voice broke into a dry, agonizing rasp.

The words the maid whispered next echoed with a deafening ring through the knight’s ears.

Killed... herself?

Waking up, Ashheim tried to piece together what had transpired the previous evening. His head throbbed with a vicious hangover, and his mouth felt bone-dry. He had no recollection of how he had reached his bed - but far worse, he had absolutely no idea who the woman sleeping beside him was.

The stranger’s chestnut hair veiled her face. She was pressing her bare body against Ashheim, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

What happened?!

Every attempt to reconstruct the sequence of events brought a fresh pulse of throbbing pain to his temples. Ashheim tried to rise gently to avoid waking her, but failed. The girl opened emerald eyes and offered the king a sweet smile. Stretching, she raised herself on the mattress and kissed him on the lips.

Reeling back, Ashheim bolted out of bed to his feet.

A misunderstanding! This is obviously some mistake! But how... how could this girl even be in the royal chambers?!

“Your Majesty, are you alright?” she purred with a faint, affected pout.

“You... Who are you?! How did you get in here?”

The woman feigned a frown before pulling a sad, sulky grimace.

“Do you not remember me at all? Last night at the banquet, you whispered for me to come to your chambers yourself. You said you would join me as soon as the formal proceedings were over...”

“We... with you...” Ashheim swallowed hard, feeling an icy numbness flood his chest.

“Of course, Your Majesty! You were so gentle and...”

“Be quiet! Enough!”

Unwilling to hear another word, Ashheim hurriedly threw on his clothes and bolted from the room, leaving the stranger alone. His head felt near to bursting, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs.

Slamming the heavy door shut, he scanned the corridor with frantic eyes, searching for anyone who could explain this nightmare. Catching sight of Warren Graystorm a few paces away, the king rushed toward him, only to freeze dead in his tracks halfway.

The burly knight stood with his head bowed low. His shoulders were draped in a heavy black cloak - a mourning garment worn only in times of deep plague or the demise of royalty.

Before Ashheim could utter a single word, Warren spoke heavily:

“Her Majesty Adelissa Beatrice Ravenholt has passed away.”

Sir Isaac Grant sat on the floor, leaning his back helplessly against the cold stone wall. Twilight filled the room. Though the sun had risen long ago, no one had drawn open the heavy drapes in the queen’s chambers. The knight sat motionless, like a cursed sentinel guarding the eternal sleep of the woman he had undone.

The heavy oak door creaked open. Ashheim hesitated before crossing the threshold. The faint beam of light streaming in from the corridor barely illuminated the still silhouette resting on the bed.

Slowly, his legs barely supporting him, the king approached the bed. Isaac rose and took a step toward the monarch. His voice sounded dry, lifeless, and his hand trembled traitorously.

“Her Majesty came to see you last night. I did not let her in... as you were not alone.”

Ashheim offered no reply. On buckling knees, he sank onto the edge of the mattress, tenderly taking his wife’s delicate hand and pressing it to his cheek.

“Why is your hand so cold, Lis?..” he whispered softly, his voice fracturing.

Isaac stood nearby, numb. He did not dare raise his eyes while a single, venomous thought beat repeatedly in his mind: She died because of me. I am the one who killed her.

Ashheim reached out trembling fingers to Adelissa’s pale face. Hot, searing tears spilled from his eyes. He refused to believe, could not believe, what was happening before him. In the next second, the king’s wild, soul-rending scream sent a shiver through the guards stationed beyond the door. Burying his face in her neck, Ashheim held Adelissa’s cold body tightly against his chest.

I pray, Goddess... bring her back to life. Grant her the chance to live a long, peaceful, and happy life. I promise... I will never interfere in her destiny again. I will not lay a finger on her. Just let her live...

The snow-covered graveyard was steeped in a ringing silence. Ashheim stared at the pristine white headstone.

ADELISSA BEATRICE FORNWEIR

“If I had never become king...” Ashheim knelt down in front of the stone slab and carefully hung a woven wreath of flowers on the gravestone. “...you would be alive, Lis. If I had not chosen this path, we would have had more time... Goddess, if you hear me... Allow Adelissa to live a long and happy life. If you bring her back, I promise never... never to go near her again.”

“What a terribly sad dream...” Adelissa muttered under her breath, rubbing her sleepy eyes as she sat up in bed.