The King’s Final Breath

(Paige’s POV)

Noise rushes in when the King falls. A swell of hushed voices spreads fast, sharp as steam on hot stone. Out through a narrow doorway goes the stretcher, carrying him, pulled along by doctors and a few stunned nobles, faces drained. Behind them, the hall stays full but frozen, people hanging loose without grip - no ruler, no Greymont, no Prestwick to hold things tight.

Inside the space, quiet hangs heavy, though nothing about it seems calm. Beside me, Noah stays motionless, energy crackling under his skin from taking down Greymont moments before. Air moves steadily in and out of his lungs, yet tightness runs through his frame - like something stretched too far. Watching. Always watching. Eyes trace corners, faces, doors, weighing who might move against us, who might run.

Warm breath brushes my shoulder as Lysander shifts, half-dreaming. Such quiet moments feel strange now.

Nowhere safe here, thinks Noah, words quiet. His gaze stays fixed on the last few royal guards shifting near the walls. Moving would be better, he mutters, still not turning toward me. Open doors everywhere mean hidden blades could come from any direction

“Where?” I whisper back. “Our rooms are a cage. The stables are too far.”

A hush falls before the old man arrives, dressed in royal colors, moving slow yet steady. Head down, voice firm, he addresses Noah without delay. A summons comes from the King himself, quiet but clear. Not just for him - the Duchess must come too. Rooms deep inside the palace await them both

A pull begins, tugging close to where everything trembles. Last moments stand before a ruler who fades.

His gaze locks on me. Could this be danger? Or maybe he truly needs help? Neither of us speaks the doubt drifting through the silence.

“Fine, we’ll go,” Noah says, voice steady. My fingers slip into his, held tight without a word. Ahead of us, the path waits - show us where to step

Off we go, not down the wide halls, yet into hidden paths, tight and lined with old woven cloth along Highvale’s inner seams - paths meant only for the crown. Dust hangs thick here. Each step lands soft. This place breathes slow, like something wounded beneath stone skin.

Out here now, past the heavy doors, opens up a wide room that feels too quiet. Sharp plant smells mix with something sour like old remedies, beneath it all a sticky-sweet hint of rot. Near a shut doorway waits the chief doctor, still on his feet, expression darkened. His stance says everything without words.

“He is barely conscious,” the physician warns us, his voice hushed. “Moments of clarity, then… fog. He asked for you specifically. Do not overtax him.”

A quick nod comes from Noah - short, firm. His fingers let go so he can shove the door wide. After that, an arm lifts, pointing inside, motioning me forward ahead of him.

A flicker from the hearth paints shadows across the room, candles adding faint pools of light. Inside that heavy four-poster, a man nearly disappears beneath layers of cloth and pelt. Not like before, when power sat sharp on his shoulders. Now silence breaks only by the croak of each breath through cracked lips.

Over by the bed we go. Still as a statue, Noah holds himself straight - duke-like, stiff before royalty, though everything has changed. I’m just behind, fingers under Lysander’s skull, supporting the weight.

Open go the King’s eyes. Fogged by hurt though they seem, sharpness lingers behind them, just barely glowing. His gaze lands on Noah before anyone else.

“Nephew.” It slips out like breath after holding too long.

A slight shift runs through Noah’s stance. “Your Majesty,” he says, almost quiet

A faint trace of a grin appears on the King’s pale mouth. Still stuck in old habits, he murmurs it under his breath. His eyes slide toward me, then settle on what I’m holding. Without looking away, he whispers, Just let me take a look at the baby

This isn’t an order. This time, it’s asking. Forward I move, shifting my body just enough that the glow catches Lysander’s still features, letting the light do what words won’t.

Stillness holds him, the king, for longer than expected. Sadness pools deep within his gaze, heavy like stone. "A child," comes softly from his lips. Life moves forward, even when breath fades near its edge. His glance returns, fixed on Noah once more. Knowing settles there now - what it means to hold something dear, then watch it slip away

Fists clenched, Noah says the words like he means them. "Yes."

Something shifts. His breathing stutters. A shaky hand drifts toward the low table by the bed, where an old chest sits bound in rusted metal. Inside it, he means to say, lies what matters now. From under his collar, a chain slides out - cold links, one broken - and at its end, a tarnished key

A pause comes before Noah reaches forward. From around the King’s throat he lifts a slender silver cord, slow and deliberate. The key turns in the lock; hinges creak as the box yields. Dark velvet cradles one object only - a ring. Weighty in his palm, forged from dull black iron. Simple in form. Unpolished. Without pattern. Only mark upon it stares out: an open eye with no lid.

The Spymaster’s ring.

A sharp intake of air. Right here lies what made the king untouchable. Not strength, but whispers - threads pulled by unseen hands. How it caught Greymont's scheme mid-step. The same web Beatrice thought she could twist to her will.

A shaky hand stretches forward from the throne. Into that grip, Noah slips the ring without a word. Fingers curl tight, strained - skin pulled thin over bones as if holding on were pain itself.

“This ring… is not a crown,” he rasps, each word costing him dearly. “It is a burden. A dirty, necessary burden. I trusted… the wrong people with pieces of it. It was my… my greatest failure.” He looks up at Noah, his eyes pleading. “It sees the truth. The ugly, hidden truth. It protected the realm… from men like Greymont. From shadows like… hers.”

That's Beatrice he's talking about. She works editing things late at night.

“You want me to take it,” Noah states, his voice flat.

“Take it,” says the King, his words broken by sudden coughs. After silence returns, he speaks softer, like breath through straw. Not strength, but weight fills his next line - power will draw liars, hungry ones, those who see only gold on a head. A game for children dressed as men. Then, cold metal lands in Noah’s palm; fingers pushed shut without asking. What matters isn’t worn. It’s held. Out there past the ice, you stood guard - not for power, but for truth. Not a leader, Noah, never that. A shield, always. Your silence in the cold spoke louder than speeches ever could. Now stand again, where shadows gather near the crown. Look deeper than the rest dare to look

A thick silence fills the space, denser than Highvale's granite cliffs. The ring sits clenched in Noah’s palm, his expression impossible to read.

The King’s gaze finds me again. “Your map… was the first clear thing… I have seen in years. Do not let them… draw over it. Finish it.” His eyes drift closed. “My brother’s son… and the seer who sees… not just fate, but fairness. A strange pair… to save a kingdom.”

A hush settles into his chest, each breath a smaller echo than before. Gaps stretch out where air once moved without notice.

Hold on… he says softly, not opening his eyes. Wait till everything finishes

There we stay, inside that quiet space where breaths grow thin. Not a word slips out - just the weight of what Noah carries in his hand, the circle shaped like truth. My fingers close around something unseen, heavy with what comes next. Between us, stretched on cold sheets, rests the man who once ruled everything, now counting time by uneven pulses.

Time drags slow. Fire crackles, a rasping hum lives in the King’s throat, while Lysander exhales quiet, lost in sleep.

One final time, the King opens his eyes. Clear they are, sharp with understanding. Not toward Noah does he turn, instead fixes his gaze on me.

“He loves you,” the King says, the words suddenly strong, lucid. “It is written… in every line of him. It is his strength… and his greatest vulnerability. Guard it.”

The lids shut softly. From his chest comes an exhaled pause - deep, drawn out - not just air but something heavier letting go.

One does not come after it.

A figure emerges from the dimness, having stood still too long to be ignored. Fingers touch skin just below the jawline of royalty. A pause settles like dust after footsteps stop. His chin drops toward his chest, slow as a closing door.

A whisper cuts through - “The King is dead” - flat, without warmth. His words land like stones.

The words echo in the lavish, tomblike room.

The iron ring bites into Noah’s palm as he grips it harder, fingers trembling. Not once does he glance toward the bed. His stare locks on mine, filled with sorrow, duty, then something sharper - resolve that won’t bend. A breath hangs between us, heavy. That is when I see it clearly.

A weight shifts hands now. Gone is the old keeper of it.

A name now belongs to the one who shields. Someone stands guard, known by it.

Outside these walls, the realm sits like a spark near gunpowder - no ruler left to steady it.