LVIII Tonight, We Mourn

Night draped the kingdom in a hush of solemnity. Only the watchful glint of spears, the shifting shadows of torches, and the disciplined tread of soldiers stood guard against the encroaching silence. In the secluded wing of the citadel, hidden deep beneath the eastern ramparts, the flickering lamplight cast trembling shadows over the carved stone walls of the healing chamber.

Here, lay Aakash.

The young soldier’s chest rose and fell faintly, his breathing slow, shallow, steady. His wounds — once deep gashes of crimson — were dressed in layers of salve and linen. His face was still pale, touched by sleep too deep to stir. Around him, guards stood in a firm semicircle. Their spears faced outward. Their gazes flicked from door to shadow to each other. At the center of them, seated but never still, was Commander Veer.

It was he who had stationed the guards. He who had demanded Aakash’s wounds be treated in this hidden place. It was he who had stood watch since the moment the king had left