In the span of a few minutes, Atlas’s entire world had crumbled around him. Distantly, he was aware that he had fallen and that his face was wet with tears, but he was too lightheaded to dwell on his physical state. He didn’t even care that one of his guards was kneeling beside him, witnessing his disgraceful display. He couldn’t believe that the rebels had killed his son. It had happened so abruptly that he hadn’t had any more time to prepare himself than he would have if Caspian had been hit by a car. All it had taken was five days, and the Scourge had succeeded in severing the royal line and ripping his only child away from him—the only trace of his beloved Sierra that he’d had left. He struggled to breathe through the sobs that wracked his body.

Sitting next to the monarch, Jacob looked on with a concerned expression. He’d never seen King Atlas express such strong emotions before, and he worried about the long-term effects that the loss of his son would have on him as both a man and a leader. Additionally, he could feel Atlas’s uneven breathing while his hand was resting on his back. Given his continuously fading health, he was anxious that the king wouldn’t be able to recover from this physically either.

Noting that he seemed unresponsive to anything around him, the guard muttered a swear under his breath and turned away from him to look at one of the servants who was standing uncertainly near the edge of the bedroom. “Call his doctor,” he ordered. Whether or not Atlas was just mourning, it was safer to call the physician to make sure the emotional trauma hadn’t negatively impacted his wellbeing. Aspiria couldn’t afford to lose its king right after the crown prince had been murdered.

While the boy hurried off to fulfill the request, Jacob stayed loyally by Atlas’s side. “Your Majesty, do you need assistance getting back into bed?” he asked tentatively.

The monarch didn’t respond. He didn’t even hear the question. At that moment, he was completely absorbed in the recesses of his mind. Even when Jacob risked his neck by picking him up like a large child and setting him down in his bed, he didn’t speak a word. Thoughts and memories of Caspian and Sierra had flooded his consciousness. His had been a political marriage, but he had still fallen in love with his wife after their wedding day. His affection for her had been the reason why he’d volunteered to be sterilized after only having one child. Past rulers would have taken up a mistress to produce more legitimate heirs to line up to take over the crown, but he couldn’t bear the thought of having any children that weren’t half Sierra. It was the same reason why he had never remarried after her untimely death.

Caspian had always been the spitting image of his mother. Although Atlas had been stern with him, he saw Sierra every time the prince snuck small, injured animals into the palace to care for in his bedroom or went out of his way to do favors for his friends. His late wife had been just as tenderhearted. It was one of the qualities he’d loved about her. Unfortunately, such behavior was better fitting of a queen than it was of a king who was expected to rule with an iron fist, so he’d felt the need to correct Caspian whenever he caught him doing his ‘good deeds.’ Nevertheless, he had always felt like Sierra had lived on through their son. Even his smile reminded him of her.

He coughed, finding it even more difficult to breathe. Besides the resemblance Caspian bore to his mother, he had been fond of him as an individual too. Sure, the prince had needed a lot of work to become the hardened ruler that he was, himself, but at least he had been trying. Now, he would never find out if his heir would have risen up as a promising king to take over the country after he passed.

Now, no one would take over at all.

Abruptly, a deep ache spread like fire through his chest as his illness flared, and he clutched his shirt in pain. Standing by his side, Jacob blanched. As he’d feared, the king wasn’t doing well. “Your Highness, are you alright?” he asked urgently, pressing two fingers beneath his monarch’s jawline. Atlas’s pulse was racing too quickly for him to keep track of every beat. “Fuck,” he hissed, retracting his hand. The king was in bad shape. He hoped the doctor would arrive quickly to handle whatever was going on inside the fading man’s body. At this rate, they might even need to move him back to the hospital for more intensive care.