He heaved like a broken bellows. Each breath was a heroic effort, a fight against the gravity to swell his lungs and breathe deep the fresh air. How long had he fought? The ache seeped into his bones like an acid, burning and melting and chewing through him. It had eaten him, sapped him of his strength, until Lucen could take it no longer. He took a moment to glance at his arm, thin and spindly. He could scarcely lift his hand. The bed beneath him no longer felt soft, it was a tomb. A cocoon that wrapped around him, leaving him slick with sweat and clammy. His body danced between warmth and cold in a frantic spin. Lucen forced his lungs to choke down more of the air.

  Everything tasted of mucus, even his breath. His head lazily drifted to the empty space of the bed beside him, once occupied by Islyn. Beautiful, radiant, Islyn. He’d lost her so long ago, but he could feel her spirit dwelling near him. She’d come to escort him to the Harbor, to take him to that cold and ancient gathering place of the dead.

  “I…am…not…ready…” He coughed, each word a weight he had to shrug. To his side was the bell, where he might call the Sons of the Martyr to tend to him. He refused. He’d not call them. Why should he? In the past months they had fought only to buy him months, then weeks, now days. When they thought him asleep, they spoke. As if he were some mere boy, who could not face his death. Lucen was ready. He’d force himself ready. He’d spent his life in that dangerous dance, and if the finale had come- so be it. Lucen tried to drag himself further up the bed, to ease the strain of his lungs. Another set of terrible coughs wracked him.

  Disease. I will not face my death in battle. I have been claimed by sickness.

  Rage rose within him like a building fire, it was not right. It was unfair, that a man such as he would die in a way like this. Lucen tried to bear his weight on shaking arms, forcing himself to a sitting position. His heart beat against the cage of his ribs, until he finally sat straight with a triumphant cry. The intolerable stench of the salves and ointments had become too much to bear. He was an Azalus. He would die on his feet. He had to die on his feet. He would not think of the consequences otherwise.

  Lucen swung a shaking leg to the floor, and almost at once fell upon it. He cast his eyes away from the mirror, refusing to look at what had become of him. Blood fell freely from freshly opened wounds. His skin had become as paper, and any difficulties ripped it open. The red ran across the stone as if it were fleeing him. One hand, then the other. Then one bruised knee after the next. He crawled across the floor of his room, eyes locked on the balcony. His Kingdom, his city, his people, he needed to see Durendane again. Just the last time.

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  When he was a boy, Lucen always believed he’d die young, in battle. Here he was, at forty summers, about to die.

  Meriwyn. Salty tears stung at his eyes. He had to leave her behind. The Kingdom would fall into her hands. She’d be a ship in a storm, and he could no longer serve to direct her to shore. But she was her mother’s daughter, and his. She was of the Azalus blood. The old Knights who had claimed this land, chosen by the gods themselves to reign. Lucen finally grabbed the edge of the door, dragging himself to a knee.

  Toppling through the open doors he surged into the blinding sunlight on the balcony. Each shuffle-step burned him, he could feel the bones in his legs crumbling to dust under his own weight. With a cry of pain he collapsed once more, chest slamming into the balcony railing. Lucen held himself there as the light faded.

  “Meriwyn.” He whispered. He wanted to see his daughter, to hold her again. There was no time. Lucen almost vomited, he could feel his heart slowing. He could feel the cold hands of death upon him.

  “A deal is a deal, and by blood was it sealed.”

  “My daughter!” He slurred, blood billowed from his lips and flowed a crimson waterfall down the top of his chest.

  “Already mine.”

  It lied, he knew it lied. It had to. It simply had to. Lucen did not turn to face the footsteps as they approached. The frost followed them, froze him to the stone. Now, he could not turn. Not that he wanted to see it again, lay sight on the wretched thing. Long, thin, fingers curled around his shoulder as his heart thundered ever fiercer in his chest.

  “Sleep restlessly, Lucen, knowing it was all for nothing.”