The thick stone walls shut out the bitter wind and the clamor outside, leaving only the barely audible hiss of burning lamp oil.
Regent King Arlens reclined in his chair, draped in snow-white fur, yet his face was even more bloodless than the pelt. Faint blue shadows beneath his eyes sagged little by little, like traces of frost.
His chest rose and fell, sometimes slowly, sometimes in short, shallow bursts.
Yet there were no blotches from poison, no swelling, and no fatal symptoms any physician could identify.
Without a closer look, one might even have mistaken him for a man deep in sleep, rather than a Regent King struggling against death every day.
And the next Dragon Throne Conference would convene in two days.
This grand council, which concerned the Empire's future, should have been chaired by Arlens himself.
The only reason he could still barely remain conscious was that he held on through sheer will. Otherwise, he would have succumbed months ago.
More renowned healers had come today than usual: imperial physicians, Archmages, priests of the Dragon Ancestor, Windstopping Physicians...
They gathered around Arlens and examined him in turn, pressing hands to his forehead, checking his pulse, looking through him with magic power, probing him with prayers...
Yet in the end, every one of them lowered their hands, their expressions heavy.
"His Highness shows no abnormalities."
"It does not appear to be poisoning."
"It is more like... his life is being drained away without leaving any trace."
When those words fell, the bedchamber grew so quiet that even the flickering flames seemed grating.
In the shadows, a young personal guard stood rigid.
He had been transferred here only three months earlier to attend the Regent King. His role should have been insignificant: serving him, delivering reports, bringing water, and