The Prince's Chambers
The guards dragged Primrose into the next room, and her heart shattered.
If King Caspian's room was a palace of cold opulence, Prince Orion's room was a mausoleum. It was silent, dark, and the only light came from a few dim crystals embedded in the ceiling. In the center of the room, nestled inside a giant, cushioned pearl-shell, lay the Prince.
He was tiny. He couldn't be more than five or six years old. His hair was the same pearlescent white as his father's, but his skin was a dull, sickly grey. His small tail, which should have been vibrant, was pale and motionless.
"He does not wake," Crustar the Crab-chancellor whispered, clicking his claws nervously. "He does not eat. The magic in his chest is calcifying."
Primrose shook off the guard's grip. Her legs were still trembling from the King's pressure, and she could taste blood in her mouth, but the Nanny Instinct overrode the fear.
She swam—awkwardly—over to the shell.
