Sylvian stepped out of the motor car, the vehicle's engine cutting out into the damp night air. It was close to the midnight hour, and he hurried inside the palace. Most of the long corridors had already fallen into a silence.
"Your Highness, what are you doing in the palace at this hour?" a servant asked, hurrying toward him. The young man was carefully carrying a ceramic jar toward August's wing.
"How is Prince August? Has he regained consciousness?" Sylvian inquired.
"Not yet, Your Highness. Prince August remains in a critical condition for now," the servant replied, lowering his gaze. "As for the rest, only the physicians know."
Sylvian nodded, and followed the servant down the dimly lit corridors toward the royal wing. Reaching the drawing room outside August's bedchamber, he stopped. His father was sitting on the velvet couch, and his face carrying an expression of deep worry.
"Father," Sylvian whispered, stepping into the room.
