The breathing stopped.
It didn't stop with a gasp. It didn't rattle or fight. It just faded, like a tide pulling back from the shore and deciding not to return.
The room was suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire and the wind howling against the thick stone walls of the palace.
Hecuba didn't move. Her hand stayed wrapped over his. Her thumb rested against his pulse point, feeling for a beat that was no longer there.
Hector stood at the foot of the bed. He didn't step forward. He didn't speak. His jaw was locked so tight the muscles trembled.
Lysander watched from the shadows near the door. He had read about this moment in a dozen books. He had lectured on the succession of Priam to halls full of students who took notes and forgot it by the next exam.
Reading about it and standing in the room while it happened were two different universes.
"Priam," Hecuba whispered.
No answer.
