The silence in the room was heavy. Not the sharp, dangerous kind of silence that comes before a fight. This was the other kind, the kind that sits on your chest and refuses to move. The only sound was Alaric's jagged breathing, uneven and raw, filling the warm air between them like something broken trying to find its shape again.
The Prince remained on his knees. His forehead was still pressed against Silas's knee, his broad shoulders curved inward, his whole body folded into something that looked nothing like the man who had walked through a burning fortress without blinking. He looked like a fallen king.
Not defeated in battle, something worse than that.
Defeated from the inside.
Silas looked down at him for a long moment. Then his eyes moved to the suppressant medicine sitting on the side table. The small vial. The shimmering liquid.
