The king was drifting, his mind clouded by pain and medicine when the heavy doors of his bedchamber creaked open. Through his half-lidded eyes, he saw the robed figure of the priest stepping inside, the dimly lite room maked his face appear gaunt and hollow. The Queen must have asked the priest to come pray for him.
It was not a good time for him to die. The kingdom was on the edge of chaos, and if he slipped away now; it would mean war; both within and without. The kingdom would fall into chaos and no one could tell what will happen.
The Queen sat stiffly at the other end of the bed, her hands clenched so tightly in prayer that her knuckles turned white. Her heart hammered against her chest for she knew what her husband's death would mean. Her first son was now marching toward war. Her younger son lay injured, still too weak to rise. And the only other royal blood within the capital was the king's bastard; the child of his favored mistress.
