Roxana had been riding for three days and nights with almost no rest.
She had taken neither servants nor guards. Only a strong horse, a warm cloak, and a crude mask — a rag soaked in vinegar, as Falk had instructed her to wear. The ssenger swore that the disease spread through the air: one breath of contaminated air was enough — and in three days the skin would be covered in black spots, while the lungs filled with blood.
She didn’t know if it was true. But every ti the wind carried the sll of smoke from the south, she involuntarily held her breath beneath the mask.
The forest gave way to dead fields. The fields gave way to burned villages. All that remained of them were blackened skeletons and ash, in which the wind rolled charred bones. Beyond lay empty roads — no rchants, no peasants, not even scavengers. Only crows circled on the horizon.
She rode into the capital at dawn.
The city was dead.
Roxana had seen wars. She had seen entire districts burn. But never such silence. The streets stood empty. Doors and windows of houses were boarded up with planks. At every crossroads, huge bonfires smoked. Bodies were being burned in them. They were piled in stacks like firewood for winter. Black spots spread across gray skin like mold. Open mouths. Bulging eyes staring at nothing. The stench of burned flesh and vinegar hung so thick in the air that it stung her throat even through the mask.
The horse beneath her snorted nervously and shied back. Roxana spurred it harder.
Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Faster.
At the palace gates, an old guard stopped her. He recognized the princess imdiately — he bowed heavily, but could not manage a smile. His face was gray, his eyes sunken.
“Where is he?” Roxana’s voice sounded muffled from beneath the mask.
“In his chambers, Your Highness,” the guard pointed with a trembling hand toward the main staircase. “Keeper Amanda is with him. She hasn’t left his side for a mont.”
Roxana slid from the horse before it had fully stopped. Her legs trembled after three days in the saddle, but she was already running across the courtyard, up the steps, tearing off the vinegar-soaked mask as she went.
Her heart hamred sowhere in her throat.
Just don’t be late. Just don’t be late.
She entered without knocking.
The room was thick with heavy, stagnant air. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, and the candles were guttering, lting into uneven puddles of wax. Behind the screen in the corner, wet sheets hung like flayed skin—the physicians had already changed them four tis that night, desperately trying to bring down the fever. On the table lay a chaotic ss of empty vials, blood-brown bandages, and a bowl of water with a thin film of dust floating on its surface.
In the middle of it all stood the bed.
Randel lay beneath a thin coverlet that barely moved. His face was waxen, his cheeks hollow, and black spots had spread across his neck and wrists—as though soone had crushed an inkwell beneath his skin.
Amanda sat on a chair by the head of the bed. Her back was straight, but her shoulders trembled. In her hand she clutched a damp cloth that was already almost dry. She wiped it across Randel’s forehead—slowly, chanically, as if she were afraid that if she stopped, everything would end.
“Roxana,” she said quietly, without turning her head.
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The princess stepped closer. The sll of sweat, old dicine, and sothing sickly-sweet and rotting struck her nose.
“How is he?” she asked.
Amanda didn’t answer. She simply wiped his forehead again. The cloth left dark streaks on his yellowed skin.
Roxana lowered herself onto the second chair. Randel was breathing shallowly and infrequently; each breath was accompanied by a quiet, wet rasp sowhere deep in his chest.
Suddenly his eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened—cloudy, as if covered by a film.
“Water…” he breathed, barely audible.
Amanda imdiately reached for the bowl, but Roxana gently intercepted her hand. It was icy and sticky with sweat.
Randel looked at Amanda. His lips moved, but instead of words, only a weak sound escaped. Then he finally managed:
“Go away… please.”
Amanda froze. The cloth slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a soft slap.
“I’m not leaving,” she said hoarsely.
“You’ll get infected…” He tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn’t obey. “Foolish girl…”
Amanda leaned closer. Her hair fell across his face.
“Then let get infected,” she whispered. “I don’t care.”
Randel wanted to say sothing in return, but he only had enough strength for a faint movent of his fingers—he barely brushed her wrist. His fingers were cold and dry, like old parchnt.
Roxana turned toward the wall, giving them at least the illusion of privacy. She could hear Amanda breathing unevenly, trying to hold back what was threatening to break free.
After a few minutes, Randel’s breathing beca steadier again—or perhaps simply quieter. His eyes closed.
“He…” Amanda began.
“I know,” Roxana interrupted softly. “He’s asleep.”
They sat in silence. Only the crackling of the dying candle and the distant, barely audible rasp from Randel’s chest broke the quiet.
Amanda picked up the fallen cloth, wrung it out over the bowl—the water dripped slowly, one heavy drop at a ti—and once again wiped her brother’s forehead. Her hand no longer trembled. It simply moved, like that of a broken doll that hadn’t yet realized its chanism had run out.
Roxana reached out and covered Amanda’s hand with her own. No words. No promises. Just the warmth of living skin against cold.
And they kept waiting.
Randel died at dawn.
Amanda held his hand until the very end. The pulse beneath her fingers grew thinner and thinner, then turned into a faint tremor and vanished. His breathing faded. Warmth slowly drained from his palm, leaving behind dry, alien skin.
She didn’t cry. She simply stared at his face: the black spots had already reached his chin, his lips had turned blue, and his eyes remained closed.
“He’s gone,” Roxana said quietly behind her.
Amanda nodded. Once.
She released the cold hand, stood up, and walked over to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtain. The sun was just rising—thickly red, inflad, like a fresh wound.
“I didn’t make it in ti,” she whispered, barely audible.
Roxana remained silent.
Amanda stood there for a long ti, gazing at the city below. Then she turned back to the bed. To the calm, already lifeless face.
“Goodbye,” she said in an even voice. “I love you.”
The words ca out dry. Almost businesslike.
She left the room without looking back.
Roxana stayed behind. She approached her brother, touched his forehead—it was cold as stone. She ran her fingers through his hair, the way she had done when they were children.
“Goodbye, brother,” she whispered. “You were a good duke.”
Then she left as well.
Amanda stood on the palace balcony. Below, over Aichenwald, smoke rose from the pyres. People in masks and gloves hauled bodies onto carts. Sowhere a child was crying—thinly, hopelessly. Won wailed loudly.
She felt nothing. Only a strange lightness in her chest, as if soone had scooped everything out from inside her and left an empty shell.
Randel is dead.
The thought ca and went, leaving no trace. She repeated it once more—and again, nothing.
“My lady.”
Torglin’s voice behind her.
“What.”
“You haven’t eaten in two days. You need—”
“I don’t want to.”
“My lady, you—”
“I said I don’t want to,” her voice was flat, without emotion. “Leave .”
The dwarf shifted uneasily, but Leo placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Leave her,” the guard said quietly.
When they were alone, Leo stepped closer. The red lenses of his helt glead in the morning light.
“You’re not alone,” he said.
Amanda didn’t turn around.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I know.” She finally turned to face him. “But right now, that changes nothing.”
Leo nodded.
“It will later. Not imdiately. But it will.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
He shrugged.
“Then we all die soday. Sooner or later.”
Amanda gave a short, bitter smile.
“You were supposed to say sothing comforting.”
“I’m a guard,” he replied. “My job is not to lie.”
She looked at him for another second, then turned back toward the city.
“Go. I need to be alone.”
“Alright.” Leo turned toward the door. “I’ll stand right outside it.”
“Why?”
“In case you suddenly feel like jumping.”
“I won’t.”
“I know,” he said calmly. “But I’ll stand there anyway.”
When the door closed behind him, Amanda was left alone.
Below, the pyres continued to burn. Smoke rose into the red sky. The city was dying.
She closed her eyes.
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