Akeylah crossed the room more slowly. Father’s dark, rich complexion had gone chalky, the color of rotten wood. His eyes stared at something beyond this world, as though he already had one foot halfway into the next.

I did this to you. Her hands shook. This is my fault.

“He says he had a vision,” Rozalind said.

Akeylah and Ren exchanged worried glances. They both knew all too well how dangerous visions could be.

“Yasmin appeared in a dream. Supposedly, she told him Zofi murdered his son.”

Prince Nicolen. Akeylah startled. Ren, on the other hand, didn’t react. From that, Akeylah guessed this must be Zofi’s secret. A secret she’d shared with Ren but not Akeylah.

Not that I’ve shared my own secret with anyone. Akeylah had no room to talk. Yet the idea of her sisters sharing confidences without her bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Rozalind spoke on, oblivious. “After Andros ordered her arrest, he fell into a fit—screaming, shouting… I called a mender. She stayed all night. Around dawn, he lost consciousness. The mender thinks the stress of his daughter’s betrayal, well…” Rozalind shook her head, voice tight with sorrow. “She says it’s unlikely he’ll wake again. Ever.”

Akeylah stepped closer, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Poor Father.

Zofi’s secret may have broken his heart, but it was Akeylah’s fault he’d fallen ill in the first place. She reduced him to this empty shell.

“How long?” she heard Ren ask softly. “Before he…”

Akeylah closed her eyes.

“His mind is most likely already gone,” Rozalind whispered. “As for the body, he’s still swallowing water, and even some mouthfuls of porridge. He may yet live another week. The mender gives him a fortnight at most.”

A week or two at most. Then Akeylah would become a murderer.

“Are you sure?” Her voice snagged in her throat. “You’re sure he isn’t still… in there?”

“I don’t know.” Rozalind wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “I hope not. Can you imagine if he is? Lying there listening, unable to tell anyone he’s here…”

A tear escaped, snaked down Akeylah’s cheek.

Rozalind stood. “I should go. Give you both some time with him.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Ren began, but Akeylah spoke over her.

“Stay. Please.” Akeylah reached for Rozalind’s hand. Curled her fingers through the queen’s. Then she reached down to take Andros’s limp hand in her other.

Her father’s fingers felt cool, rough at the tips. Calluses. She wouldn’t have expected a king to have hands like that. But then, he’d never been one to sit back and lead passively. She remembered the stories of his youth. Andros leading the charge against Genal in the Sixth War.