In all honesty, I do not wish to see Kylen.

  I hoped she would’ve died during the night, but she had lingered onto the next day. Then, I had hoped she would die in the morning, but still she lingered - her screams had kept most of the Citadel awake. Even with a pillow pressed firmly over my head, and gel wedged firmly in my ears, her cries broke through my consciousness. I could not sleep. The same scene replayed repeatedly inside the crevices of my mind - the widening of Kylen’s eyes, and the flashing of a dark blade as it ripped open her belly. Dark shadows danced in the corners of my eyes, and when I turned, they ceased to exist. I tossed and turned in my bed, too hot to lay underneath the sheets, too cold to lay without them. I caught not a simple wisp of sleep.

  I do not wish for her to die because I mislike the girl - quite the opposite. She saved my life. I am infinitely indebted to her. But plaguevenom has no cure, and the effects of the poison are agonies beyond comprehension. It would be a kindness for the physicians to cease their treatment and let the poison take her completely instead of letting her linger and atrophy to skin and bone.

  The medical ward of the Citadel, located on the final floor of the colossal building, is a vast floor fitted with generous skylights and thin corridors. I don’t venture up here often; the walls are tightly compressed, creating a claustrophobic feeling, and not regularly in use, making the trip up the dozen flights of stairs relatively pointless. The feeling in the cramped corridors is one of haste - physicians bustle around various rooms, some carrying trays full of various instruments and medicines. They pass with murmured nods, lowering their eyes. I ignore them.

  The rooms have been cleared out and prepared for the extended Ventruvian family, so they may stay in close proximity with Kylen. Besides the conference meeting earlier today, and a few check-ins with guardsmen to see if his daughter’s killer had been caught, Lord Vastus Ventruvian has not left his daughter’s side.

  The walls catch my attention as I walk along the corridors, nearing Kylen’s room. The last time I had been in this ward, the walls were devoid of bright colors, and painted a drab gray. No longer. Fresh paint dons the walls, colorful hues of pinks and blues and yellows appeasing the eyes. Portraits and tapestries hang from the low ceiling, some so long the end of the cloth brush against the floor. There are too many to count. I glance over a few of them. The tapestries display calming settings - a rising sun over a pure-blue lake, peaceful swans along a riverbank, green and yellow flowers blooming in sunny rays - all in a futile attempt to lift the Ventruvian’s spirits. I grow offended at the absurdity and wonder who designed such a contraption - an ignorant buffoon, at the very least. Will colorful paint and cheerful tapestries dispel the poison from Kylen’s body?

  I reach the quarters where Kylen is currently dying and hesitate, mulling in front of the door awkwardly. I can hear the sounds of faint talk from within the room, and recognize Lord Ventruvian’s voice. Even through the thick wood, I can detect the defeat in the voice of the Lord of the Riverhold.

  I draw a resigned breath, lift my shoulders, and raise my knuckles. I give a brief rapport on the door. The voices cut off, and the door opens to admit me. “Prince Calix,” the physician says, opening the door wider. “Your presence honors us.” The physician is a man of middling age, with a bald spot shining on the top of his head and an oiled mustachio curved like a scimitar. His face seems familiar, and it is likely I have seen him about the Capital, but he is too irrelevant to concern me. I brush past him and look to the bed, where Kylen lays.

  The girl who saved my life is a shell of her former self. Not even twenty-four hours ago, she was a girl keen on socializing and jests, with beautiful blonde locks cascading down slim shoulders, the constant gleam of amusement in her jade eyes. That amusement is gone. Her eyes are sunken pools in a skeletal face. The bright green of her eyes has been seemingly drained, relegated to a sort of diluted swampish color. She’s covered up to the neck with medical sheets, but the sheets are thin and poor; her body splays out from beneath. She’s a skeleton - so thin and gaunt I hardly believe it’s Kylen. Her collarbones are like jutting twigs, her wrists so small and thin I could wrap a finger around the width of them. Every breath is a struggle, a breathless rattle that keens from the back of her throat, scraping at my ears.

  The only thing that remains unchanged is her golden hair, spread around the pillows like a golden crest.

  Her father and the physician are the only other people in the room. The physician quickly departs, murmuring something as he takes his leave, but her father lingers. He watches the still and dying face of his only daughter with unfathomable grief. My heart twists. I’ve known Vastus Ventruvian for years - I rather like the man. He had been a constant in court, a close ally of my father, even if he did not share the same brotherly bond with my father that Vax and Rylan did. When Vastus lost his wife and sons, he remained an optimistic man, glowering in pride as Kylen matured and became the very image of his late wife. He was not without hardness, to be sure, but every lord needs some steel in their spine in order to govern their people. Hard, but a kindly man. No longer. Vastus nearly looks as bad as his daughter. His eyes are pools, sunken deep within his face, his face marred by black streaks that suggest his insomnia. He walks with a stoop in his shoulders, bent and twisted; a disconcerting contrast to his powerful build.

  Vastus’ joy had deteriorated as quickly as Kylen’s body.

  Vastus does not acknowledge me besides a gaze in my direction. He takes his leave soon after. I find myself unable to look into the man’s face, finding a sudden interest in dust that has piled up in one of the corners of the room. The Lord of the Riverhold passes my shoulder without a word, shambling out of the room to give us some privacy.

  Only when her father departs does Kylen first seem to notice me. She tilts her head, which seems to be a mountainous effort, and she struggles vainly to rise up in bed, but even that miniscule action is too much for her. She slumps down in her cushions. I take a seat at the foot of her bed, unable to think of anything to say, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

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  I realize there is nothing to say. How can I even hold a conversation with this girl? She’s dying; her heart beats weakly within her chest, red blood combating black, and I am a healthy man, my heart yet strong and fierce, my muscles toned, my brain nourished and well-practiced. What could we possibly speak about? It makes no difference. She will not remember this conversation tomorrow, because she will not exist tomorrow. She will die. My visit will not change that. It’s pointless to even be here.

  The outcome will not change. Plaguevenom is liquid death; after injection, the poison takes hold immediately, coursing through the bloodstream and rotting veins and capillaries until blood and organs turn black and rotting, and the victim dies as black blood excretes through every pore and opening in the body.

  I am unable to look into Kylen’s face for long. My own incompetence stares back at me. My cowardice killed this girl, and so I fixate my gaze upon my boots.

  I wait for Kylen to speak, but she does not. She merely watches me with those dead green eyes of hers. I break the silence when the quiet becomes unbearable. “You sent for me.”

  “I did.”

  “How… are you feeling?”

  I curse myself as soon as the words exit my mouth. Kylen only gives a sad smile, her lips cracked and white. “I’m dying, Calix.”

  “No, you mustn’t say such things. The physicians say… they say…” Kylen’s face twists, and I trail off. I clear my throat, give a sigh, and speak truthly. “Yes. You are dying.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your forename.”

  “I do not care. Call me whatever you like.”

  “Good. I do not know why I asked. If you had refused I would’ve called you Calix anyways. Hah.” She emits a croaking sound, almost like a laughing rasp, and shifts among her pillows. The sound sends knives scraping against my bowels. She grows silent. Her eyes drift away from mine, fixating on a vague corner of the room. “It’s weird, dying. I no longer hurt. My body has given up on me. That is what the physicians say, anyway, although my father doesn’t believe them. He pushes them away, spits curses at them, treats them with abrasion…” She trails off, eyes hollow and unseeing, still staring in that distant corner. I lean back in my chair, trying to find comfort, but find no avail. I twiddle with my thumbs as Kylen continues, a lump in my throat.

  “I feel no pain, no discomfort, just… a numbness, everywhere, from my neck to my stomach to my toes. Works of the physicians, I guess. It is like I already do not exist. Hah. And here I thought dying was supposed to be glorious. That’s what they sing in the ballads, anyway.”

  “That they do. It often… it often isn’t what it appears.” I briefly think of touching her hand in some gesture of reassurance, but I banish the notion. Her hand looks so frail it appears even a light touch would grind the hand to dust, and I have no wish to touch a corpse. My hand stays at my side.

  A question had plagued the back of my mind since the very moment she decided to leap in front of the blade. I roll the question over my tongue, pushing it to the forefront of my mind, thinking, thinking, but I cannot come to a conclusion. Her reasons and motives do not make sense. I hardly know this girl, yet she has died for me. I do not understand. I would not do the same in her position. My life is not something to be so carelessly thrown away.

  “Kylen,” I say softly. “Why did you do it?”

  Kylen shifts slightly on her pillows. “Do what?”

  “Save me. Why did you push me away? That knife was intended for me. Instead, it fell upon you. Why intervene?”

  Kylen, still and staring, says nothing for a long while. Finally, she draws one, heaving breath, and says, “I don’t know.”

  A long pause follows. I urge to comfort her, to shower her with gratitude and empathy, but I cannot find the words. Words will not help this broken girl.

  But I try anyway.

  “There is something you will be glad to hear, some good news. It appears the second perpetrator has been caught. We found him. They say it’s some Astoma. Some irrelevant, sniveling man envious of me. Of the Kalidii. We found him. I swear to you, you will find vengeance, and your father will receive his justice.”

  “Vengeance,” says Kylen. “A funny notion.” She turns, looking at me, dull eyes suddenly turning bright with sudden emotion. “I am a dead woman. I will not survive to the end of the day. I am a corpse with thoughts, simply waiting to die. Waiting for null. But I do feel something besides the numbness that fills me. I feel hate. It is the only thing I have left, that I am capable of feeling. I cling to it. Without it I am nothing but pain and death. This feeling, it blossoms in my chest, fills my head with fury - it does not depart me. I hate. I hate the man who slashed me with that fucking dagger. I hate your guardsman, that fucking incompetent posted outside your door. His one duty is to ensure the wellbeing of nobles, and he failed.

  “They are not the only people I hate. I hate my father for bringing me to this vile city. I hate my brothers for dying all those years ago. I hate the men who killed them. And I hate you most of all, Calix Kalidii. My dear prince. I hate you. I hate your face, the sound of your voice, the twitch of your upper lip whenever you think of something that you dislike. I hate you with passion I never thought existed. Why did I give my life for yours? You are the dullest of Matyx’s sons; the only victory you have ever won is your surname. Even your birth was a failure. Fifthborn. So why did I…?”

  I force myself to stay rooted in my seat. My hands shake, fury piercing my thoughts, but I stay seated, hands gripping the arms of the chair with obscene force. My knuckles shine white. My mouth forms a thin line. Kylen continues her tirade, her voice dripping venom, eyes burning with rage.

  “And I hate myself. I hate myself for interfering. I should’ve stood still as the dagger pierced your back, and ran. Why, why, why did I do such a stupid thing? Ending my life for you, of all people? It may have been different if it had been Drakos, or Clydas, but you are not them. You are nothing. I have forfeited my life for nothing at all.”

  My anger gives way to nausea, and I feel bile rise in my throat. I choke it down. Shakily, I stand, trying to retain the last semblances of my dignity. The look in her eyes…

  Hate was the last thing I had expected. Regret, maybe. That was to be expected. But hatred? It shakes me. I am a Kalidii. I am loved. I have only ever been loved. For a short, feeling moment, I fantasize about choking the life out of her, watching the light fade from those vile eyes, speeding along her journey to the hells - but the urge fades as quickly as it comes. My rage disappears, melting into a sort of awkwardness, standing there at the foot of Kylen’s bed, shying away from eye contact. I make my way to the door and half-turn, but I cannot make myself gaze upon her withered body once more.

  “I’ll suggest to the physicians about altering your treatment,” I say, opening the door. “It would be a mercy to hurry you to the afterlife, wherever that may be.” I close the door behind me and turn down the hall, retreating back the way I came.