“Father, are you coming down?” Talah called through the bedroom door. “Father?”

Hearing no reply, she began to pace. What was taking him? Her father was normally an early riser, and it was nearly noon. He’d have been at his letters again. Talah paced for several more minutes, then, no longer able to restrain herself, pushed open the door and rushed inside the room.

Inside, all was calm. The curtains rippled in the breeze from the open window. His desk chair, a small wooden thing he had brought into his room years back, sat by his bed. She had found him asleep in the chair, quill dangling from his fingers, papers scattered across his desk many times in the past. But in all the years since she had helped her father carry the desk and chair into his chambers, the chair had not moved from where Eornost placed it. This time, no quill dangled from the king’s fingers, and there were no letters on the desk. Talah ran to him, touching his forehead. Hoping against hope he would wake. He was cold. Talah stifled a cry and checked his pulse. There was none.

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Three days later, she received a letter outlining the details of her surrender.