HBHM (hiatus)

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| servant

In the middle of the night, a man was walking in the shadowed hallways with a tray of medicine.

Nicolas briskly crossed the staircases to the floor of the royal chambers, his royal plate hitting against his hip. On this floor, guards were stationed outside each occupying room. He headed for the second-last door at the end of the hallway.

The guard's eyes scanned his attire, recognized his face. He gave a curt nod and let the servant enter the room.

Caler was sitting on the window seat, legs up, his elbow resting on his knee. He held an empty glass in one hand. His hair was soaked with sweat, and he looked distracted, his eyes hazing out like he was constantly drifting into space.

"Your Highness."

The prince looked at him sadly. "Good evening, Nicolas." His eyes caught the tray. "Again?"

"Yes." Nicolas placed the tray on the prince's desk. There was a stack of untouched papers—papers Caler should've signed—as well as an opened bottle of wine, half empty. "Your medicine, my lord."

For several days now, the crown prince, firstborn son and heir to the royal throne, had fallen ill with a strange disease. No one knew where this sickness came from or what it did. The physicians were hard at work trying to find a cure, but the prince was getting weaker every day.

Caler limped over to the desk. Nicolas noticed that he was getting thinner, some of his bones protruding against his skin. Light yellow spots ran along his skin, and the usual whites surrounding his irises were now veined with green.

He took the cup of tonic and drank it straight.

"I don't see how this is making me any better," he grumbled. "I've been drinking this for days and it does nothing. Pour me more wine."

Nicolas obeyed, filling the glass with red wine. Glancing at the bowl, he could taste something sour in his mouth as he felt sick.

"So. How is Rayn?" Caler asked, leaning against the edge of the desk. Because of Caler's sickness, no one except for Nicolas was allowed to enter his chambers.

Rayn was his wife of two years, a woman Nicolas could only describe as pretentious and feral, always bragging about her title as Princess Consort and wearing racy dresses. Nicolas thought about the last time he'd seen her earlier that afternoon, in a red gown that barely covered her body. "I think she was flirting with one of the physicians trying to save you."

"The fourth one this week. I'm so proud of her." Caler sneered, sipping the wine. "Remind me to never include that little whore's name on my inheritance—" Then he started coughing badly into the sleeve of his robes. Spots of red stained the fabric. His wine sloshed onto the floor as his shoulders shook badly, and when he looked up, his face was ghostly white.

"Your Highness," Nicolas stepped forward.

"I'm—fine," Caler said, but let Nicolas guide him over to his bed. Caler instantly collapsed onto it, heaving, sweat slick on his forehead. His breathing was shallower, and his eyes started to flutter close as he mumbled something about his younger brother.

"You should rest, Your Highness." Nicolas calmly pulled the sheets over him and headed back to the desk, taking the tray. He went for the door and left without ever looking back at the prince.

Back in the empty kitchens, someone was waiting for him, green eyes glowing in the dark. Nicolas handed over a bottle from his pockets, the one whose contents had been poured into the prince's medicine. The one that didn't make it medicine anymore.

"He drank it?"

Nicolas nodded, lowering his gaze. He removed his servant's cap, wrung it with his hands. "Yes."

"And how is the little prince?"

"Weak. He's nearly at the last stage of the disease."

The figure spun the bottle in her hands. "And the king?"

"We've only just added the poison yesterday. But he should be developing symptoms soon."

"Wonderful." The figure walked over to the window, looked past the gorgeous sky, past the houses and cottages, and searched for the faint shadows hiding. "Just a few more weeks, Nicolas, and you'll see it. The war will be beautiful."

Nicolas thought about his own field, his home, his brother. He thought about Caler's sad expression, the king's shallow breaths, guilt biting at his heart.

But this was not a choice. It was an obligation. He had to serve—he had to be willing to do anything, no matter the tasks, no matter the danger. Even if it meant doing wrong things. Even if it meant destroying a man who didn't deserve it.

Nicolas swallowed hard, turning to the window. "I hope it is, my lady," he replied, the lie easy on his lips.