Aveloria stood at the foot of the king's bed, her hands clenched tightly together as she watched the healers work. Evander remained near the window, his arms crossed, his jaw tense. Serene and Seraphina stood close to each other, holding hands as if separating might make the moment worse. Trovald stayed closest to the bed, his attention fixed on Alaric's still form. Three healers occupied the chamber, moving quietly, speaking in low voices, careful not to disturb the fragile calm.
Alaric lay unmoving beneath heavy covers, his face pale, his breathing shallow and uneven. Dark stains marked the cloth near his mouth, remnants of the black blood he had coughed out earlier. It had shocked everyone present, leaving the room heavy with fear and confusion.
For two hours, the healers had tried every remedy they knew. They administered herbs, pressed warmed cloths to his chest, and murmured healing chants meant to strengthen a weakened wolf. None of it had changed his condition.
