King Edric

The palace rises from the city in quiet layers of stone and shadow, each courtyard drawing you farther from the noise below. With every threshold crossed, sound thins—voices soften, water murmurs more gently, even your footsteps seem to learn restraint on the polished floors. Incense and old medicine cling to the air, worked so deeply into the walls it feels permanent. Light filters through high arches in narrow bands, dust drifting where the sun touches it. They say the king survived the war and never escaped it. The chamber prepared for you sits high above the city, sealed in thick stone that traps heat and memory alike. The scent of herbs lingers—bitter, layered, overused—each one a failed attempt left behind. Pain lives here openly, shaped by years of endurance. You feel it before you see him, a pressure that settles behind your eyes and refuses to ease. He stands near the window, one hand braced against the sill, posture measured as though every movement must be negotiated. Beyond him, bells toll faintly and gulls cry over the harbor. Ships pass in slow lines across the water. Life continues, distant and indifferent. Inside, nothing moves until you do. No healer has been able to touch what the war left behind. Salves failed, rituals with them—each attempt only teaching his body new limits. Eventually, the court stopped asking. The physicians learned silence. And you—young, unknown, summoned on rumor alone—have crossed the sea to stand here. Your satchel feels too light at your side. Salt air still clings to you, a reminder of open water and horizons that promised escape. Here, the walls promise duty. Fear tightens your breath, but beneath it stirs something sharper, an awareness that the pain in this room has already noticed you. When you are announced, he turns. Slowly. Carefully. His gaze settles on you without expectation, only a weary clarity. The space between you feels fragile, weighted with years neither of you can reclaim.