THE MASKED PRINCE

The Queens Grief

**THE QUEEN'S GRIEF**

Guards and maids converged from every corridor at once, drawn by the sound of the fall before anyone had even finished screaming his name.

"My prince—"

"Someone get the physician—"

"Move, all of you, move!"

A young maid reached toward the hair fallen across his still face, wanting to brush it back, wanting to do anything at all — and stopped herself, too afraid to touch a prince even unconscious, even bleeding. She only watched, along with everyone else, as though watching hard enough might undo it.

Queen Elira heard before she understood, and understood before she'd finished running.

She didn't remember crossing the palace. She only remembered arriving, and the guards parting for her, and the sight of her son's blood on the marble floor driving every other thought from her mind entirely.

"Where is his personal guard?" Her own voice sounded foreign to her, stretched thin with something closer to fury than grief. "Where is Kieran?"

He appeared at the edge of the crowd, already pale, already bracing.

She struck him before he could speak.

"You were not to leave him. Not for a moment. That was the only thing I ever asked of you."

"He asked me to go, my queen. He insisted—"

"I don't care what he insisted." Her hand shook at her side. "I trusted you with the only thing in this world I cannot survive losing."

She didn't wait for his answer. She knelt instead beside her son, taking his hand from the guards' careful grip, wiping blood from his temple with her own sleeve as though her touch alone might close the wound.

*Who would do this to you? Haven't you suffered enough already?*

The physician arrived within minutes. Elira followed him as far as the glass doors of Kael's room and no further, standing sentinel outside while he worked, three maids lingering nearby in case she needed anything at all.

Her phone rang in her hand before she'd even thought to check it.

"Book the next flight to Canada," she told her assistant without preamble. "Six a.m., if that's the earliest."

"Of course, my queen. May I ask—"

"My son's health matters more to me than anything in this world. He is the only thing I have left that's entirely mine."

She ended the call and resumed her post at the glass, watching the physician move over her unconscious son, until an hour later he finally stepped out, expression carefully composed.

"He's regaining consciousness. But there's something I should mention — he kept repeating a name. Vivienne."

"His girlfriend," Elira said.

"Whatever their history, her presence would help him considerably right now."

Elira called Vivienne's number the moment the physician disappeared back inside. No answer. She called again. And again, until the count climbed past thirty and her thumb had gone numb from dialing.

*Kael needs you. This is urgent. Please, just answer.*

Nothing.

*Even if something is wrong between them — this is not the moment to punish him for it.*

She stepped out into the garden air, still dialing, when laughter reached her from behind — a sound she recognized before she'd even turned.

Queen Marguerite approached with the unhurried elegance of a woman who'd been waiting for exactly this moment.

"I've always wondered," Marguerite said, "does your son even own a walking stick? Or has he simply decided the blind don't need one these days?"

Elira didn't turn to face her fully. "I have no patience for you tonight."

Marguerite pressed closer anyway, close enough to shove her lightly off balance. "And your Julian — how many things has he actually accomplished in his life, beyond looking pleased with himself?"

"Nothing worth mentioning," Elira said, recovering her footing, and smiled with a calm that cost her everything to hold. "Perhaps you should try giving birth to a blind child yourself. Then you might understand what fortune actually looks like."

Marguerite's composure cracked at last. "Don't twist facts to comfort yourself, Elira. Your son is blind. What use is all his wealth if he can't even see it?"

"Do not," Elira said, low and even, "speak about my son again. He may be blind in your eyes. He is not blind in mine."

"You're right — in your eyes, he isn't. But in everyone else's, he is. You'd have done better staying barren than raising *that* and calling it a son."

Something in Elira went very still. "Only the gods know why I was given Kael instead of you being given nothing at all. Enjoy your mouth while it still amuses you — but remember this, Marguerite: my son is worth more than every prince in your bloodline combined, and you know it better than anyone."

She shoved her, once, the way Marguerite had shoved her first, and didn't wait to see her stumble before walking back toward her son's room.

*Vivienne has disappointed me for the last time tonight.*

"Any word from her?" the physician asked when she returned.

"She's occupied," Elira said flatly. "I'll manage without her."

She sat beside Kael's bed long after the physician left them alone, smoothing his palm between both of hers.

"You'll be fine, my handsome boy. Nothing will happen to you while I'm still breathing."

"Vivienne," Kael murmured, half-conscious, reaching for a name that wasn't hers.

"Yes, my love," Elira answered softly, in a voice that wasn't quite her own. "I love you too."

He called for her again. And again. And each time, Elira answered in Vivienne's place, exhausted and heartbroken and unwilling to leave his side until morning finally came.