Chapter 2: Three Days of Dying Light
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Lucia didn't go to the communal meals for three days.
Every crust she could snatch from the tavern's waste bucket, every sip of goat milk she'd hidden under hay, went instead into the cracked kettle she carried nightly to the ruined chapel.
He hadn't died.
Not yet.
The prince—she dared not think of him that way—lay curled beneath the altar, barely able to open his eyes. The silver wounds festered, fever burning like a forge under his skin.
“You've got to drink," she said, lifting his head.
He shook weakly. “No more."
Lucia ignored him, dipping a cloth into the warm broth. “If you die, they'll say I murdered you."
He gave a tiny twitch of a smile. “You didn't."
“Doesn't matter. That's what people say when you're poor and alone."
“I'm not—" He coughed violently. “—not alone."
“Don't talk," she said, softening. “Save your strength."
The wind outside howled, day and night indistinguishable in the storm's endless siege. Snow sealed the chapel doors. Icicles hung like spears from the beams.
Lucia fashioned one into a drip. She tied it with string and set it to melt slowly into his mouth.
“You're a strange prince," she murmured, adjusting his blanket. “You don't bark orders. You just shiver."
“I'm not—" His eyes fluttered open. “Not a good one."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached into her coat, drew out a sliver of old wood, and held it up.
“Know what this is?" she asked.
He blinked. “Kindling?"
She smiled faintly. “No. It's a splinter from the chapel door. I keep it because… I don't know. Because it hasn't broken, maybe."
He took it. With fumbling fingers, he began carving lines into the surface using the jagged end of a broken brooch.
“A," he muttered. “S."
Lucia frowned. “What's that?"
He looked at her, smiled weakly. “My name."
“You're not supposed to tell strangers your name."
“You're not a stranger. You sing."
She blinked.
The lullaby. He remembered.
That night, when the fever surged again and he gasped for air, he clutched her wrist and whispered, “The song."
Lucia, shaking, hummed again until her voice cracked.
Each hour stretched into aching forever.
By the third dawn, the storm began to break. Gray light trickled in through the rafters.
Lucia was boiling another broth when she heard the hoofbeats.
Too many.
“No—no no no—" she hissed.
She ran to the altar, heart hammering. “You have to hide again. Like last time."
The boy tried to sit up, failed. His breath hitched.
Lucia helped him back down. “Don't talk. Just be still."
But it was too late.
Boots crunched outside. A voice barked: “Secure the perimeter. Look for movement."
Lucia ducked behind the altar, praying.
The chapel doors groaned open. Warm light spilled inside. She saw red plumes. Dozens.
A soldier stepped forward. A scarred commander knelt beside the boy.
“My prince," he whispered. “You live."
The boy blinked. “Lucia—"
“Shh, Highness," the man interrupted. “You're safe."
Rough hands reached for him.
“No!" Lucia darted forward. “Be careful—he's still weak—"
A hand struck her cheek. She fell hard, blood seeping from her lip.
“You dare touch the prince?" the commander growled. “You'll be punished."
“No," the prince whispered. “She saved—"
“Highness, silence."
The boy's eyes met hers, wide, shining.
Lucia reached out.
But he was already being carried away, wrapped in blankets far richer than anything she'd seen.
She tried to stand, but someone shoved her down.
“Back to the dirt, girl."
The chapel emptied as fast as it filled. Snow swept in behind them.
Lucia knelt in the ruin, alone once more.
She pressed her palm to the altar.
He hadn't even said goodbye.
She wanted to cry. But the tears wouldn't come.
She walked home with empty hands and burning cheeks, convinced it had all been some snow-blown dream.
Until she reached into her pocket and found the carved sliver of wood.
A.
S.
It was real.
And somewhere out there, the boy with burning eyes remembered her name.
- Writer
