Princess Tassin Alrade gazed down at her father’s peaceful face, her throat tight. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last week. His lips were tinged with blue and he breathed in wheezing gasps. A bevy of doctors, advisors and servants stood in the shadows. She stroked his brow, lined by years of worry. The King was dying. Everyone knew it. Soon, she would be queen of a vast and powerful land. Her father had wed late in life, rejecting all offers until he had met the daughter of an insignificant lord. A brief year of happiness had ended with her mother’s death a few days after Tassin’s birth. From her father, she had inherited the Alrade black hair and blue eyes, and from her mother’s blood, her slight stature and fine features.
Tassin sought his limp hand amongst the bed clothes and gripped it, and the King opened his eyes. She leant forward. “Papa? Papa, it’s me.”
His gasping breaths quieted. “Tassin, my child.” His eyes roamed over her face.
“Papa, you must not die. I do not want you to die.”
His hand grasped hers. “I am sorry, little one. Be happy, Tassin. Do not let anyone take that from you. Trust Pervor, he will guide you and take care of you. I go to join your mother.”
“No! Papa!” Her tears overflowed as his eyes closed, and his breath left him in a long sigh. She flung herself onto his chest and embraced him, sobs racking her. A sigh came from the King’s retainers, and a doctor approached and pressed his fingers to the King’s neck.
After several moments, he proclaimed, “The King is dead. Long live the Queen.”
There was a rustle of rich cloth as the retainers knelt. A firm hand clasped her shoulder.
“Come, Your Majesty. He is dead.”
Tassin did not recognise the voice, but allowed herself to be tugged away, hardly noticing as she was led to her room.