Mariam moved with quiet grace, her touch gentle as she helped the frail king ease against the carved oak headboard. Each motion was careful, reverent—as though she feared he might crumble beneath her fingers.
A flicker of surprise passed over Reuben's face, quickly masked by the practiced stoicism of a prince. "You've looked better, Father," he said, the comment edged with discomfort more than jest.
Heimdal responded only with a low, dismissive hum. His eyes, once sharp with command, now regarded his son with a cool detachment.
Reuben lingered at the foot of the bed, hesitation anchoring his steps before he finally sat in the chair beside the headboard.
"Your daughter greets His Majesty and wishes him a swift recovery," Amielle said with regal poise, bowing her head with courtly respect.
"This humble servant greets His Majesty and prays for his health," Mira added, lowering into a practiced, graceful curtsy.
Heimdal acknowledged them with a slight nod—nothing more.
