"The guards found you," his father said, voice low, clipped. "You were already unconscious."
The words carried no warmth, no relief. They were delivered like a report — as if he were recounting the weather, not his son's brush with death.
Solvane's brow furrowed. He tried to remember.
But his thoughts were smoke.
Images flickered at the edges of his mind — the sensation of falling, the rush of wind tearing past his ears, a blur of faces leaning over him as he was carried through corridors. None of it stuck. Every time he reached for clarity, the memory dissolved, leaving only fragments.
"I…" His voice cracked, hoarse, dry from disuse. "How long has it been?"
"Four months."
The number hit harder than the pain in his chest. Solvane's lips parted, but no words came. Four months — gone, erased, stolen.
"I see…" he whispered at last.
The king stepped closer to the bed, but not close enough to touch. His robes whispered against the floor, trailing behind him like a shadow. His gaze, however, remained distant. Detached.
"You should rest," Aubrean said. "Don't move around too much — your body hasn't fully recovered. And when you do…" His eyes narrowed, though not with concern. "…there's something you must do. But that can wait."
His tone made it clear: whatever awaited Solvane after recovery mattered more than his suffering now.
He turned toward the door.
"Before I leave," the king added, "meet your new butler. You can call him Filin. Get acquainted."
Without another glance, without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, Aubrean swept from the room. His robes trailed after him like a retreating tide, leaving behind only silence and the faint echo of authority.
Solvane blinked slowly, still trying to process. His gaze shifted toward the man standing quietly beside the door.
Filin.
He was tall, neatly dressed, posture disciplined, but his presence was subdued, almost careful. His eyes, however, betrayed something — a shadow that clung to him, soft but undeniable.
"Hey," Solvane rasped, forcing a weak smile. "Filin."
The man inclined his head. "Yes, young master?"
A faint warmth lingered in his tone, though it was restrained by formality.
"Were you there… during the incident?"
Filin hesitated. A pause just slightly too long. His lips pressed together before he answered.
"Not quite, Your Majesty. But I was there when you fell. I was the one who informed the king."
Solvane's eyes narrowed, studying him. Then the faint blur in his memory sharpened — for just a moment.
"That's where I remember your face," he murmured.
Filin's expression didn't change much, but his eyes… they softened. Sorrow flickered there, heavy and unspoken. Not just sorrow. Pity. And beneath it, something deeper — grief, maybe. Or guilt.
Solvane noticed.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, chuckling weakly. His voice was strained, but there was an edge beneath the humor.
"Whatever do you mean, sir?" Filin's voice was smooth, practiced.
Solvane let the silence hang between them. He didn't answer.
Instead, he pushed himself upright. Pain lanced through his chest, sharp enough to steal his breath. His legs trembled as they met the floor, knees threatening to buckle under his weight. Sweat gathered at his temples, his vision swimming.
But he forced himself forward. Step by step, he limped toward the window.
Filin took a half-step forward, concern flashing in his eyes, but he did not intervene.
Solvane reached the balcony rail at last, gripping it with both hands as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. His body screamed in protest, but he pressed on.
He looked down.
The courtyard stretched far below, bathed in pale light. The drop was dizzying — sheer stone, eighty feet at least, maybe more. The distance alone was enough to kill any ordinary man.
"I can't believe I fell from here…" Solvane whispered. His fingers traced the edge of the railing, cold and smooth beneath his touch.
He swallowed hard, staring into the open air. The memory would not come. Only fragments — the rush of wind, the sensation of weightlessness. Everything else was blank.
"Eighty feet," he murmured. "At least."
Silence lingered, broken only by the faint hum of the machines behind him.
"Hey, Filin."
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"What was my father's expression… when you told him?"
Filin froze. Just for a moment — but long enough for Solvane to notice. His eyes lowered. His voice, when it came, was careful.
"It was… one of pity. Fear. Sadness."
Solvane's lips curled into a pained smile. His chest tightened, not from his wounds, but from something heavier.
"Then why is the face I remember…" His voice trailed off, quiet, almost to himself. "…one of disgust. And shame?"
The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade.
Filin looked at him, his sorrow deepening, but he said nothing. His silence was an answer of its own.
Solvane turned back to the balcony, gripping the rail tighter. The drop below yawned like an open mouth, endless and unforgiving. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished stone — pale, fragile, broken.
And in his mind, unbidden, the faceless woman smiled again. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Waving goodbye.