It was late, the chambers shuttered against the night, Dragonstone was quiet but for the distant murmur of guards changing watches. What had begun in private closeness, reckless curiosity born of youthful intimacy, had turned wrong with terrifying speed. Aelor lay still under her, color draining from his face, his chest unmoving. For a heartbeat that felt endless, Princess Aelora could only stare in horror.

She caught him by the shoulders and shook him, panic stripping away all composure, the silence louder than any scream. “Aelor—no, no, no—please,” she said, her voice breaking as she pressed her forehead to his, shaking him with all her strength.

Then seemingly against all odds, air. A ragged inhale, faint but unmistakable. His chest rose, then again. Color crept back into his cheeks as his eyes fluttered, unfocused, alive. Relief hit her so hard her knees nearly gave way, tears spilling freely as she laughed and sobbed in the same breath, clutching him as though the world might steal him away if she loosened her grip.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered hoarsely, hands trembling as she brushed his hair back, anchoring herself to the sound of his hoarse breathing, knowing, with bone-deep certainty, that a disaster had come terrifyingly close… and had, by some mercy, passed them by.