I sat at my desk between my most trusted people, the weight of my kingdom pressing heavily upon my shoulders, as it always did. The pain gnawed at my bones, a constant companion since my youth, but I had learned to bear it in silence. My face was covered in bandages. Soon, I would need to wear a mask—my people would not withstand the sight of what lay beneath. My hands, wrapped in linen to hide their decay, trembled slightly as I reviewed the latest reports from my commanders. The war never ceased, nor did the burdens of rule.

Then the door creaked open, and my queen entered, her face unreadable. Saladin’s niece. I married her five months ago, after my victory against her uncle, a token of peace between our kingdoms. But she was more than that. We had grown to love each other. She did not see me as a king she was bound to or as a leper to be pitied, but as a husband. In my cursed life, I could not have asked for a greater gift.

The last time I touched her was weeks ago—the first and only time I had known the love between husband and wife. Now, I forced myself to keep my distance. I pitied our fate. She would be a good mother; I had seen her gentleness. But I had abandoned all hopes of fatherhood long ago. My illness—this wretched, unrelenting thing that devoured me—made such dreams impossible. And so, I loved her in other ways, in every way I still could.

But lately, I had noticed the changes. She was often ill in the mornings, her appetite shifting strangely—one day unable to stomach the scent of food, the next craving something unusual. Yesterday, I had found her staring at a bowl of figs as if in deep contemplation before suddenly sending the servants to fetch something sour instead.

Hope was a dangerous thing.

I dismissed the court with a glance. No meeting was more important than her. My council knew that. My heart warming when she stepped closer.

“What is it, love?” I asked softly, leaning forward in my chair.