The door closed behind Prince Lumian with a soft click that seemed to echo in the white room.
The silence was heavy, pressing against her ears, filled with the weight of everything the Prince had said. Your brother's body was never recovered. The Audit listed him as deceased, but there was no body. No remains. No proof.
She didn't want to believe him. She couldn't believe him. Leximus was dead. The Audit had told her that no one survived but her, so she assumed that also meant him. Duke Karmis had told her so. She had mourned him—cried until her throat was raw, until her eyes were swollen, until there were no tears left. She had dreamed of him for months.
But what if the Audit was lying?
What if Leximus was alive?
She pressed her hands to her face, feeling the bandages on her arm scrape against her cheek. The pain was sharp, grounding, a reminder that she was awake, that she was alive, that two months had passed while she lay in this bed.
Two months.
She thought of Prince Lumian—his cold eyes, his soft voice, the way he had spoken about her family like he knew things she didn't. I've read the reports. The Audit's reports. The ones they don't show the public.
What reports?
What are they hiding?
She didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore.
The door opened.
A man entered— a doctor in a crisp white coat, his hair grey at the temples, his spectacles perched on his nose. He carried a leather bag, the kind that held instruments and medicines, and his face was the face of a man who had seen too much.
"Lady Karmis," he said, his voice low and professional. "I am Doctor Harlow. I've been overseeing your care since you were brought in."
Sheila tried to sit up. Her body protested—her back ached, her arm throbbed, her ribs felt tight—but she managed to push herself into a seated position, propping pillows behind her.
"How bad is it?" she asked.
Doctor Harlow set his bag on the nightstand and opened it, revealing rows of bandages, vials of salve, and instruments she didn't have names for. "The burns on your arm are healing. There will be scarring, but the function should return with time and therapy. The burns on your back are more extensive. They'll take longer to heal, and you'll need to be careful not to aggravate them."
"And my ribs?"
He glanced at her, surprised. "You remember?"
"I remember the explosion. I remember hitting the ground. I remember not being able to breathe."
"Two of your ribs were fractured. They've mostly healed by now—you were unconscious for two months, and the body does its work even when the mind is absent. There may be some discomfort, but the pain should be manageable."
"Two months." She had said it before, to the Duke, to herself, but the words still felt strange in her mouth. "I was asleep for two months."
"Your body needed time to recover. The trauma was significant." He began to unwrap the bandages on her arm, his movements gentle, practiced. "You're lucky to be alive, Lady Karmis. The explosion killed thousands. The fact that you survived—"
"I know."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on her arm, his hands steady. "The Duke has been here every day. He hasn't left your side for more than a few hours at a time. He's been... worried."
Sheila felt something tighten in her chest. "He's not good at showing it."
"No. He's not." Doctor Harlow finished with the bandages and stepped back. "The wounds are healing well. I'll have a nurse bring you fresh bandages this afternoon. In the meantime, rest. Don't push yourself. Your body has been through a great deal."
"Doctor," she said, as he began to pack his bag. "What happened? The explosion. The bombing. I need to know."
He looked at her, his eyes unreadable. "Are you sure? You've only just woken up. The Duke—"
"The Duke told me some of it. But I want to hear it from you. I want to know what they're saying."
Doctor Harlow was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, closed his bag, and sat in the chair by the bed.
"The explosion was caused by a terrorist group," he said. "They planted bombs throughout the slums and detonated them during the Public Showing. The goal was to assassinate the nobles, to bring the kingdom to its knees by killing its leaders."
"Did they succeed?"
"Many nobles were injured. Some were killed. The King survived. The Prince survived. But the damage..." He shook his head. "The slums are gone. Thousands of commoners are dead. The capital is in chaos."
Sheila felt the weight of his words settle on her chest. "And the leader? Have they identified the leader of this group?"
Doctor Harlow's face tightened. "Yes."
"Who?"
"A young man. His name is Leximus."
The world stopped.
Sheila heard the words—His name is Leximus—but they didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense. Leximus was dead. He had died. The Audit had told her so. Duke Karmis had told her so.
But what if they were lying?
What if he was alive?
What if he had been in the capital this whole time?
"Lady Karmis? Are you all right?"
She blinked. Doctor Harlow was looking at her, concern in his eyes. She realized her hands were shaking.
"I'm fine," she said, forcing the words out. "I'm fine. It's just... the name. It's familiar. I thought I'd heard it somewhere before."
Doctor Harlow nodded slowly. "He's been on the Audit's wanted list for months. They've been hunting him since before the bombing. But he was always one step ahead, always disappearing into the shadows." He paused. "After the explosion, someone came forward. A witness. He said he saw members of the group hurrying to an abandoned cemetery in the slums—a place they'd been using as a hideout. The Audit raided it. They found evidence linking Leximus to the bombing."
"Did they find him?"
"No. He's still at large. But they're close. They're very close."
Sheila forced herself to smile. It felt wrong on her face, stiff and unnatural, like a mask that didn't fit.
"I hope they bring him to justice soon," she said. "For the sake of the people who died."
Doctor Harlow studied her for a moment, as if trying to read something beneath her words. Then he nodded, picked up his bag, and stood.
"Rest, Lady Karmis. You've been through enough. The Duke will be back soon."
He left.
The door closed.
Sheila sat alone in the white room, the silence pressing against her ears, the weight of Doctor Harlow's words settling into her bones.
Leximus.
He was alive.
He had been in the capital this whole time, and she hadn't known. She hadn't even suspected. She had mourned him, cried for him, dreamed of him—and he had been alive.
And now they were calling him a terrorist.
They were calling him a mass murderer.
They were calling him the leader of a group that had killed thousands.
She felt the tears well up in her eyes—hot, stinging, blurring her vision. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold them back, but they came anyway, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto the white sheets.
He wouldn't do this. He couldn't. He was good. He was kind. He was the brother who had promised to protect her.
But people change.
People break.
People become things they never thought they would become.
She didn't hear the door open. She didn't hear the footsteps. She only became aware of Duke Karmis's presence when he sat in the chair beside her bed, his hand reaching out to cover hers.
"Sheila," he said, his voice soft, filled with concern. "Does it hurt? Your injuries—are they paining you?"
She shook her head, unable to speak, unable to form the words.
"Then what is it? What's wrong?"
She took a shuddering breath and forced herself to look at him. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw tight with worry. He looked old. Older than she had ever seen him.
"Grandfather," she said, her voice cracking. "What is the state of the country? I need to know. I need to understand."
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
Then he sighed, leaned back in his chair, and began to speak.
"The kingdom is in chaos," he said. "The bombing has shaken everything. People are afraid. They don't know who to trust. They don't know what's coming next."
"The King has ordered a country-wide inspection. Duchess Seraphina Velle is leading it—she's been given authority to search for more terrorists, to root out anyone who might be connected to the bombing."
"And is it working?"
The Duke's jaw tightened. "They're finding things. Whether they're finding the right things..." He shook his head. "There's an old man on the King's small council. One of his advisors. He seems to know where to look. He has someone feeding him information—someone inside the terrorists' network. Every time they raid a location, they find something. Weapons. Plans. Names."
"Do you trust him?"
"No." The Duke's voice was flat. "But the King does. And the King's word is law."
Sheila was quiet for a moment, processing.
"And the people?" she asked. "How are they handling all of this?"
"The commoners are distraught. They've never seen so many Royal Guards on their streets—not just in the capital, but in the other regions as well. The guards are... oppressive. They threaten. They order bribes. They arrest whoever they want, unless your pockets are deep enough to buy your freedom."
"That's terrible."
"It's the way of things. Power begets power. Fear begets fear." The Duke's eyes were dark. "Letters have been written to the King. Petitions. Pleas. None of them have been answered. Nothing has changed. And the people are beginning to say that the nobility wanted this. That the bombing was an excuse to tighten their grip."
"All of the nobility?"
"All except House Karmis."
Sheila felt something flicker in her chest—not hope, not pride, but something smaller, quieter. "Why us?"
The Duke was silent for a moment.
"Because we've always been good to the people," he said. "Your mother started it, when she was your age. She came to me with a plan—rations for the less fortunate, aid for the sick, shelter for the homeless. She was relentless. She wouldn't stop nagging until I gave in."
"Mother did that?"
"She did. And even after she left—even after she ran away with your father—I kept it going. In her memory. Because it was the right thing to do." He looked at her. "We've been distributing rations in secret, even now. The people know. They remember. And they're grateful."
Sheila felt tears prick at her eyes again, but these were different. These were not tears of grief or fear. They were tears of something else—pride, maybe, or love, or the simple, aching realization that her mother had been more than the tragic figure she had always imagined.
"Thank you," she said. "For continuing her work. For honoring her memory."
The Duke nodded. "She was my daughter. It was the least I could do."
The silence stretched between them.
Sheila looked at her hands—the bandaged arm, the pale fingers, the nails that had grown too long during her two months of sleep.
"Grandfather," she said. "The leader of the terrorist group. The one they're calling Leximus. Do you know anything about him? What he looks like? What they're saying about him?"
The Duke's face tightened. "He's young. In his late teens, from the reports. Dark hair, disheveled. Dark eyes that seem... dead. Pale skin. They say he's cold, distant, detached from reality. Like he's not quite there." Sheila answered.
"Sheila." The Duke's voice was stern now, demanding. "How do you know his description? How do you know the details of a wanted criminal?"
"I don't—"
"Sheila." His voice rose, sharp with fear and frustration. "You need to tell me. If you know something—if you've been in contact with him—"
"I haven't!" The tears were coming now, hot and fast, blurring her vision. "I haven't seen him. I haven't spoken to him. I didn't even know he was alive until the Prince told me—until the doctor confirmed—"
The Duke's face went pale. "What do you mean you didn't know he was alive?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore." She was crying now, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice cracking with every word. "But I know Leximus. I know he wouldn't do this. He couldn't do this. He's not a terrorist. He's not a murderer. He's my brother."
The Duke stared at her.
"Brother?"
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her good hand.
"Sarah had an elder son? A son I didn't know about?"
The Duke's face was unreadable.
"He was adopted," Sheila repeated. "He was a baby when they took him in. They never spoke of where he came from. They never spoke of who his birth parents were. He was just... Leximus. My elder brother."
The Duke was quiet for a long moment.
"Are you sure he's good?" he asked finally. "Are you sure he's not capable of the things they're accusing him of? He's adopted, Sheila. You don't know what he's become."
"I lived with him," she said, her voice fierce. "I grew up with him. He was kind. He was gentle. He took our parents' teachings to heart—honor, duty, compassion. He couldn't even hurt the children who bullied him. He wouldn't raise his hand, wouldn't fight back, wouldn't defend himself."
"People change."
"Not him. Not Leximus."
The Duke sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't know. But even if he's not blood—even if he was adopted—he was still raised by my daughter. He was still part of your family. And that means something."
Sheila nodded, unable to speak.
The Duke stood.
"I need to take a walk," he said. "I need to think. I'll be back soon."
He left.
Sheila lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Leximus.
Her brother.
Alive.
In the capital.
And he hadn't come to see her.
That was what hurt the most—not the accusations, not the terrified whispers of the doctors and the guards. It was the silence. The knowledge that he had been so close, that he had been in the same city, breathing the same air, walking the same streets—and he hadn't reached out. He hadn't tried to find her. He hadn't wanted to see her.
Maybe he's changed, she thought. Maybe he's not the brother I remember.
Maybe he didn't care about her at all.
Or maybe just maybe he couldn't and he must have his reasons, good reasons.
She buried her face in the pillow, her body shaking with silent sobs.
She didn't know what to believe anymore. She didn't know who to trust. The only thing she knew—the only thing she was certain of—was that her brother was out there, somewhere, alone and hunted and afraid.
And she couldn't help him.
She couldn't even reach him.
She cried until there were no tears left, until her eyes were swollen and her throat was raw, until the exhaustion of two months of sleep finally caught up with her and pulled her under.
She dreamed of Leximus.
In the dream, he was walking away, disappearing into fog.
And she was running after him, calling his name, reaching for his hand—but she could never quite catch up.