Back outside, Henry's vigil continued. Hours ticked by—the sun climbing higher, turning the morning chill into a warm afternoon glow—but he refused to budge. His stomach growled, but food was the furthest thing from his mind. "Please," he begged another guard, his voice hoarse from crying. "Just tell me if she's awake. If she's okay. I... I love her. I've always loved her."
The guard looked shocked at his confession but shook his head sympathetically. "Can't do that, sir. Orders are strict."
Back in the tent, Isabella woke to emptiness.
The bed beside her was cold, the sheets undisturbed where Henry should have been, and the realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. She pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket to her chest as if it could anchor her, her heart sinking fast.
"Henry?" she called softly, her voice tentative as her eyes drifted toward the small attached bathroom.
Nothing.
No running water. No footsteps. No answer.
