"Jay."
That single word fell heavily.
Jay turned. For a fraction of a second, he wished he hadn't heard it wished he could remain standing by the door, remain a husband, not the heir of Zelthar.
"Father," he finally answered.
The Grand Duke looked at him for a long moment. There was no anger there, no doubt—only the exhaustion of a man who had lost too much, and now had to ask for even more.
"You cannot stay here," he said quietly, yet his tone allowed no argument. "Zelthar needs you."
Jay instinctively looked toward the door. Behind that wall, Marchioness Albertch was holding Liv's hand, her voice faintly audible as she pleaded for Liv to stay conscious.
"Liv—" Jay's voice was hoarse. "She—"
"She will be guarded," the Grand Duke cut in firmly. "Marchioness Albertch is there. And the finest healers of the North."
The Marchioness stepped out briefly, her face pale but her eyes blazing with stubborn resolve.
