The Imperial infirmary was a gilded cage. The air, thick with the cloying scent of healing herbs and incense, did nothing to cleanse the rot festering inside Crown Prince Cassian. He lay propped on a mountain of silk pillows, the physical tremors of the White Veil reduced to a fine, constant vibration in his hands—a humiliating reminder his body was no longer his own instrument.
His chambers, adjacent to the sickroom, were a portrait of interrupted vanity. A polished mirror stood covered with a black cloth, on his orders. The sight of his own face—the slight droop of his right eyelid, the imperfect symmetry of his once-devastating smile—was a torture worse than the poison's cramps. Maps of imperial campaigns were rolled and neglected. In their place, scattered across a desk by the window, were the dry, damning reports of the inquiry.
