Argider collapsed onto Fialova, her snow hair in disarray, clutching at her chest as if her very soul were escaping her body. Her voice cracked, somewhere between a royal decree and a soap opera finale.
"Fialova! Tell me the truth—am I dying? Is this the end of my imperial reign?!" She flailed one arm dramatically, pointing toward the heavens. "Write this down! 'Here lies Argider, felled in the prime of life by... mystery blood!'"
Fialova pinched the bridge of her nose, steadying herself. "Your Imperial Majesty," she said slowly, like explaining algebra to a particularly stubborn toddler, "you are not dying."
Argider, ignoring her entirely, turned misty-eyed. "And to think, I never apologized to my wives! Tell them I'm sorry for not giving babies. And for all the mild insults. Actually, tell them I was always a bastard who didn't deserve them."
