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The room was noticeably dimmer than the hallway. With the heavy curtains drawn over the window, only a small lamp by the bed offered any light. Hector had to remove his helmet and tuck it under his arm.

Then he saw his mother’s face. He almost didn’t recognize her. She was so gaunt. She’d always been a rather slim woman, but now she looked unhealthily so. It hadn’t even been three weeks since he last saw her. He didn’t understand how she could have changed so much.

“You stopped shaving your head,” she said. “Trying to make yourself less recognizable?”

He ran a hand over his hair. Finding words was difficult again. Everything he’d discussed with Garovel on the way here was slipping away. Apologize, maybe? For what? Everything?

She tilted her head at him. “Did you really abduct the King?”

That at least had a straightforward answer. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“He was being held hostage... and tortured. By the same people who ran the Queen out of the country.”

“So you rescued him.”

Hector couldn’t respond to that.

“These people,” said his mother, “are they the same ones who killed your father?”

“No. But they are... related.”

Her frown deepened.

“I...” His expression hardened. “I already killed the person who murdered Dad.”

She returned a flat stare. “Good,” she said. “At least you did that right.”

He averted his gaze. The “compliment” cut deeper than any wound he’d suffered today.

“So are you going to tell me why you’re here, or do I have to guess?”

“I... I need you to come with me. You’re not safe here...”

“Ah. So you’ve put my life in danger now, too.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t waste your breath on meaningless apologies, Hector. I honestly don’t care how bad you feel.” She stood from the bed and began packing her bag.

Hector waited in silence, occasionally throwing a humiliated glance at the reaper. The whole thing felt somehow worse by having someone witness it, even someone as understanding as Garovel.

Before she finished packing, however, there came a knock at the door.