I don’t want to die.

He struggled to breathe.

His chest expanded, but not nearly enough to fill his lungs.

He needed air. Needed clarity. Everything was confusing and fuzzy.

Where was he?

Why couldn’t he see?

Distantly, as if from miles away, a low roar made itself known past the rush of blood in his ears.

Cars?

Machines?

Helicopters?

Had he crashed?

Was it a dream?

The roar grew louder.

It alarmed him somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. Instinct began to scream for action.

Move, move, move!

He tried to surge upright. His body refused to function. He could not lift his arm more than an inch or two off the ground, and his foot twitched but did not obey his commands to rise.

Pressure built in his chest.

Dear God, the pressure.

I can’t breathe!

The roar became unbearable, surrounding him on all sides.

Then he was riding on a rough sea; his body shifted and jostled as points of pain exploded along his sides, on his arms, beneath his shoulders.

A great white light blanked his mind, and he knew no more.

Wood chips flew as Sander’s ax bit into the tree trunk. He was behind Kallaster in a clearing between the castle and the bailey walls, chopping firewood for the upcoming season. Rumor had it that an ugly winter was on its way, the kind Latvala hadn’t seen in decades, and Sander had no qualms putting his back to work for the cause. His paperwork, phone calls, and other kingly duties had all been completed before five this morning, leaving his day free for more physical activity. And there was nothing wrong with keeping up his strength and agility.

The ax swung high. Another notch appeared in the trunk.

“Sander.”

It was the weight of his name on Leander’s tongue that halted Sander’s rhythmic motion. He glanced across the clearing.

Leander, one of his closest friends and confidants, wore a dark expression: pinched brows, troubled brown eyes, mouth a tight line. It was the kind of expression Sander had grown to dislike over the years. Experience had taught him no good could come of whatever was on Leander’s mind.

Sander tossed the ax to the ground. “What is it?”

“You need to come with me. It’s Elias.”

Whatever Sander had expected Leander to say, it wasn’t that. An uncomfortable silence descended as Sander stalked across the clearing. He yanked off his gloves and tossed those to the ground as well. That Leander did not immediately begin explaining what exactly was going on with Elias made Sander’s blood run cold.

“Is he ill?” Sander asked.

“No. I’m sorry, Sander. The terrain vehicle he was riding in with his men went off a small cliff. It rolled. Elias was trapped inside. He’s in bad shape.”

“How bad?” Sander asked. He walked faster, covering the distance to the back door of the castle in record time.

“He’s got a head wound, lacerations, and maybe some broken bones. Helicopter just landed to take him to the hospital in Kalev.”

“Have someone contact Chey—”

“I’m already on it.”

Sander flung open the back door and entered a shadowed hall. He stalked through the low lit corridors, ascended a long flight of stairs, and briskly headed for the front of the castle where he suspected Leander had vehicles waiting. Kallaster was not a small fortress by any means, and Sander silently cursed the time it took to traverse the entirety of the holding. It seemed an eternity before he arrived at the foyer and walked straight out the open front doors. As he’d expected, three black Hummers sat at the base of the steps, engines running.

Sander wasted no time climbing into the middle vehicle with Leander at his flank. The line of cars pulled away from the castle, speeding toward the large gate at the far end of the bailey wall.

A hundred questions rioted around Sander’s mind. How had the accident happened? Was this an actual accident, or were there more sinister elements involved? He recalled an attack on a convoy he’d been involved in so many years past. That had been a targeted assault. Was this? Had Elias been set up for assassination?

The most urgent question was one he could not bring himself to ask.

Would Elias live? Was his first born even then passing from this world into the next?

He forced the thought away. Now was the time for optimism and hope, not grief and despair.

All was quiet inside the Hummer. The driver and the guard in the front seat said nothing, further indication how serious the situation was.

“What else do we know?” Sander finally asked Leander. The Hummer sped along the road toward the helipad situated not far from the castle. Helicopter transport was the fastest way on and off Pallan Island.

“Not much. They were en route to the back country, as you know. Their truck somehow went off the road and rolled. A farmer found them and called for aid.”

“The other men? Elias’s guards?”

“All dead. No one knows yet how long it was before the farmer came across the scene.”

“So Elias could have been lying there for hours.” The time lapse might be the difference whether his son lived or died.

“We’ll know soon enough. The farmer is being questioned as we speak.”

The moment the Hummer stopped, Sander jumped out and jogged toward the waiting helicopter. The pilot was already in the front seat preparing for flight and military personnel stood next to the open doors. Sander climbed in with only a quick nod to the men. He took a seat while Leander embarked and sat beside him.

Within minutes, the helicopter lifted off and headed toward the mainland.

“Elias is tough. He’ll make it,” Leander said before sliding on his headset.

Sander jerked a nod and slid his own headset into place. He struggled to maintain his optimism and hope as a cold, greasy knot settled into the pit of his stomach.

Please, God, let my son live.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Sander snarled. He paced up and down the hospital corridor, hands on his hips, waiting impatiently for Elias’s helicopter to arrive. The life flight had not made it in from the back country yet.

“Should be any time now,” Leander said.

“ETA two minutes, Your Majesty.” A doctor in scrubs with a clipboard in hand strode from behind the nurses’ station. He was a slim specimen, with a bald head and thin-rimmed glasses. He slid his cell phone into his pocket, indicating the end to a recent call.

Sander said nothing. He rolled his head left and right, trying to work the kinks and tension from his neck.

Two minutes. An eternity. Even now, every second felt like a lifetime.

“Is he still . . .” Leander lowered his voice and stepped after the doctor.

Sander looked away. He couldn’t face ambiguous head nods or shakes, didn’t want to guess what the answer meant, and wasn’t ready to confront the doctor himself with that very difficult question.

Elias was alive.

He had to believe it was so.

His restless pacing took him up and down the hallway three times.

Four. Five.

Surely it had been two minutes by now. He cursed under his breath and snapped a look toward the station when four nurses and other medical personnel suddenly ran down the hall toward the elevator. Gloves snapped into place over their hands as they waited for the carriage to descend from the top floor, where Elias was no doubt being unloaded from the helicopter and rushed to the elevator bank.

This was it.

This was when he would find out the truth.

Sander steeled himself for anything. For everything.

The elevator doors whooshed open. Chaos followed. More medical personnel pushed a gurney with a body lying atop it into the hallway, shouting stats and orders and other things Sander could not identify. All he saw were tubes and bandages and splints and blood.

A lot of blood.

The staff rushed the gurney toward him, and past. Without stopping, without updates, without so much as a glance his way.

Sander caught it all in surreal glimpses: Elias’s bone-white face, the oxygen mask, neck brace, arm splint, the straps that held Elias in place on the gurney. The once white gauze packed around Elias’s head had been soaked through with red.

In those initial seconds, he wasn’t sure his son was even breathing.

Sander followed the medical team into a large, brightly lit triage room specifically set up for emergencies. The entire floor was reserved for royalty, for Sander himself and his heirs. For his wife. No other patients were ever treated on this level. It was why no one said anything when he parked himself against the wall near the door to observe.

No one would dare kick out the king.

The next hour passed in a blur. Motion was constant: nurses and doctors and other professionals darting in and out to draw blood, take x-rays, stitch wounds, and other medical necessities.

Elias was alive but unconscious.

Sander considered that a miracle in itself.

Finally, one of the doctors peeled himself away from Elias’s bedside and approached.

“The head wound is the worst,” the doctor said straight away. “His brain is swelling and we’re monitoring that. If it continues, we’ll have to drill a hole and drain some of the blood. Otherwise, he’s got some internal injuries—nothing life threatening—and five lacerations that we’ve stitched closed. His left wrist is broken.”

Sander listened with his breath stuck in his throat. Slowly, by degrees, some of the paralyzing tension eased.

Not all, but some. Enough for him to ask questions.

“What’s his prognosis?” Sander asked.

“I wish I could tell you that he’s out of the woods, Your Majesty. But he’s not. We’ll keep a close eye on him for the next few hours and see how the swelling does. I will say that he escaped serious crush injuries and more broken bones. Some of the men in that car with him did not. The prince is lucky in that regard. We’ve set his wrist, which should heal in a normal amount of time.”

Sander read between the lines. Understood what the doctor wasn’t saying: the wrist would heal normally if Elias survived the head wound. “I’ll be staying with him until the queen and his siblings arrive, and I’d like to be updated with any news, no matter how inconsequential.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” The doctor bowed his head and stepped out of the room.

Ten long strides brought Sander to Elias’s beside. He stared down at his stricken son and gently set a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” Sander said. He spoke low and concise on the off chance Elias could hear him. “Your mother is on her way. Hold on, Elias. I know you can beat this.”

He pulled up a chair next to Elias’s bed and sat down, prepared to wait however long it took for Elias to improve, or die. Dread coursed through him at the thought of losing his son. He squeezed Elias’s shoulder as if he might transfer his own strength and will to live into the battered body on the bed.

“You can do it,” Sander said quietly, encouraging Elias in the only way he knew how. “Don’t give up. Never give up.”

Machines beeped and clicked.

Elias remained still and silent.