“For where thou art, there is the world itself,

  And where thou art not, desolation.”

  — William Shakespeare, "Henry VI, Part 2"

  Despite the rich contents of Pharaoh's private office, it now felt empty.

  Previously, oil lamps scattered here and there as a substitute for windows and the blinding rays of sunlight streaming from them gave Arenor such a pleasant feeling of seclusion, especially after a particularly active day of social interaction. Previously, the bookshelves lining the walls of the room gave him a feeling of being filled with important information and interesting stories, thanks to the books, manuscripts, and scrolls that densely covered each shelf, as if they were trying to bend it under the weight of the knowledge they contained. In the past, the skillfully engraved and painted vases standing here and there gave Arenor pleasure with their beauty and their high cost, which only two people in the entire kingdom could afford: his father, Pharaoh Israfil, and himself, Prince Arenor. Previously, the large table in the middle of the study gave him a sense of freedom — he could spread out anything he wanted on it: stacks of books he wanted to read; important documents he needed to sort through; and old scrolls that he was very interested in studying. The chair he sat in, not only while working but also while resting, used to give him a feeling of all-consuming comfort — all-consuming because it was so comfortable that he simply did not want to get up from it.

  However, in an instant, everything changed dramatically.

  All the things in the office—including the office itself—now caused Arenor discomfort and irritation.

  Now, the windowless, sunless room seemed to him nothing more than a gloomy prison. Now, the light from the oil lamps seemed too dim and painfully faded for his eyes. Now, all the books, writings, and scrolls filling the numerous cabinets seemed like a waste of time to him. Now, the vases and other decorations scattered around the perimeter of the room seemed out of place to him. Now, the large table standing in the middle seemed absurdly huge to him. Now, the chair he sat on seemed uncomfortable and hard, like an uncut stone.

  But the real problem was not the lack of windows and sunlight; not the oil lamps, bookcases, or decorations; not the table or chair; not at all.

  The real problem was her.

  Airena.

  But no, that was the wrong word; he didn't want to call her—or something about her—a problem.

  Rather, she was the reason he felt this way.

  However, if anything, she was the reason he felt anything at all.

  Leaning back in his chair, Arenor sighed wearily and rubbed his nose: no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't concentrate on the work he had to do while his father was temporarily away from the palace. The last few days had been difficult in terms of the amount of work he had to do: in addition to the papers he had to sort through and the letters he had to answer, he was also busy preparing the sarcophagus, choosing a burial site, and supervising the mummification process of Airena's brother's body, Irai. Or, more precisely—

  A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought and broke the silence in the room.

  "Yes?" Arenor asked in an indifferent tone.

  "Your Highness," replied the voice of one of his guards, Zafir. "Airena has just awakened."

  Hearing these words, Arenor did not even flinch; instead of rejoicing, opening the door, and rushing to meet the cause of his tormented state, he continued to sit in his chair, occasionally shifting irritably in an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable.

  "Do you think I'll believe that again?"

  At least five times, if not more, over the past few days, Nasir, Zafir's brother, had done this: knocked on his office door and said that Airena had finally woken up. As it turned out moments later—or more precisely, when Arenor walked out the door—it was just a lie, which Nasir justified by saying that he couldn't allow his Prince to sit locked up day and night, without sleep, food, trips to the bath, or even to the toilet.

  The oil lamp standing on the edge of the table, whose wick had been lit only a day ago, was almost burned out—confirming Nasir's words about how much time Arenor spent in this office.

  "Your brother has successfully deceived me several times," he said with slight irritation, both at his guard for deceiving him and at himself for trusting him. "So I'm not going to—"

  "Your Highness," Zafir interrupted him, "you know that, unlike my brother, I do not engage in such things."

  His words made Arenor's irritation evaporate like water spilled under the bright sun.

  "That is true."

  Zafir was indeed much more honest than Nasir: he never put on a show in front of the Prince or played pranks on him — even if they were harmless, they caused real irritation — which his brother loved to do. Zafir always spoke briefly and clearly to the point, without digressing into other topics, unlike Nasir, who simply loved to supplement important information with a bunch of useless details that Arenor then had to throw out of his head like the garbage that it was.

  "Fine. I'll believe you one last time. But if you're deceiving me too..." he walked to the door and opened it, "...then I'll have to kill you both."

  They both knew it was an empty threat, but right now Arenor simply didn't have the strength to come up with another, more realistic one, let alone one that he could definitely carry out.

  Despite his strenuous attempts to pretend to be indifferent, his face and his quickened pace on the way to the palace infirmary betrayed his true feelings; hope lit up in him like the wick of an oil lamp to which a flame had been brought — only in this case, the flame was Zafir's words, and the wick was Arenor's heart.

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  ***

  When they approached the infirmary door, they saw Nasir standing nearby, clearly awaiting the arrival of his brother and his Prince.

  "I specifically asked Zafir to call you, Your Highness. I knew you wouldn't believe me if I did it myself."

  "Don't you dare talk about me as if I were your personal dog," said Zafir.

  "Well, isn't that— Ouch!"

  Zafir's palm landed with a loud slap on his brother's back.

  Ignoring his fooling guards, Arenor, unable to contain his almost furious desire to finally see Airena, rushed to the door, but unexpectedly for him, Zafir stopped him halfway.

  "Forgive me, Your Highness, but you cannot go in there."

  Arenor raised an eyebrow, half mockingly, half irritated, as if asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

  But contrary to the Prince's expectations, the guard did not back down from his gaze.

  "Your Highness, Airena is a girl, and she is lying there completely naked."

  "So what?" Arenor asked, his voice rising with emotion — he understood what Zafir was getting at and was offended that his guard could think so poorly of him.

  A muscle twitched on Zafir's usually calm face; he had already opened his mouth to tell his Prince what he thought of all this, but Nasir beat him to it:

  "Your Highness, have you gone completely stupid from sitting inside four windowless walls all the time?" he asked, either pretending not to understand the real reason for the conflict or genuinely not understanding it. "Or are you just— Ouch!"

  "Don't you dare insult His Highness the Crown Prince of Arenor," said Zafir, deliberately adding an overly formal address.

  "But you yourself just—"

  "I did not insult him; I merely expressed my disagreement with his opinion," he interrupted his brother, without taking his eyes off the Prince.

  That was why Arenor usually preferred Nasir's company to Zafir's. Although the former often behaved like a small child with his inappropriate jokes and constant pranks, he almost never opposed his Prince's will: he did not dare to challenge his words or actions, and even more so, he did not dare to oppose him — as his brother was doing now...

  "Are you prepared to receive any punishment for your disobedience, Zafir?" Arenor's voice was eerily calm now, as it only was when the Prince felt genuine anger.

  "I didn't know that fairness was punishable in our kingdom," Nasir replied in place of his brother.

  ...however, there were exceptions everywhere, including in Nasir's unhindered behavior — and these exceptions were that his absolute freedom in relation to his Prince ended when it came to his brother.

  Hearing Nasir's words, Arenor narrowed his eyes like a snake before an attack and was about to open his mouth to say something when the infirmary door suddenly swung open, letting air into the room, which had been stifling with tension.

  The anger boiling in the Prince's veins disappeared without a trace, his heart skipped a beat, and his eyes widened with the sparks of hope that filled them.

  "How is she?" Arenor asked Shafia, the palace healer who was also known as the Silent Healer because of her congenital muteness, according to her.

  Shafia raised her hands to explain everything to him, but Arenor, not waiting for her to do so, gently pushed her away from the entrance and, muttering an apology, rushed inside.

  "Airena!" he called out to the reason for his sleepless nights and idle days. "How are you? Are you feeling better? I was so worried about you and—"

  His voice trailed off at the last words, the joyful smile slipped from his face, and his heart stopped for a moment — and the reason for all this was Airena again.

  Shafia was not the palace healer for nothing — she had managed to patch up the wounded and emaciated body over the past few days so that now its owner seemed almost completely healthy, except for her extreme thinness and a face that expressed nothing but endless fatigue. But her eyes... they were completely empty and stared into nothingness: there was no spark of life in them — not even a flicker of anger, let alone a twinkle of happiness. Her back was hunched, her shoulders slumped, and her arms and legs hung limply, as if they were an additional mental burden that she had to physically carry on her body.

  All of this—every detail testifying to Airena's unbearable suffering—caused Arenor the same unbearable pain, which he could do nothing about.

  He knew he couldn't help her: she had witnessed the death of the man she considered her brother; she had almost been kidnapped by some men at someone's request; she had killed many people in a fit of emotion; and now she was in Pharaoh's palace—lifeless, completely alone, and clearly remembering nothing about her past—including him.

  He knew.

  But still, he wanted to try.

  "Airena?" Arenor called her again. "How are you feeling, Airena?"

  But she did not answer.

  She did not react at all; she did not even look at him, did not even move.

  At that moment, Shafia returned to the infirmary. She touched Arenor's arm to get his attention.

  "Her mental state is extremely unstable right now," she told him with gestures. "As you've already seen, she's not responding to anything right now, and basically feels nothing on a mental or emotional level. Her brain has experienced severe stress, causing it to fall into a kind of vegetative state and—"

  "Kind of? So she's not actually in one?" Arenor asked, his voice filled with hope.

  "No," Shafia said. "Since I haven't found any recent physical damage to her head, and according to you, she was more than emotional just a short time ago, I'm inclined to believe that her brain is not in a vegetative state, but only in a kind of semblance of one, the cause of which most likely lies in the exhaustion of her psyche."

  "And..." he glanced anxiously at Airena, "...how long will she remain in this state?"

  Shafia shook her head, as if to say, "I don't know."

  But then she added:

  "Since she feels nothing and cannot think clearly in this state, there is a high probability that she may commit dangerous acts and do risky things that will harm not only herself but also those around her. So, I recommend that you be extremely careful with her, otherwise..."

  Shafia fell silent, leaving her sentence unfinished — but that wasn't necessary. Arenor understood perfectly well: it was a hint that he should be wary of her, or even return her to the prison and lock her up there until she came to her senses.

  But he couldn't.

  And he didn't want to.

  Arenor understood that if he did so, she would only get worse, and most likely, she would never come to her senses at all.

  Arenor simply could not allow that to happen. Not now that he knew she was alive after all.

  "Airena?" he approached her gently and crouched down in front of her as if she were a child. "How do you like the dress I prepared for you?"

  Watching for her reaction—or rather, her lack thereof—he slowly reached out and ran his finger over the fabric of her new dress, which was long, silky, and bright gold — the same color as her eyes and the tears that had filled them when they last met.

  But Airena again showed no reaction.

  And Arenor's heart was pierced with pain once more.

  "All right," he exhaled, standing up.

  'If you don't want to talk, you don't have to,' he thought to himself. 'Your presence is enough for me. I'll do the rest myself.'

  He gently took her hand, expecting and even hoping that she would pull it away, yell at him, hit him... but she didn't. And if before, the Prince would have been glad about this—after all, she was no longer pushing him away—now it only caused him even more pain.

  "Come, dear Airena—may I call you dear?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, which he knew he would not hear anyway, he continued with a heavy heart, "I will give you a tour. A tour of the Pharaoh's palace with the Prince himself as your guide. Isn't that cool?"

  But, like all his previous questions, this one also went unanswered.