“Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail."

  — John Donne, "To Sir Henry Wotton"

  The palace infirmary was in semi-darkness; however, this was not only the case now, but always. There was not a single window in this room, as bright sunlight could significantly damage the medicines stored there, and although there were oil lamps, they were very few in number and gave off only a dim light so as not to disturb the patients lying there.

  Although it was almost impossible to see anything in the infirmary, especially for eyes unprepared for the darkness, many muffled sounds could be heard: the clinking of glass jars against a stone table, the crunching of dried and fresh herbs, and the sound of water pouring and various oils dripping.

  But the strongest sensation was the smell: it was an almost suffocatingly pungent smell of herbs.

  Of course, at first glance, it might seem impossible: herbs smell quite delicate, with the exception of a few, such as mint or thyme. However, any mild-smelling variety of herb became the exact opposite when present in large quantities, mixed with the smells of other herbs, and circulated in a fairly enclosed space.

  It was this smell that was the first thing Ife noticed when she woke up for the second time in the infirmary.

  "What... what's that smell?" she asked sleepily. "And where am I?"

  But when she opened her eyes and saw almost nothing but a dim, muted light and a dark, miniature silhouette, she immediately found the answers to all these questions.

  Or rather, she remembered them from her previous stay in the infirmary.

  In addition, she also remembered stabbing herself in the stomach with a dagger, hoping to die and finally end her suffering.

  But here she was again. Alive. But only physically.

  Contrary to this, it did not feel to her as if she had been saved from death, given another chance at life; not at all. To her, it felt as if she were a fish, the World of the Dead were a river, and the World of the Living were land; as if she had been pulled from the place where she truly belonged, to a place where her existence not only made no sense, but caused her to suffer agonizingly, slowly dying, until one day she would return to where she belonged: the World of the Dead.

  When, after a few minutes, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Ife glanced at the palace Healer: she must have been very skilled in her work as a Healer, since she had been able to literally heal Ife after the deep wound in her stomach that she had inflicted on herself.

  This made Ife wonder: was she skilled enough to heal her brother Irai's wound when he was slashed with a dagger right across his carotid artery? Perhaps, if by some strange stroke of luck she had been nearby at the time, then...

  Another knock of a glass jar on the table, sharp and loud compared to all the previous ones, pulled Ife out of the abyss of thoughts that were consuming her like quicksand.

  She looked at the Healer, who was holding out two small clay bowls filled to the brim with something whose honey-like smell, viscous consistency, and, most importantly, golden-transparent appearance reminded Ife very much of a healing ointment.

  She silently took both bowls in her hands, knowing full well that they were meant especially for her, and placed them on a small stone table standing next to the bed on which she was lying. Then, the Healer handed her a small glass jar that gave off a sharply refreshing scent of mint and made a gesture with it as if she were drinking something.

  "Drink... mint?" Ife asked in confusion, to which the palace Healer only nodded silently.

  Until then, Ife not only didn't know, she couldn't even imagine or suspect that mint could be used as something you could simply drink; yes, she had seen many tinctures that contained mint and that also had to be drunk, but she had never seen pure mint being drunk - not as a medicine, but as a drink.

  Even her brother, Irai, didn't know about this, despite the fact that, as she herself remembered, and as he himself had told her, his parents were incredibly knowledgeable about herbs, oils, and other such things used in the manufacture of medicines. Or maybe he just didn't have time—

  The Palace Healer threw aside the thin blanket that had been covering Ife all this time, exposing her naked body to the cold night air. Ife had already opened her mouth to express her dissatisfaction with this, but the Healer gestured for her to stop, then threw her dress at her and pointed to the door, clearly hinting that it was time for her to leave.

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  Contrary to her desire to object and argue, Ife did not do so; although still somewhat sluggish, she was already much faster than the previous time, put on her dress, took all the necessary medicines, and went out into the corridor.

  Near the door, she found a man who was clearly waiting for her. Glancing quickly at his face, she immediately remembered him: he was one of those who had behaved rudely towards her during her stay in the palace prison, as well as one of the Prince's personal guards who had tried to kill her when she attacked Arenor.

  Without saying a word to him, she silently walked to the place she remembered as her new bedroom. Upon entering, she almost immediately noticed the changes since her last stay here: obviously, the ill-fated lotus-shaped dagger had been removed, as well as the shards of the vase in which it had stood; in addition to the broken vase, the others that were intact had also been removed—apparently, the Prince was smart enough to realize that she could break them and use the sharpest pieces as blades to try to kill herself again.

  But then Ife glanced at the two clay bowls and one glass jar in her hands; apparently, the Prince was still foolish enough not to realize that she could also break the medicine containers and use their sharp pieces as blades.

  She had barely managed to smile triumphantly when the guard, as if reading her mind, took the medicine from her hands with a neat and quick movement.

  "Why?" she asked, trying to make her face look as puzzled as possible.

  The guard did not answer; but he did not need to. His gaze spoke much more eloquently than he ever could; he understood perfectly well what Ife was up to, just from the look in her eyes. He could read her like a book, and she didn't know why.

  Or rather, she didn't want to know.

  But he didn't want to tell her either.

  In any case, she didn't argue; not because she understood how pointless it was, but because she simply didn't have the strength, the desire, or the mood for it.

  In the past, Ife would have resisted such a thing: how dare they restrict her freedom and cage her like a bird, even if it was a golden cage? But now... what difference did it make? What difference did it make whether you were in a cage or free if you were completely alone?

  Ife realized too late that freedom, even the most absolute freedom, was completely meaningless without a loved one by her side.

  She thought again of Irai, the only person with whom not only freedom had meaning, but everything else too—even the worst things, and even the things that truly had no meaning at all.

  Ife wondered; perhaps, in fact, meaning did not lie in the things around her, but in the people around her.

  After all, it was with Irai's arrival that her life had become meaningful, and it was with his disappearance that her life had lost its meaning.

  She remembered how, before, every single second, every minute, every hour, every action and inaction, every emotion—both good and bad—had meaning.

  And she also saw how meaningless her life was now: every breath, every movement, every tear, every smile—all of it was devoid of any meaning.

  And Ife understood perfectly well: now it would always be this way, and it would never change.

  Without bothering to take off her dress or cover herself with a blanket, she lay down wearily on the bed, turning her face to the wall.

  She hoped that the guard would understand her silent hint and leave her alone.

  And he did.

  Ife absentmindedly ran her finger along the uneven wall where, according to the Prince, gods had once been depicted, and it reminded her of herself: Irai had given her hope, just as the gods gave hope to people; he taught her not only to live but also to enjoy life; but then all of that had been mercilessly scraped away, and now she, once full of life, was covered with bumps and barely noticeable traces of a past that could never be recovered.

  ***

  The following days passed in a very similar, if not identical, manner.

  Ife hardly ever left her room, except when she needed to use the bathroom. She obviously slept in her bedroom, ate there too, washed there, and did not go for walks.

  She did nothing at all except satisfy her basic needs.

  But she did not care at all; what was the point of going for walks, washing, eating together, or anything else now that she was completely alone and utterly useless?

  Of course, before she met Irai and his parents, she didn't care about this question at all, because back then, being constantly surrounded by misfortune, she simply didn't know that things could be different; besides, she was just a little kid who obviously didn't want to die. But now that she knew what life could be like: full of love and care, and most importantly, happiness — the happiness that comes from not being alone — she saw no point in anywhere that didn't have a person who made her feel all of that.

  She saw no point in the World of the Living.

  ***

  Despite her condition, Ife was still conscious enough to notice the constant appearance of various foods and drinks in her room, as well as clothes, hats, and all kinds of jewelry. In addition, she noticed the disappearance of trash without a trace: dirty plates and glasses, as well as splattered drops of wine and grease, and even such disgusting things as her own vomit.

  She preferred to think that all this was done by the guard assigned to her, whose name she did not even know. She did not even want to think about the fact that it could actually be Prince Arenor; even when, late at night, half asleep, Ife saw the outline of his figure in her bedroom, felt her bed sag under his weight as he sat down beside her, and heard his quiet voice whispering something soothing to her.

  She preferred to think that it was just a very realistic dream, even if it was too real to be one.

  Ife both did not want to and could not believe that Arenor himself, the Crown Prince of Apharia, who for many in this kingdom was nothing more than a dream that would never come true, would do such things to her—someone who was not just a nobody, but a ruthless killer who had taken the lives of many without regret in the Night Bazaar, once filled with the quiet conversations of adults and the loud laughter of children.

  But one night, Ife had no choice but to believe it.

  ARC ONE FINALE — THANK YOU!!

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