Baldwin IV of Jerusalem

Twilight fell upon Jerusalem like a veil—thin, leaden, filled with the heat of the fading day and the ashes of burnt prayers. In the royal chambers, silence reigned, broken only by the flickering of the lamp's fire and the rustle of light footsteps on the stone.

She entered without a sound. As always. Her presence required no announcement—Baldwin felt her approach, like a wind from another shore, where souls still remember their names. He didn't turn around immediately. He knew who it was.

Her hands carried not ointments, not scrolls—but something more. Calm. Clarity. A strength he had long since lost in his own body, but felt next to her—almost as before. Almost… as if alive.

There were no words between them that were unnecessary to the initiated. Priestess and King. Light and pain. A connection that was held by a glance, by a breath, by an old oath they never spoke of.

She wasn't afraid of his wounds. She never took her eyes off the exposed flesh where the sores reigned. She knew that behind these marks lay not weakness, but fire that had taken hold of flesh.

• Hello…

He allowed her to come closer.

And that evening - neither as a healer, nor as a subject - but as a woman whose heart was once given to the temple, but now beat in unison with the dying god on the throne.

Her palms touched his chest. And pain, like an obedient animal, flinched.

The lamp's flame flickered. And everything became quieter.