CHAPTER THREE
That day, from the very morning, Siriporn felt out of sorts. A lingering sense of dread and anxiety washed over him—the kind you feel when you suddenly wake up in the middle of the night from a vivid nightmare and, for the first few seconds, haven't quite shaken off the dream. Athit noticed his restlessness and, during breakfast, asked if something bad had happened, affectionately taking his hand. But everything was relatively fine: the day promised to be ordinary, and the people were living peacefully. His Majesty decided it was due to recent news from the border. However, Arichayan was ready to stand its ground and emerge victorious at any moment should tensions with the neighboring state of Taisorai escalate, so there was nothing to worry about. The best way to get rid of this clingy, unpleasant feeling was to busy himself with work. They had agreed to meet in the garden that evening, and Siriporn hoped his anxiety would dissipate by then.
The King spent almost the entire day in meetings. He sorted through state papers, discussed new draft laws with his advisors, and received petitioners he had decided not to put off until tomorrow. However, he later regretted it, for the meetings dragged on, and when he finally looked at the clock, he realized it was already getting dark. He quickly headed to the garden, not wanting to keep Athit waiting.
The gazebo where they usually met was empty.
Siriporn stopped and looked around. No one. Only the wind slightly rustled the leaves, and birds cried out somewhere in the distance.
It is getting dark, he thought. Athit must have returned to the palace.
He walked back quickly, almost running, even though his inner voice told him not to succumb to panic. Athit's room was empty, as was the library. The King found no one in his own chambers either. He questioned the servants; they replied that they had seen Master Athit in the garden while it was still light, but no one knew where he went afterward.
Siriporn ran back to the garden. His heart was pounding so hard it felt ready to burst from his chest, his temples throbbing. He checked the gazebos one by one—not a soul anywhere. Then he delved deeper into the part of the garden that stretched down to the lake.
He did not call out Athit's name. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was afraid. To call out would mean admitting to himself that Athit was missing, that something was wrong. And as long as he remained silent, there was at least a faint hope that everything would be alright.
In the distance, he noticed movement. A figure hunched over someone lying on the ground. Siriporn rushed there, disregarding the path, his arms scratched by branches.
What he saw would be forever etched into his memory.
On the grass, leaning his back against the rough trunk of an old oak tree, lay Athit. His eyes were closed, his face pale and serene, as if he were sleeping. His white shirt was rapidly soaking with blood that oozed from two wounds: one in his chest, from which a silver blade protruded, and another in his abdomen, which the youth was clutching with his left hand, trying in vain to stem the bleeding.
Kneeling over him was Darika.
"No, no, no," she muttered, oblivious to the approaching footsteps. "I need to run for..."
She abruptly stood up, turned around—and came face to face with the King. Her eyes widened in terror.
"Your Majesty..." she breathed. "He... I didn't..."
She was trembling all over, her words tangled, but Siriporn was no longer listening. He fell to his knees beside Athit, gently lifted his head, and pulled him close. The youth's face was still warm, but his breath was faint, almost imperceptible. The King checked his pulse several times: it was there, but barely—like a thread on the verge of snapping.
"No," Siriporn whispered, holding his beloved even tighter. "No. It cannot end like this."
Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he heard voices—Darika explaining something to the guards who had hurried over, someone shouting, giving orders. But all of this was distant and unimportant. The only thing that mattered was the one currently lying in his arms.
"Please, open your eyes," the King whispered, stroking the pale cheek, kissing the cold forehead. "I beg of you."
Never before had he allowed himself such intimacy in front of others. But right now, he didn't care. Nothing mattered except one thing—for Athit to wake up.
"Gods," Siriporn's voice broke into a whisper. "Everyone who can hear me. Please, do not take him from me. I beg you."
The healer who arrived spent a long time tending to the wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. But it was all in vain.
Siriporn held Athit until the very end. And when the healer quietly said, "Your Majesty, there is nothing more I can do," the King did not utter a sound. He only pressed the lifeless body closer to him and froze, staring ahead with unseeing eyes.
That night, his heart broke.
Instead of an engagement announcement on the day of the Summer Solstice, a funeral was held in the castle.
Lady Darika was immediately taken into custody. The evidence was against her: she had been found at the scene of the crime, and there was a weighty motive—a rejected and disgraced former fiancée. She denied everything, swearing that she did not kill him, that she had found Athit already wounded, that she had tried to help, but it was too late.
The representatives of the Niran family, upon learning of what happened, hastened to disown the girl. They feared that suspicion would fall on them as well. Darika was left without protection or hope for justice.
Meanwhile, while the King was in deepest mourning, the neighboring state of Taisorai decided to seize the moment. War was declared. And Siriporn, not yet recovered from his loss, put on his armor the very next day, mounted his horse, and led the army to meet the enemy.
Those who fought beside him later said that the King had changed beyond recognition. He had become grim, silent, and ruthless. He spared neither his enemies nor himself. It was said he was fighting not only the army of Taisorai but also the pain that had settled in his heart, giving him no peace day or night.
Taisorai fell. After it—another kingdom, then another. In a short time, Arichayan turned into a great power the likes of which its inhabitants had not dared even dream. But this victory was bought at a terrible price: every day, Siriporn left a part of himself on the battlefields, returning more and more hollowed out.
The campaign dragged on for many months. When the army finally returned to the capital, the King looked as if he had aged ten years. And shortly after his return, he suddenly fell ill.
Once robust, healthy, seemingly created by fate itself to rule, he found himself confined to his bed. His strength abandoned him with each passing day, and the healers merely threw up their hands, unable to determine the cause of the ailment. Some spoke of old wounds, others of fatal exhaustion, and still others of a broken heart that couldn't withstand the separation.
It was decided to keep the King's condition a secret so as not to alarm the populace. Advisor Norawit was appointed temporary regent, taking upon himself both the management of state affairs and the oversight of the investigation into Athit Kasem's murder.
Siriporn did not last long. He faded quickly, never learning who had truly killed his beloved. The people mourned His Majesty for seven days. The entire kingdom was in shock: the ruler who had expanded the borders and brought glory to Arichayan was gone, leaving no heir.
Power passed to the regent. Following this, Norawit declared Darika Niran guilty of murder, deposed the Niran family, and proclaimed himself sole ruler.
And this chain of tragic events, beginning with a single death, led a once-prosperous state to its rapid decline.