Page 3 of The Curse Between Us
The events of the past few hours felt like they were happening in a dream—too unreal to be true, too absurd to fully comprehend. Zephyr was left grappling with the weight of everything that had occurred: the battle, the sudden and unanticipated arrival of the Rafrian forces with King Caldwell leading them, Hadden’s untimely death that had stolen away any opportunity for Zephyr to say a proper goodbye, and now, as though the universe was mocking him, a betrothal. To Edric, the heir apparent to the Rafrian throne. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, an unanticipated change in the course of his life.
“You look rather overwhelmed,” Edric said, his voice pitched low, cutting through the haze of Zephyr’s scattered thoughts. Herbert and Alec were locked in a heated discussion on the other side of the room. Their voices buzzed in the background, speaking of public ceremonies versus private ones, of strategies to ensure the legitimacy of the betrothal in the eyes of their people. “It is a lot to adjust to, isn’t it?”
Zephyr didn’t answer immediately. He simply nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of Edric’s words. It was all too much. But what caught him off guard was the unexpected kindness in Edric’s voice. Amidst the chaos, amidst the rapid whirlwind of events that had turned his world upside down, Edric’s simple observation made Zephyr feel less alone in his turmoil. It was the most humane thing anyone had said to him all day, and in that moment, it offered him a small tether to reality. He gave a small, rueful smile, an attempt at humor despite the gravity of the situation. “I’m feeling rather light-headed,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Edric made a soft noise of disapproval, as if scolding himself. It sounded more like an apology than anything else. “Forgive me,” he said, his tone filled with an unusual earnestness. “You are our honored guest now, not our prisoner.” He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he crossed the room with quick, purposeful strides. He pulled open the door with an almost frantic urgency, exchanging a few quiet words with someone outside. A moment later, he turned back toward Zephyr, his gaze full of something akin to concern. “Is there anything else you require?” Edric asked. “I don’t even—were you wounded in the battle?”
Zephyr shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “A minor injury to my leg, but it seems to have been treated while I was unconscious.” It stung, that small wound, every time he moved too quickly. But he refused to let it show. It wasn’t just pride that kept him from acknowledging the pain—it was the stark reminder that this wound had come from a Rafrian sword. There would be those within these walls, perhaps even among Edric’s own people, who would take satisfaction in seeing him suffer. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing him falter, not even in the smallest way.
Herbert looked up sharply, his gaze cutting across the room with a look that could slice through steel. “We made sure to keep him in one piece,” he remarked, his voice thick with the weight of unspoken meaning.
Zephyr couldn’t decide whether the implication behind Herbert’s words was more insulting or more pragmatic. Was he treated well because he was needed in the game they were playing, or because there was some measure of genuine care? He had no illusions about being a pawn in the larger scheme of things. They all had their roles to play. And, to be fair, the Rafrians had treated him more humanely than he could have expected given the circumstances. Yet there was no denying that he was still a piece on a board, moved at the whims of others. Judging by the way Edric’s lips tightened, he clearly didn’t approve of Herbert’s bluntness. Whether Edric’s irritation was for Zephyr’s sake or his own, Zephyr couldn’t tell.
Herbert, seemingly undeterred by the tension in the room, shifted his attention back to Zephyr with unnerving focus. “Do you have a regent in mind?” he asked, his voice cool but probing, like a surgeon making an incision into a delicate subject.
Zephyr hesitated. The decision weighed on him heavily. Eskarven had many cousins, all of whom had varying degrees of claim to the throne. But trust was another matter entirely. Few of them had his loyalty, and fewer still had the capability to rule in a way that would ensure the stability of the kingdom. He liked Pierce, his cousin, better than most. Pierce was older, well-liked by the people, and much more intelligent than he allowed others to believe. But he was too young, too inexperienced to truly lead. At least, not yet.
“There is one cousin I might grant the title and responsibilities,” Zephyr said slowly, carefully weighing his words. “Pierce is the son of my father’s sister, a few years older than me, and well-liked by the people. He’s far more intelligent than he pretends to be, but I wouldn’t fear him usurping the throne in my absence. He would enjoy the pomp and ceremony of being my regent, but I believe he would tire of the responsibilities eventually. Hopefully just in time for me to return home and reclaim my kingship.”
Herbert nodded thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he considered the information. “Yes, I know of Lord Pierce. Excellent choice, for all the reasons you listed. And from my reports, he’s long been a supporter of peace between our kingdoms, even if he does often couch it in terms of protesting the lack of time for parties and pageantry.” He gave a slight, dry chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
The mention of reports made Zephyr’s skin crawl. The idea that Herbert had been watching them for so long, tracking their moves and strategies, was unsettling. It felt like an invasion of privacy, an intrusion into the lives of people who had never had the opportunity to gather intelligence in the same way. He wondered what else Herbert and his spies had observed, what secrets they had gathered over the years. What had they seen that he didn’t know? The thought left him feeling vulnerable, exposed. He shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the room, and caught Edric glancing at him with a look of silent concern. As though sensing his discomfort, Edric made a motion as though to reach out to him but stopped abruptly, his frown deepening.
Zephyr raised an eyebrow at Edric, silently warning him with a glance. He nodded towards Alec and Herbert, who were once again embroiled in their discussion. Edric understood immediately, his eyes shadowed with an unspoken acknowledgment.
Before they could exchange further words, there was a soft knock at the door, and an attendant entered, placing a bronze tray brimming with fruit and cheese on the desk between them. She gave a brief, respectful curtsey, her eyes flicking over Zephyr with quiet curiosity before she departed with equal silence.
Alec, still visibly flustered by the heated debate, frowned at the unexpected delivery. “Did you send for this?” he asked, his tone clipped, clearly irritated at the interruption. “Edric, you can’t just bring attendants in here. If she saw Prince Zephyr, if she recognized him—”
Edric waved a dismissive hand, brushing off Alec’s concerns. “He’s dressed like one of us,” he said, his voice casual, though there was an edge to his words. “She was barely here for a moment. I highly doubt she would recognize him. Besides,” he added, turning toward Zephyr with an unreadable look, “I think we ought to show my betrothed a little more courtesy, don’t you?”
Alec’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowed in quiet frustration, but he relented with a sigh. “You’re right,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I apologize, Prince Zephyr.”
Edric smiled faintly and poured a glass of water, handing it to Zephyr with careful deliberation. Zephyr reached for the glass, careful to not let his fingers touch Edric’s. Edric studied him closely, offering a tentative smile as Zephyr drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing the headache that had taken residence in his skull.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room after that, punctuated only by the occasional sound of eating or drinking. For all the words of courtesy, it was clear that none of them were truly comfortable around Zephyr. He couldn’t fault them for it. After all, this was no polite diplomatic mission or carefully arranged reception. This was the aftermath of a war. This was the reality of two kingdoms that had just moments ago been engaged in battle, their forces locked in a violent struggle for supremacy.
And as though to drive home the starkness of it all, the king lay dying just down the hall, the weight of the crown about to fall on Edric’s shoulders. Everything had changed, and none of them could even begin to understand how they would navigate the future. The only certainty was that peace now required sacrifices. And that was a burden none of them would escape.
Zephyr swallowed down the bitterness that threatened to overtake him, the sharp, unrelenting pang of grief and frustration gnawing at his chest. The weight of the loss, of his brother’s death, felt as if it had been compounded by the silence surrounding it. He wondered, with a painful clarity, what had become of Hadden’s body. Had it been returned to Eskarven, to be entombed with the other kings and queens in the sacred chambers beneath the temple? Was there some place in the world where Hadden’s memory was being honored, or had it already been lost to the sands of time, forgotten in the wake of the war? He set his glass down on the desk with a sharp thud, the sound echoing in the tense room. The force of the motion made the others pause, their gazes snapping toward him.
"What happened to Hadden?" Zephyr asked, his voice hoarse with the weight of the question. He swallowed roughly, the words coming out with more force than he intended. "To his body. And to his sword."
Herbert and Alec exchanged a brief, cautious glance, their eyes narrowing in unspoken deliberation. Edric’s expression, too, darkened, though he quickly masked it. After a moment of heavy silence, Alec spoke, his voice quieter than usual, as if weighing the impact of his words carefully. “We did not touch it,” he said, his eyes not quite meeting Zephyr’s. “Either of them. We were preoccupied with our own king, and with you.”
Zephyr felt his throat tighten at the mention of Hadden’s sword. It wasn’t just an object; it was a symbol of their bond, their shared history, the battles they had fought together. He nodded sharply, pushing the pain aside. So, it was likely that the Eskarven forces had taken Hadden’s body with them when they retreated from the battlefield. They would have made their way back to Eskarven, honoring their fallen, though Zephyr had not been there to help guide the procession, not to offer his own farewell. He had been left behind, stranded in this foreign land, unsure of what the future held.
“I would like to visit your temple, if permitted,” he said, his voice more measured now, though it carried an undercurrent of resolve. “To offer prayers on my brother’s behalf.”
Herbert and Alec exchanged another glance, but this time Zephyr felt no hope in their silent communication. It was as if they were measuring him, assessing the true depth of his intentions. He could almost hear their thoughts: Was he simply trying to buy some fleeting moment of solace, or was this part of a deeper plan? He was quickly becoming weary of the way they silently communicated, their looks and gestures speaking volumes that were not intended for him.
“That could be arranged,” Herbert said after a long pause. “Provided you are properly guarded. For your own protection, of course.”
Zephyr’s lips curled into a tight, humorless smile. “Of course,” he replied, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. It was clear they didn’t trust him fully. His position as a prisoner, or rather, a "guest," in their castle had not been forgotten. They assumed he might flee at the first opportunity, but they didn’t know him. They couldn’t know him. Zephyr had already made his commitment to the alliance. He would honor his word, even if it meant he would spend the rest of his days in this strange, suffocating land, tethered to a marriage he had not chosen.
“We’ll need to find suitable quarters for you as well,” Herbert continued, a faint note of uncertainty creeping into his voice as he looked over Zephyr. “More fitting to your station than your current accommodations, but out of sight of most of the court, at least for now.”
Zephyr arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a sardonic smile. “And in some interior corridor where there’s little chance of my wandering outside the castle walls, I assume?” His tone was light, but his words cut through the air like a blade. He watched Herbert flinch, just slightly, the faintest tremor of discomfort passing over his otherwise stoic expression. It was the first crack in Herbert’s carefully maintained composure, and Zephyr found a small satisfaction in it.
Edric, who had been quietly observing the exchange, snorted with quiet amusement. “I see you won’t be cowed or intimidated, Prince Zephyr,” he said, the flicker of mirth in his eyes betraying his enjoyment of the moment. “And I’m glad of it.” He turned to Herbert with a sharp shake of his head, as if reprimanding him silently for the heavy-handed approach. “Enough, Herbert. I know it’s your job to be suspicious, but you chose the prince for this role for a reason.” His gaze turned back to Zephyr, and for a brief moment, the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, a flicker of understanding that Zephyr hadn’t expected. “If we cannot trust his commitment to the alliance, there’s no sense continuing with your plan.”
Herbert sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though praying for patience, before he nodded in reluctant agreement. “You’re right, of course.” He offered Zephyr a lopsided smile, one that was as close to an apology as Zephyr was likely to get. “It’s difficult to let my wariness slip, but I will try harder.”
Before Zephyr could respond, a sharp knock at the door cut through the tension. The air in the room shifted as Edric’s face hardened with a mix of anxiety and urgency. He leapt to his feet immediately, casting a fleeting, anguished glance at Alec, who also stood quickly. Edric threw open the door without hesitation, barely sparing a look at Zephyr or the others before he disappeared into the hallway.
The guard who had entered, the same red-haired woman Zephyr remembered from his earlier encounters, stood there, her expression tight with barely-contained distress. She didn’t even have the chance to speak before Edric was out the door, and Zephyr couldn’t help but wonder what new crisis had unfolded to send him racing so suddenly.
“So,” Herbert said, breaking the heavy silence with his cold, businesslike tone. “The king—”
The guard, Eileen, if Zephyr remembered correctly, shook her head, her lips pressed tight as she looked at them all. “Not yet,” she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. “But he’s getting worse. He cannot last much longer. I thought Edric”—she paused, glancing at Alec—“and you, of course, would want to—”
“You thought correctly,” Alec interrupted, his voice sharp with quiet determination. He reached out and placed a large hand on her trembling shoulder, his presence offering a comfort that she desperately needed. His gaze met hers, and there was something heavy in it, something that Zephyr couldn’t fully decipher. But his next words were clear and unambiguous. “I’ll join him shortly. Herbert, keep working on that letter to the Eskarven court. We’ll have Zephyr look it over and sign it later.” His sharp hazel eyes turned to Zephyr then, a faint challenge flickering in their depths. “I’ll escort him to a suitable room and arrange for his visit to the temple.”
Eileen saluted with trembling hands, her salute stiff and formal despite the visible quiver in her body. She didn’t wait for any further words, turning quickly on her heel and clattering off after Edric, disappearing down the hallway in pursuit of her commanding officer.
Herbert, ever the professional, was already engrossed in his documents once again, scribbling something on a piece of parchment only to scratch it out moments later. Zephyr sighed, feeling the weight of the room press in on him.
He rose to his feet, the dizziness from earlier still threatening to take hold, but he forced it back, brushing off the sensation as best as he could. Alec, for his part, did not seem to notice, gesturing for Zephyr to follow him in the opposite direction of where Edric and Eileen had gone.
They walked in silence, the footsteps of both men the only sound that filled the long corridors of the castle. Alec didn’t speak until they stopped in front of a plain wooden door set in a secluded corner of the castle. Zephyr, unfamiliar with the layout, knew immediately that it was along an exterior wall. He smiled inwardly, knowing Edric had probably been responsible for ensuring his quarters were as distant as possible from prying eyes.
Alec pushed open the door and waved Zephyr inside. “We’ll move you again once the marriage is official,” he said, though there was little warmth in his voice. “But for now, I hope you find these quarters suitable.”
The room wasn’t overly grand, but it was more than adequate. A large, comfortable bed sat nestled in a quiet alcove, and a chair and desk were placed before a large window that let in the bright, natural sunlight. Zephyr nodded his approval, though the gesture was tempered with a faint sense of resignation. “Yes, this will do nicely.”
“I’ll send someone to escort you to the temple soon,” Alec promised, his tone more businesslike now. “But for now, I must stress the importance of remaining unseen.”
Zephyr could feel the urge to roll his eyes at Alec’s insistence, though he held it back. By now, one might think Alec would have given him some credit for his intelligence. Instead, he said with a soft but biting edge, “Yes, I understand. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your grand plan.”
Alec flinched visibly, as though stung by the remark. “It’s easy enough for you to be flippant,” he said tightly, his voice carrying a weight of unspoken tension. “You’ve been offered an escape from likely death and the opportunity to keep your crown.”
At that, Zephyr gave a bitter laugh, the sound raw and tinged with self-recrimination. “And what is this costing you, Prince Alec?” he asked, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “As far as I can see, the only one making any sacrifices on your country’s behalf is your brother.” He could feel the words landing with force, a calculated jab meant to provoke, to force Alec to confront the weight of his decisions. Alec flinched, just slightly, but it was enough to make Zephyr's mouth curl in a wry, bitter smile. “Tell me,” he continued, his voice lowering as he leaned forward slightly, “how long have you been planning this? You do realize that if Edric and I do, in fact, marry, he will never be able to find happiness with anyone else? We will be committed to one another for the sake of the alliance for the rest of our lives. Did you think about that at all, you and Herbert? What it would cost Edric?”
Alec’s expression tightened, and his cool, collected demeanor slipped just enough for Zephyr to see the deep unease that had been gnawing at him, just beneath the surface. The air between them thickened as Alec made a sharp movement—Zephyr braced himself instinctively, but the blow he expected never came. Instead, Alec's voice, tight with a barely controlled fury, broke the silence. “Of course I did,” Alec hissed. “I lay awake night after night, wondering if this was the right thing to do. If I could possibly ask this of Edric.” He shook his head sharply, his hair falling forward into his eyes. The flicker of helplessness in his expression was fleeting but palpable, his shoulders slumping with the weight of an emotional burden Zephyr hadn’t fully appreciated. “But...” Alec’s voice faltered slightly, as if searching for the right words. “It was always some vague future possibility. We knew there was no chance of a treaty while my father still lived, and even now I can barely imagine a world without him in it.” He let out a sharp breath, his gaze turning inward as he continued. “We hoped, we dreamed for an end to the war, and we made a plan to bring it about. But somehow, we never expected it to become an issue so soon.”
Zephyr watched him, struck by the vulnerability in his tone. Alec was, after all, just a man—one who carried the heavy burden of command on his shoulders, too young to bear the weight of a kingdom yet doing so nonetheless. He let out a slow breath as he seemed to unravel for just a moment, his eyes far away. Zephyr could almost see the endless hours of doubt and struggle that must have been clawing at him in the darkness of his own mind. Alec was not the cold, calculating prince that he had initially assumed. He was something else—someone who had to reconcile the moral cost of the decisions he made, someone who had to consider the consequences of actions that would alter the course of his kingdom forever.
“I hate that we had to ask Edric to give up his promise to Marsh, or any possible future with anyone else,” Alec confessed, his voice rough with regret. “I hate that we couldn’t speak of it without being accused of seeking to supplant my father.” His hands spread before Zephyr in a gesture of helplessness, as if offering his entire soul laid bare in that brief movement. “But if it means an end to this blasted war, I would do it all again. Without hesitation.”
Zephyr heard the weight of the words, felt the bitter edge of his own doubts start to soften. Alec’s willingness to sacrifice his brother’s future, to sacrifice his own peace of mind, revealed a level of commitment that Zephyr hadn’t expected. And yet, it wasn’t just sacrifice for sacrifice’s sake—it was a sacrifice made with the understanding that the consequences would be long-lasting, irreversible. There was a part of Zephyr that admired that. Even if it didn’t ease the sting of his own situation, it was difficult not to acknowledge the strength in Alec’s resolve. He dipped his head slightly, a silent gesture of respect, and said only, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Alec managed a small, rueful smile at that, the ghost of his earlier tension fading for just a moment. “As do I,” he replied, the words carrying a layer of weary self-awareness. He let out a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his face as he looked at Zephyr with a quiet seriousness that made Zephyr feel, for the first time, like they might actually be on the same side. “When you go to the temple, pray for us all.”
“I will,” Zephyr said softly. His voice carried a quiet solemnity, a promise given not just for Alec’s sake but for Edric’s as well. He stood in the doorway and watched Alec stride away, his long legs eating up the distance as he moved quickly, purposefully, toward his brother’s side. To watch their father die.
Zephyr sighed, the weight of the moment hanging heavily in the air. He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a moment to survey his surroundings. He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the modest yet comfortable space that had been prepared for him. Perhaps, in retrospect, an interior room would have been better after all. The sunlight pouring through the window was too bright, too harsh on his eyes, but there were curtains that he could draw to block out the worst of the heat. He moved toward the pitcher of water on the bedside stand and poured himself a glass, sipping it slowly as he took a mental inventory of his situation.
Compared to the cold, dark cell where he had awoken, this room was luxurious. The furnishings were well-crafted, the bedspread rich and clean, everything pristine and arranged with a meticulousness that suggested a long-anticipated arrival. Zephyr couldn’t help but wonder again how long Alec and Herbert had been preparing for this day, for this moment in time when all the pieces would fall into place. Had they imagined it this way from the beginning? Hoping, against all reason, that the fragile peace between their kingdoms could be achieved? That he and Edric would both survive the war, that they would agree to trade their personal freedoms for the good of both kingdoms? The audacity of such a plan, the sheer boldness of it, almost struck him as absurd—but it was exactly the kind of gamble Alec would take. Even now, despite his lingering resentment, Zephyr found himself marveling at the scope of it.
A knock at the door broke his reverie, and he moved swiftly to answer it, expecting some form of summons or instruction. When he opened it, a grim-faced guard stood on the other side, his expression tight with professionalism—or perhaps something more.
“My name is Victor,” the guard said curtly, his tone neutral but his gaze appraising. “I’m here to escort you to the temple.”
Victor’s lack of enthusiasm was almost palpable, and Zephyr could hardly blame him. Watching over the captured prince of Eskarven could hardly be considered a desirable assignment. He did not rebuke the man for his apparent rudeness, instead offering a brief nod as he set his cup aside. “I am ready when you are,” Zephyr said quietly.
Something like respect flickered in Victor’s eyes—brief, but enough to change the tenor of their interaction. He allowed Zephyr to fall into step beside him, instead of keeping the expected distance between them. “The temple is outside the castle walls, but not far,” Victor explained as they walked. “I’m taking us on a longer route to avoid being seen.”
Zephyr appreciated the explanation, grateful for the guard’s transparency. “Thank you,” he said. “I understand that my presence here could be...upsetting, to some.”
Victor snorted under his breath, not missing a stride. “To put it mildly,” he muttered. Then, to Zephyr’s surprise, he stopped suddenly and turned to meet his eyes, his expression momentarily softened. “I’ve seen you on the field,” Victor continued, his voice growing quieter but no less sincere. “You’re skilled, competent, strong. But you’re not wasteful. You never take life when you don’t need to.” He shrugged, a casual, almost dismissive gesture. “I don’t know why you’re here, walking around freely, but if the General trusts you, that’s good enough for me.”
It was an odd compliment, especially coming from a soldier who was clearly more accustomed to battle than diplomacy, but Zephyr found himself unexpectedly warmed by it. “Thank you,” he replied, his voice soft but genuine. He didn’t offer an explanation for the way Alec had treated him, or why he was being afforded such considerate treatment. There was no need. Instead, he kept his thoughts to himself as Victor resumed walking, leading him through the winding halls of the castle.
As they finally stepped outside the walls of the castle, the heat was immediate, the sun’s rays beating down on Zephyr with an almost brutal intensity. He gritted his teeth but kept his head held high, resolute, as they continued on. Victor turned onto a smooth path that cut along the valley floor, and ahead of them, Zephyr could see the temple rising against the sky. Its stone walls were a deep, weathered gray, matching the castle, and its towering arches reached toward the heavens, creating a breathtaking silhouette against the bright, unforgiving light of the midday sun. It was a beautiful structure, serene and imposing, but it made Zephyr long fiercely for home—home, where the air was crisp and sharp, where the world was covered in snow and ice, where the sky was endless and the trees stood bare, covered in frost.
There were a few yellow-robed attendants scattered along the stone walls of the temple as they approached, their movements slow and deliberate as they tended to the worn surfaces, scrubbing away dust and smoothing out imperfections. They glanced up at Victor and Zephyr as they drew near, but there was no recognition in their eyes. Of course, Zephyr thought with a slight tightening of his chest, they would have had no occasion to know him. Dressed in Rafrian garb, with the embroidered patterns of his kingdom stark against the sun-bleached stone, he could have been anyone. The anonymity was an odd sensation for Zephyr, one he wasn’t accustomed to. It felt as if he had stepped out of his own life and into a different world altogether. He frowned as Victor, seeming to sense his unease, gestured him through the grand, vaulting archway that led into the sanctuary.
The air inside was cooler, the atmosphere serene, and the silence of the temple contrasted sharply with the chaos he had left behind. In design, if not in materials, the temple before him resembled the one back home. There was the same sense of expansive airiness, the same careful arrangement of sacred space. A large inner sanctum, open and unadorned save for the grand murals, was surrounded by smaller chambers that likely served for solitary prayer and reflection. The central altar stood proudly, its intricate carvings bathed in the light filtering down from the high windows, and directly facing the entrance. A handful of worshippers knelt there, their lips moving in silent prayer, but Zephyr did not feel threatened or out of place by their presence. He had long ago learned the peace that such places could provide, even amid the turmoil of his thoughts.
Victor, as ever, faded unobtrusively into the background, standing guard at a respectful distance, while Zephyr stepped forward to join the silent line of supplicants. The peacefulness of the moment was disorienting, as if the air itself had been suspended in time, untouched by the reality of his situation.
His gaze drifted upward to the enormous mural that dominated the space above the altar. The bright, vibrant colors of the painting seemed almost alive, the hues catching the sunlight in such a way that they glowed with a depth he hadn’t expected. The landscape reflected the conditions of Rafria—dry, sun-drenched hills and endless, golden fields of grain—but Zephyr could still make out the familiar themes. At the center of the mural, a beam of blinding white light radiated outward, its rays stretching to the far corners of the artwork. Beside it, a pool of blackness spread out equally far, as though fighting against the light’s encroachment, and the two forces—light and dark—were locked in a battle for dominance.
Beneath this cosmic struggle, a range of jagged mountains stretched across the canvas, their sharp peaks rising like a natural wall between two great lands. The same mountain range that divided Zephyr’s kingdom of Eskarven from this land of Rafria. The mural was more than just an artistic depiction; it was the story of two nations born out of a primordial war, a battle between the forces of Plenty and Abyss that had shaped the very geography of their world.
Zephyr’s gaze lingered on the imagery, as it brought a flood of history back to him—history he had long studied but never quite internalized. The bitter struggle between Plenty and Abyss was the origin of everything, the very foundation of their kingdoms. For centuries, the two forces had fought, locked in a conflict with no end in sight. Eventually, Plenty, the creative force of life, had triumphed, casting Abyss, the dark and destructive counterpart, deep into the earth. The mountains had been formed by the very upheaval caused by Abyss’s fall, and on either side of those mountains, two human kingdoms had risen—Eskarven on one side, Rafria on the other—blessed by Plenty but separated by the very mountains that defined their borders. Plenty’s gifts had manifested differently in each kingdom. Eskarven, cold and harsh, where winter reigned eternal. Rafria, warm and sun-soaked, where heat thrived in abundance.
Two extremes, separated by mountains, divided by the same force that had shaped them. It was no wonder, Zephyr thought with a tinge of bitterness, that their people had always been at war.
But things were different now. Change was coming, even if it had arrived too late for some. Zephyr bowed his head in prayer, the weight of his thoughts shifting as he recalled the series of events that had led him here. None of this would have been possible if Hadden, his brother, had still been alive. For all his flaws, his stubborn pride, and his frequent tendency to treat Zephyr like a child, Hadden had been his brother, and Zephyr had loved him. He had not expected to lose him so suddenly, so violently. He thought back to the last moments they had shared—the way Hadden had been laughing just before Caldwell’s fatal blow landed. The memory of that small, jeweled dagger pressed against Hadden’s throat lingered, as sharp and real as the pain that had followed it. What had Hadden been thinking in those precious final seconds? Had he even thought of Zephyr? Had he known that the kingdom would be in good hands, or had he worried for its future?
Zephyr shook his head, pushing the painful memories aside. He moved through the words of the traditional blessing for the dead, his voice barely a whisper as he prayed that Hadden’s name would be remembered with love and honor, that his legacy would be one of peace despite the bloodshed he had left in his wake. When he finished, he added another prayer—one for those about to embark on a new stage of their lives. He thought of Edric, of himself, and of the uncertain path ahead.
Marriage. He had never given much thought to it before. He had always assumed it would happen eventually, as all things did, but it had never been a priority. His lovers, when he had them, had always been temporary, passing pleasures that never demanded more of him than he was willing to give. Love had never been a part of the equation. But now, as he stood here, surrounded by the ancient weight of history and religion, he wondered what this marriage would truly mean. It was supposed to be a strategic partnership, a union of two kingdoms. But there was something...different about it. He wondered, too, if he would ever feel what others called love.
And then there was the physical aspect. His thoughts shifted to Edric, and he found himself wondering how their union would manifest, if they could even touch one another. Zephyr looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing slightly as he thought of the strange sensation that had flared through him when Edric had brushed against him. He had heard that the touch of a Rafrian burned, but he had never understood the true depth of it, not until he experienced it for himself. He would have to ask someone—perhaps a priest or priestess—if they knew more about the phenomenon, if there was a way to navigate it.
Before he could go in search of an attendant to inquire, a loud noise echoed through the air, cutting sharply through the tranquility of the temple. The sound was heavy, deep, a strange tolling of a bell unlike any Zephyr had ever heard before. The other worshippers all looked up in alarm, their prayers momentarily interrupted by the deep, resonating sound that seemed to reverberate through the very stones of the temple.
Victor cursed, his voice rising above the clamor of the bells. “What is it?” Zephyr asked, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.
Victor, his face grim, shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, with a swift motion, he reached into the pocket of his scarlet tunic and pulled out a thin strip of black fabric, tying it solemnly around his upper arm. The gesture sent a chill through Zephyr’s bones.
“The king is dead,” Victor said quietly, his voice tinged with a heaviness that carried the weight of generations. “Long live the king.”