Page 10

The Prince

T he city is ancient, haunted by memories that cling to crumbling walls like shadows. Death lingers here, ever-present, watching from the darkened windows like hollow eyes.

Yet, in this desolation, there are tiny pockets of life, defying the decay. Bindweed has taken root in the cracks of the masonry, its slender vines reaching upward, blooming with small, white trumpet-shaped flowers. Praise Cymmetra! Nature always finds a way to remind us that there is still beauty in this cruel world. Cicadas and crickets have found a refuge between the leaves and are singing the oldest hymn of the night, a reminder of times when the gloom was a time for peace and rest.

My fingers close around a blossom stem, but an old memory holds me back.

The day I tried to pluck a flower from the royal gardens, driven by the desire to have something beautiful that was mine, Viridis stopped me, his deep green eyes flashing with disapproval. “Leave them for the bees and the tiny creatures whose lives depend on them!” he had said.

There had been another time, a darker memory that still stings. I was just a boy then, full of frustration and anger at the world that seemed to demand so much from me. While tending to the fragrant black roses, I spotted a stubborn weed choking one of the delicate stems. I grabbed the weed and yanked it out of the ground with all the strength I could muster.

“What are you doing, Princeling?” Viridis had appeared out of nowhere, his face a mask of anger that I had never seen before. The sight of it froze me in place; the weed still clutched in my hand. “I thought you came to my gardens because you valued life, not because you loathed it.”

“But it’s just a weed, Viridis.” My voice trembled with confusion and a childish sense of justice. “It was strangling the roses!”

His anger had not abated. “Just a weed? And does that make it unworthy of life? Do we destroy what we do not find beautiful or useful? Is that what you believe?”

I had no answer for him then, only the burning shame of a child caught doing something wrong.

“And yet the Elders condemned them all to die, just like the rest of this world,” I murmured.

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe they have just laid them to rest until better times come and someone worthy finds a way to end this suffering. Like bulbs deep in the soil, maybe the life in the Wastelands waits for the spring. For the war to end.”

“I thought the war had ended,” I responded with a condescending smirk. The old gardener tended to get confused sometimes, the long centuries of his life clouding his mind. He often muddled memories with reality.

“Oh, is it? Then tell me, Princeling, when was the last time you slept without a dagger under your pillow? When was the last time your father didn’t spend the morning signing death sentences to those aiding Seelie refugees?”

I swallowed my remark that he might lose his head over comments like that. Because even that young, I’d realized how right he was.

Yet his words settled in my heart and made their home there, sprouting roots and growing, just like the bulbs he mentioned.

I lower my hand, leaving the tender bindweed blossom.

A firefly lands on a waxy leaf. An omen of Cymmetra, I chuckle.

Time to press on.

Stomping my feet, throwing stones, trying to make as much noise as possible, I head deeper into the city.

Come and find me.

And yet there is no sign of anything living when I reach the tower in the heart of the town. This is a great place to linger—all fools will come this way sooner or later.

The echoes of those who dwelled here are still perceivable in the inky void beyond the torn-out gates. Dusty skeletons litter the floor, some of them covered in rusty armor, others are so heartbreakingly tiny. It seems the townspeople had their last stand here before the doors got breached by whatever ended them. Was it the Hex? Or my ancestors? I rub my collarbone, the Ancestral Mark burning, stinging my flesh, a constant reminder that my bloodline was one of those who started the war and triggered the Hex.

Scavenging through the ruins, I gather pieces of ancient furniture and tattered rags. With a whispered incantation, a fire spell ignites the pile, flames leaping hungrily to consume the remnants of those who once called this place home. Like moths to the flame, my enemies will flock here. Rolling a dusty carpet, I rest my head on it, then pull out the flute from my pocket.

In case they miss the light, the music will bring them here. The melody consumes me, and I feel smug like a spider at the center of its net.

The pale eyes of human kings and nobles, long dead, watch from the peeling portraits on the walls. But then, something unusual stirs—a delicate magic, faint but persistent. The magic feels fragile yet intriguing, like the tender white blossoms outside, holding within it a veiled power. I lower my flute. Elders, this will be far more entertaining than playing for the paintings.

“You may come out, human,” the loud command disturbs the dusty silence.

To my surprise, she steps into the light instead of running. It’s disappointing; I’ve anticipated a chase. The woman’s dark hair is twisted in braids like a flower wreath around her head, and that unusual white strand over her forehead captures my attention. Her irises—clear as a mountain lake but framed with amber—are so uncommon for a human of Satreyah.

By what whim did the Elders grant her this magic? The thought gnaws, and for a moment, there’s a temptation to summon the Shadowblade. But she steps closer, oblivious to the fact that I’ve just decided to let her live a little longer. There’s something in her defiance that amuses me, that rouses something deep within the darkness that has become my constant companion.

I remember the first time we met, how she lured me into a trap to be robbed by street thugs. It was a delightful evening, and the memory of her panic when she saw what I am still brings a twisted pleasure.

“What’s that scar on your shoulder?” The question slips out before I can stop it, making me nearly drop the flute, surprised by my own curiosity.

She shrugs and tucks some strands back into her thick braid. It looks like something she’s doing when she’s nervous. “Got burned as a child. My mother left milk on the stove, and it was boiling over. I tried to help, and it spilled.”

Elders, this must’ve been quite the torment for a small human child. She pulls the lacy collar of her worn-out shirt up, hiding the deep pink spot larger than my hand.

Once again, I wrestle with that wretched need to know more. “Was your mother careless? Or too busy working to watch you?”

“My mother,” she responds, her voice is firm, defensive, “was the best one could hope for. She was a lady. And she was never careless. She just left—once—the Atos-cursed milk.”

My eyebrows climb up. Is this human casting a spell over me, as now there are even more questions buzzing in my head like a swarm of impatient bees. How did the daughter of a loving mother, a lady, end up on the streets robbing people?

“I just want to climb up and take a look around. No quarrel intended. I won’t hurt you.” Her tone is steady, yet something lingers in her words.

And she takes another step.

“You won’t hurt me now,” I add what she has left out. We both realize how ridiculous this promise sounds, how odd this whole situation is, and a tiny miracle happens.

We laugh.

It sounds like the bark of two rabid dogs, but it brightens the morbid room. Even the skulls seem to grin in the flickering firelight.

She makes another step, and instinct takes control. My Shadowblade slips into my hand, heavy and deadly. For some reason, I hide it behind my back.

What should I do with her? Biting my lip, suddenly conflicted, I realize that it is better to end her now. At least it will not be the long, agonizing death that certainly awaits her if Aydalla or that Atos-cursed child finds her. The vision of her dead body on this dusty floor, among the centuries-old bones, stirs something inside me. Something raw and vulnerable that I don’t want to acknowledge.

A weakness.

Weakness will be your undoing. Father’s favorite saying.

While I struggle to rein in all these new, unbidden emotions, the human is already at the stairs, her steps quick and determined. There’s tension in the line of shoulders, but she does not hesitate. A couple of steps and the gloom of the upper floor swallows her.

I lean back on my rolled carpet, raise the flute to my lips, and let the melody fill the air once more, though my thoughts are far from the music. They circle around the enigma that just climbed the stairs.

As the flames crackle and the music echoes through the ruins, I find myself wondering what kind of life could have shaped her into what she is now. What kind of pain could have left her with that same haunted look I see in my own reflection?