Chapter Text
The midday sun was warm against Roman’s face, and, had he not been leading the travel, he would have closed his eyes to soak it in. His horse, a white courser mare he had given the name Maxime, trotted along the path, her proud head held as high as his. Having been hand picked by Roman as a filly, she was, as her name implied, the greatest, the swiftest, and most prized horse in the royal stables.
The forest was deciduous, and quite magical looking. Moss climbed the trees and covered the rocks in their soft growth, their colors bright and alluring. The trees were tall and elegant, each one with a unique age and story. All of it caused a smile to creep at Roman’s lips.
As soon as he felt the smile begin to form, something caught his eye, then vanished. Urging Maxime’s trot to a walk, his eyes scanned the trees once more, and he finally realized what he had spotted. A showdling, or creature of shadows as his father called them. They were entities created by shadow mages. Roman had never seen one before him, but he had heard and studied enough to know that tampering with them could prove fatal.
“Is everything alright, your Highness?” His lieutenant’s voice asked from behind him.
Roman glanced away, turning his head and noting how the group had slowed their own horses. He looked back to the forest, and, upon not being able to spot the showdling, nodded his head.
Intil was a rather small village, and one Roman had never had the pleasure of visiting previously. He had only heard of it a few times in regards to the goods which were sold from it. Being on the West-most border of Nomaria, it was surrounded by a vast forest of towering trees, the likes of which resembled those found in the Dark Grove. The village was known for its rich, ebon wood, which artisans treated with care.
Roman’s first glimpse of the material had been at the gated entrance to the village. The gates themselves were cast from iron, but holding them up were large ebon wood posts. They were carved with intricate detailing that, when Roman looked closer at, seemed to depict the texture of bark covered in vines and flowers. It was beautiful, but he had no time to dawdle,
“State your station and reason for entry.” The Nomarian guard standing to Roman’s left ordered, his silver chestplate shining in the sunlight.
“Crown Prince Roman of Nomaria. Sir Dante sent a summons for us.” Roman stated, inwardly humored by the authority this guard must think himself to possess.
“Ah, yes.” The guard’s posture was straight. His eyes, which sat darkened under his helmet, stayed on Roman for another moment. “I had heard we were to be expecting you.”
Roman felt his humor pull at his lips. “Indeed.” His smile was likely to disarm, as it had been known to have that effect, yet the guard before him seemed on edge. “May we proceed?” The query was simple, and it did nothing to hide Roman’s confusion as his smile dipped downward.
At last the guard nodded, turning to the gate. “Of course, your Highness.”
The lodging they were given was a large, wooden building which stood near the back edge of the village. The building had without a doubt been made with the Nomarian military in mind as the interior was made up of a bottom floor main room, the likes of which was lined with beds and armor stands. Roman found himself impressed by the material and craftsmanship apparent to him in this building. Heavy wooden doors were hinged to the front of the building, each with anchors in place on the interior to be able to barricade if the occasion called for it.
“Sir Dante resides in the loft, your Highness.” Roman’s guide announced, bowing his head in respect. He was a younger man, who must have been no more than 18 years of age, with bright eyes and a contagious air of delight. He did not seem to be a guard as he wore no armor. Most likely a squire from the sight of his tunic.
Roman reached out, gently patting the young man’s upper back. “I appreciate your guidance.” He smiled kindly before beginning his way to the steps leading to the loft.
“It was my pleasure!” The boy called, and, when Roman cast a look back, the young man bowed. It was not the most elegant thing Roman had ever seen, but it was respectful, and the gesture alone would have made Roman’s day if not for the mission at hand.
Sir Dante was a well built man. With deeply tanned skin, cropped hair, and dark eyes he was rather handsome in a way that complimented Roman’s own beauty. Whereas Roman was to be described as dashing, Dante was more rugged. His back was more broad, his arms sturdier, and his jaw was sharper and more square. He also had a strong cleft to his chin that Roman had fancied as a boy. Regardless of any physical prowess however, Sir Dante was, as his title as knight would imply, one of the most loyal friends Roman could have asked for.
He sat on the floor at the far end of the room, his back hunched and facing the entrance to the loft. The soft sound of a quill scratching against paper filled the air, and Dante’s attention seemed consumed by whatever he was writing.
Roman’s lips pulled upwards at the unabashed affection in his heart for this man. “Ever the wordsmith.” He noted, his tone filled with the type of playful jesting that came with years of camaraderie.
The scratching ceased as the first word left Roman’s upturned lips and, in a moment, Dante was standing, his joyously surprised expression now facing Roman.
“My prince!” Dante quickly crossed the space of the loft, and grinned as he opened his arms to the royal.
He was dressed in a leather tunic and simple cloth pants, the clothing much more fluid than the solid iron of Roman’s armor, and when Roman embraced him, the man seemed to melt into the hold. They held each other for a long moment, before pulling apart.
“I have been craving your presence.” Dante’s eyes were earnest, and Roman swore he could feel his heart warm at the words.
Reaching out, Roman placed a hand on Dante’s shoulder. “As have I, my friend.”
The mood lingered for a moment longer before Roman’s joviality faltered. “However, my wistfulness must wait.” He retracted his hand. “As I detailed in my letter, I am here as a soldier.”
As Roman spoke, Dante’s brows furrowed, evidently confused.
“What letter do you speak of?” He asked, causing Roman to inhale frustratedly.
“Damn me to hell!” The prince swore under his breath, before offering a smile to his friend. “The letter I attempted to spell to you last evening. Evidently unsuccessfully.” He sighed, knowing he should have been more diligent in his studies of transportation spells, rather than just the pyrokinetic kind.
Dante’s face blanched. “To where did you focus the spell?” His tone was suddenly more pressing.
At Roman’s frown, he continued.
“Intil has been practically encircled by showdling nightly. If you attempted the spell during the evening…”
Roman’s mind filled in the space immediately, and he too felt the blood draining from his face.
“Oh gods almighty.” He murmured. Roman could feel the burnings of shame and anger filling his chest. His body was warm, too unbelievably warm. “Damn me to hell a thousand times over!” He cried, his voice too loud for the small space.
Dante’s expression morphed from one of panic to one of determination. ”Now, my friend, we mustn't get too ahead of ourselves.” He reached out, taking Roman’s armored hands in his. “We must alert the men and townsfolk of the possibly imminent danger we find ourselves in.” His eyes were flitting between Roman’s own, before he pulled the prince into another tight embrace. “And we must prepare for what awaits tonight.”