Chapter Text
“Can you tell me a story…?” whispers the small boy. Tucked into the crook of his sister’s arm, he shivers from the cold.
She pulls him in closer. The night is quiet; they have time to rest. “Yes, I can. Your favorite one?”
“Mmhm.”
She settles in to tell the tale.
“There once was a prince in a kingdom far, far away. He was handsome in a quiet way, with hair as auburn as the honey-flame blossoms and skin as tan as the tinder dust trees. But his eyes… Circled by spindly frames, his eyes shone gold .”
“Gold?” the boy exclaims.
“Yes, gold. Everyone in the royal family had golden eyes,” the girl murmurs, petting his hair.
“I wish I had gold eyes… What was he like?”
She chuckles. “He was intelligent, kind, and humble—all qualities of a good prince.
“But he did not want to be a prince.
“He wanted to be free.”
"The gall of them to make such demands. ‘Ah, our poor! Ah, our sick! We are dying so!’"
“Ungrateful!”
“Unbearable!”
“Unacceptable!”
"Isn't that right, my prince?"
“Your thoughts, my prince?”
“Yes, yes! We ought to set them right with an iron hand, make them see what they’ve done: insult our great Kingdom, the just Queen Harmony—blessings be to her!— and our beloved prince!”
Deep in Fourth Fall Forest, a dragon-drawn carriage rode down a muddy road. The recent storms had been merciless, but after a week of waiting, the caravan—a carriage of councilmembers and the prince, flanked by guards atop beasts—decided they had dawdled long enough. They were to leave as soon as the weather lightened, not cleared.
Thunder loud enough to reach the heavens ripped through the sky. The prince cringed.
Seated between two red-faced members of the council, he was caught, literally and figuratively, in the middle. Peace and reconciliation were the supposed goals of the party, and yet, he felt trapped in a war room.
My prince, my prince. Isn't that right? Don't you agree? He must! We must!
One could replace him with a limp sack of feather grain oats and a paper crown, and no difference would it make. Though his opinion was requested on numerous occasions, the rage of the debate whirled away before he could open his mouth. A flick of spittle flew through the air, and he watched it land upon a richly embroidered coat. Allowing himself the softest of sighs, he casted his attention outside. Through the sliver of window past the councilman’s meaty shoulder, all he could see was grey. He casted his eyes to the painted roof, where dragons and Harmonians twirled around a glowing portrait of his mother. He implored them for relief. Eventually, he lost himself to the sound of the pouring rain. Soon. Soon, this will be over.
...But one should always be careful of what they wish for; the end indeed was closing in on the prince and the carriage.
There was a beast in the woods. Weaving through the brush, blending into the trees. Twenty year's time had made her limbs slender, eyes sharp, and hearing sharper. A creature fine tuned for the hunt. She crouched in the bushes, dagger close in hand. Waiting. Watching.
Lady Patience would soon reward her.
The coach slowed to a stop, as did the passionate chatter. The councilmen looked at each other, then the prince, but upon his face hung the most perfect picture of neutrality. Even when the door knocked once, twice, and thrice in a peculiar pattern, his expression remained unchanged, and they watched with baited breath as he leaned over to undo the latch.
It was the coachman. He leaned into the compartment to shield himself from the rain, oblivious to the widened eyes and flared nostrils as water dripped onto the carpet.
"My prince," said he, oblivious, "a storm has wrought vengeance upon this poor tree—toppled right onto the road, it did! If we continue down this path we will have to go one at a time; otherwise we may double back and take a safer path."
One by one will mean a window of time without the dragon guards , mused the prince. But what enemy would fare poor weather such as this?
"...It is imperative that we reach the treaty discussion in time. Continue down this path."
The coachman bowed. "As you wish, my prince. I apologize deeply for the trouble this may have caused."
"There is no need to speak like so, lest you summoned this very torrent like a magisci ."
The coachman stares white-faced for a moment, paralyzed with fear, but upon seeing the tiniest quirk on the prince's lips, realized he jested, and dissolves into a sheepish, red-faced laugh. "Of course—they told me you were a funny one, my prince." And without further ado, the door closed and the carriage was on its way.
"How rude," came a huff.
The prince stifled a sigh and closed his eyes.
A violent shake rattled him from his peace.
He opened his eyes just as a dagger drove through the front headboard, stained red with what can only be the coachman’s blood. The cabin lurched violently as the dragons screeched outside and dove into forest, pulling the carriage along. The prince looked out the window where something brown grows exponentially outside.
The coach collided with a tree.
In the daze that followed something warm trickled down his face something cold pounded his arm, and something hard pressed into his cheek. The offending object was yanked out from under him, and when his head hit the dirt he realized what it was: a councilman’s shoe, snaking away into the unknown. His eyes trailed up the body just as a blade slices through the throat. A yell choked in the prince’s lungs, but no sooner does the shock hit him did he realize the assailant is gone. The body layed limp in the mud, resting in a growing pool of its own blood.
The prince wheezed. Fear squeezed his chest as his jaw clenched white and his pulse roared in his ears. The carriage was split open against a tree trunk, and half of him dangled from its gaping wound while his other half laid on the open road. He glanced around frantically, choked on a cry for help, but it was only him, the body, and the rain. The others were nowhere to be found. Hetried to move his leg, but a pain so great seized him that his head lurched back and his vision went white.
Catching his breath against the searing sensation along his bones, sensation began swirling back into his world: the stench of the woods, the chilling whip of the rain, the sticky muck of the mud, his fingers grasping at mush. Metal stung his noise, and the colors swirled into something humanoid: legs, arms, shoulders, a head. All of it red. The prince blinked frantically, willing away the sting of iron and coming clarity.
But like a nightmare, the assassin rose from the mist, bathed in blood.
She grabbed his hands and yanked him from the wreckage, eliciting a cry and shout from. She dragged him to the middle of the road, groans and mud mucking the air and his white silks until they were brown. Through foggy vision he looked up at her, the sealer of his fate. She must be an angel, his addled mind concluded, an angel of violent death. She was nearly half a foot shorter than him but her presence was towering, and when she moved, she moved like liquid, curved blade slipping into her hand as she straddled his hips. Blazing bronze eyes fixed on his, and for a moment, the world stilled.
Those eyes…
She raised her arms high above and began the plunge when the prince let out a sudden outburst.
“I know where your brother is!”
The assassin snapped rigid, knife end a mere breath from his neck. Rain dripped down her face, down her frozen expression; it seemed the wind had loosened her coverings.
“Y-your brother—“ he whispered, twisting to spare himself from the blade, but when it draws a thin, red line across his skin, he stilled and squeezed his eyes shut as tears roll down. “Ah, God…”
The smell of fresh blood snapped her out of her stupor.
“You lie!” she seethed and raised her arm.
“No! No—I swear! I know—oh, God! Oh, oh my—“
Distant yelling comes from the distance.
“Please! I beg you—we can save him!”
Save?
We?
The telltale smell of hazelnut from dragons taking flight wafted through the air.
“Moksova!” she snarled, stabbing the ground by his head, eliciting a small cry. She grabbed his jaw to shut him up. “If you lie to me, I will not make the same mistake twice.”
“I don’t! I don’t! The Merry Maiden’s Inn—two days time—!“ he whimpered, face squished between her fingers.
The trees shook ahead.
She dug her nails in, hearing his whine, then swatted his head away and spat on the ground. With a snarl— “kosova!” —she got off him and disappeared into the forest.
The prince stares at the bushes where she left. It was as if she was never here.
With a sigh, he laid his head down just as the rest of the caravan shouted his name.