"C'mon, Simon. Don't you think it's finally time to settle down?" Ryan asked as he took a sip of whatever strange blend he'd convinced the staff to make, just to avoid tasting real coffee.
We sat across from each other on the terrace of our usual spot, the late afternoon light stretching long across the table.
Around us, the city pulsed with movement. Traffic rolled steadily through the streets, engines humming beneath the distant blare of a siren. People wove through the crosswalks with practiced ease, heads down, coffee in hand, always going somewhere.
The city center was a dense sprawl of glass and stone, towering buildings catching the afternoon sun and scattering it in sharp reflections. Vendors lined the sidewalks, their carts trailing the smells of roasted peanuts, grilled meat, and sweet pastries. Buskers played under awnings or near subway entrances, their music rising and falling beneath the thrum of passing conversations.
"I don't know, man. I'll admit I've been thinking about it, but I just can't bring myself to picture it."
Starting a family, committing to a lifetime with someone... those were things I never thought I'd do. Never thought I'd want to do. I remembered what it was like growing up. The fights. The silence. The constant reminder that they only stayed together for us.
I could still see the look on my mother's face that day.
Only… it wasn't her face I was picturing now.
The image in my mind was of a woman too beautiful to be real. Ethereal. Violet hair that shimmered like silk in candlelight. Eyes like polished emeralds. But the expression she wore was all too familiar. Disgust. A hatred so deep it felt carved into the bone.
"Disgusting roach, filled with a whore's blood," she spat, striking me to the floor.
A small bundle of flowers slipped from my hand, scattering on the marble. She stared down at them with a sneer, then crushed them underfoot.
"Do you seek to broker peace with your queen, little roach? What insolence." Her voice was cold silk. "The offerings of a wretch are fit for wretches, not one such as I."
She turned from me, waving a hand for a nearby servant. "Bring me another pair of shoes. These are soiled."
Then, without looking back, she spoke again. "Live as your wretched birth demands. In the cracks. Out of sight."
The vision dissolved, fading into shadow. I drifted in silence, weightless in an endless dark.
Time lost meaning. I floated for what felt like forever.
Until the darkness stirred.
Opened.
Behind it was an eye.
Not one I could describe in any human sense. Its surface was layered with thousands of shifting pupils, each ringed by colors no spectrum should allow. I shouldn't have recognized it, but I did. Not by shape or form, but by presence. By the weight of its gaze.
And it was looking at me.
My soul trembled, as though naked before a blizzard of stars, each one burning cold and wrong and watching.
The pupils began to merge, folding into one another, overlapping in impossible patterns until they converged into a single, unified gaze. That focus struck me like a revelation. One thought rose above all else, absolute and undeniable.
I should not be.
My eyes snapped open. I was back in my chambers, drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around me like bindings. My chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, each breath clawing its way in like I'd just surfaced from deep water. The fear hadn't left. It clung to me, ancient and cold, coiled around my soul.
"To the king. His Highness is awake. Go. Now."
The voice came from my right. Calm, clipped, and unfamiliar.
I turned my head, slowly, every muscle stiff and unwilling. A man stood beside the bed, half-shrouded in the warm flicker of a lantern set on the nearby table. Unlike the sconces along the walls, this one seemed burned with a real flame. Its soft, uneven glow cast shifting shadows across his figure.
He was dressed like someone used to being observed. Every layer of his attire looked deliberate, from the high-collared coat lined with arcane threading to the fitted sleeves wrapped in belts that held tiny vials, some glowing faintly, others dark and still. Metallic filigree traced the front of his vest in precise, alchemical patterns, and a satchel at his side gave a faint clink each time he shifted.
His face was narrow, cut in clean lines that reminded me of surgical blades. He had a thin mouth, hollow cheeks, and eyes like molten gold behind round, polished lenses. His gaze was steady and clinical, entirely unfazed by the sight of a sweating, half-conscious prince.
Despite the composure in his posture, there was tension in his brow. His eyes studied me with the careful urgency of someone silently taking inventory of symptoms. He said nothing at first. Instead, he glanced toward a cluster of instruments at the bedside. Thin rods of crystal, etched metal coils, and strands of silver wire stood arranged in a precise formation, each one pulsing gently with light.
"Can you speak, Your Highness?" the man asked.
"I-I... Yes." I had meant to respond more formally, but my throat burned with the attempt.
"I see. You were gravely injured, Highness. The knife wounds were bad enough, but that lumbering fool Orien showed no care in his haste. The resulting thundercrack did a number on you."
Thundercrack. I hadn't heard the term before, but it wasn't hard to guess. Orien had arrived faster than my eyes could register, silent at first... until the boom that followed. Apparently, these freaks of nature could move faster than sound itself.
"We can be thankful that Her Highness was holding a meeting in her wing. Without the new healing potions we were testing, you might not have fared so well."
I wanted to snap. I wanted to demand where the hell the healers were, why I was being treated like a lab subject instead of a royal. But the truth was obvious. They wouldn't have held back on my care. A prince bleeding out in the royal palace would be a massive blow to the pride of the royal family.
Which only made it more confusing.
The monarchy here was practically religious in nature. The King wasn't just ruler, he was divine. Or near enough that it made no difference. His birthright was so powerful that most couldn't stand in its presence without collapsing. Even trained knights were reduced to little more than commoners in his shadow.
So who would dare?
Who would have the audacity to try and kill a prince inside the palace walls?
And more importantly, why?
I wasn't valuable. Not politically, not strategically. I was the prince no one bothered with, left alone for days at a time, assigned a single servant, and no full-time guard. If someone wanted to make a statement, there were higher-profile targets. Was this meant to undermine the King? Test the palace's defenses? That would be suicide. The response to such a breach would be swift and absolute. No one would survive long enough to gloat.
Unless… it was about Auremath.
A warning, maybe. A protest against the peace. That made more sense. But even then, it felt reckless.
I didn't have enough information to go further. If I ever got out of this alive, I was going to invest my time into inventing magical Google so the next poor soul dumped into this world could at least figure out what the hell was going on.
The man resumed his work in silence. After a series of tests with a slender metal instrument etched in glowing blue markings—runes, I assumed—and several yes-or-no questions to gauge my pain, he finally handed me a potion.
"It will ease the pain and let you rest," he said.
I didn't argue. I drank.
The warmth hit my throat first, then spread outward like liquid silk. The ache began to fade. Not completely, but enough that I could finally breathe without wincing.
Sleep pulled at me again, slow and steady.
When I awoke again, sunlight poured into the room, warm and indifferent.
Groaning, I peeled the sheets off. My body ached, stiff from too long in bed. I forced myself upright, muscles complaining. There was a dull pain in my stomach, but when I pulled the shirt aside, I saw nothing. No wounds. No bandages. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
My shoulder was the same.
It seemed the potions had done their work. I should have been relieved, but all I wanted was to move. To feel something underfoot. Slowly, I slid out of bed and stood.
My legs wobbled, unsteady from disuse, and I had to catch myself against one of the bedposts. I stayed there a moment, breathing in, grounding myself. Then, with slow, dragging steps, I shuffled toward the door.
I reached for the handle—and froze.
My hand trembled in the air, hovering inches from it.
I'm scared.
The thought didn't feel like mine. It was as if someone else had whispered it straight into my spine. The shadows pooled around the doorframe seemed to twist, echoing the silhouette of my attacker. Pain shot through my chest, sudden and sharp, and I stumbled back a step.
What if they came again?
Would I be saved a second time? Would some faceless guard arrive just before the killing blow? Would another loyal fool take the blade meant for me?
Wait.
Ella.
What had happened to her? I'd been given the finest care the kingdom could offer, of course. I was a prince. But what about her? A servant girl with no title, no power. Just another minor noble's daughter, assigned to the palace problem child.
I forced myself to breathe. I had to know.
This wasn't about seeing a familiar face or chasing some echo of my goddaughter. Ella was no longer a stand-in. She was her own person, brave and terrified, yet still willing to risk everything for me. This was no longer about a debt. It was about her.
I turned back to the door and, with effort, pushed it open.
Two guards stood just outside. The sight startled me more than it should have.
"Welcome, Your Highness!" they said in unison.
"You should still be resting until the healer clears you," added the one on the left. He looked to be my age, maybe younger, and wore his nerves like a badge. His companion shot him a quick, uneasy glance, as if silently warning him not to push too far.
Kind of your job to push, though I get the hesitation.
"You're bold, telling me what to do. Who are you?" I wasn't angry. I was curious. A guard who didn't flinch in my presence? That was rare. I would make him mine.
"My name is Bram Kestel, son of Baron Kestel. I only do my duty in ensuring your safety."
He said it plainly. There was the slight layer of nervousness from talking to a royal, but not the distinct fear of me that others had.
Now that I actually looked at him, I noticed more. Fair-skinned, clean-cut, with a lean, athletic build. His uniform was crisp, but not overly fussy, and he stood with a kind of quiet confidence I wasn't used to seeing in palace guards. His eyes were a clear grey, watchful but calm, and he met my gaze as if he belonged here.
"I'll allow it, but only if you give me an answer." The words sat heavy on my tongue, but I kept my tone steady. This wasn't a plea. It was a command dressed in courtesy.
"How does my maid, Ella, fare?"
Bram met my gaze without flinching, though I caught a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "I'm not certain. I heard mention that her condition was poor. I can inquire, if you wish."
His voice remained level, but his companion's expression said everything. Wide eyes. Thinly veiled shock.
I could guess why. Darian didn't ask about servants.
But I needed to know, and I cared more about Ella's life than my reputation. Besides, if people needed a reason for a change in me, what better excuse than an attempted assassination and a selfless act of loyalty?
It made more sense than a dream from the gods.
"I'll have you do so. And while you're at it, summon Lord Orien. We have much to discuss."
"Your Highness, you should still be resting," Bram insisted, stepping forward.
"I appreciate your concern, Bram. Truly. But take a cue from your companion and hold your tongue." I tried to keep my voice steady, aiming for authority without edge. "I already agreed to remain in my chambers. Let's not test my patience."
I meant to sound commanding, but something shifted in the air as I spoke. A trace of my birthright slipped free, subtle at first, then unmistakable. Power wrapped around them like unseen chains.
Bram flinched. The other guard straightened, face gone pale. Both stood frozen beneath the weight of it.
I pulled it back at once, cursing myself for the loss of control.
"C-certainly, Highness. I apologize. I will see it done," Bram said. His voice was steady enough, but his face had lost its color.
Damn it. I had finally found a good one, but this damned new lack of control had to get in the way.
Muttering in frustration, I made my way to the table and poured a glass of water from the waiting pitcher. It was lukewarm, stale. No one had refreshed it.
Another reminder that my only maid was lying somewhere, possibly fighting for her life.
"I could have died."
I said it aloud, needing to hear the words in the air. It still didn't feel real. I had nearly been killed. This was a world where shadow-wrapped assassins could slip through the cracks of the palace and end me in my own bed.
I wanted to feel guilt. Maybe I should have trained harder, taken everything more seriously from the start. But that wasn't fair. I hadn't been given the chance. A single day of effort wouldn't have changed anything. I had no agency. No power.
And that was what burned.
But I would not remain helpless. If I wanted control, I would need to earn it.
I had liked the solitude... one maid, no guards, no eyes always watching. But that freedom was a liability now. I needed protection. At least until I became someone who didn't need to be protected.
Only then could I turn my focus toward getting home.
The thought left a dull ache in my chest. I had hoped that finding a way back would be my first priority. But if I couldn't survive here, I wouldn't live long enough to even begin the search.
A knock on the door stirred me from my thoughts.
"You may enter."
The door opened at my word, but it was not Lord Orien who stepped through.
Instead, a woman entered with the calm, measured bearing of someone used to command. She looked to be in her thirties, her posture straight and disciplined, shaped by routine rather than pride. Her uniform was crisp, deep blue with silver trim.
She was tall and broad-shouldered. Her hair was tied back into a tight braid, dark brown and neatly kept.
But it was her face that drew the eye.
A long scar cut diagonally from her left brow to the curve of her jaw, the skin along it slightly puckered and pale. It didn't mar her expression so much as sharpen it, like a blade that had been tempered rather than broken. She didn't hide it either. No cosmetics. No jewelry to draw the eye elsewhere. It was simply part of her.
"You are not who I was expecting. Explain yourself."
"Apologies, Your Highness. Lord Orien is currently occupied. As captain of the Royal Guard, he must address this unacceptable breach personally."
She emphasized his rank with intent, likely hoping to shame me for daring to summon someone so important. Instead, all it did was confirm what I hadn't yet been told out loud—Orien wasn't just a skilled knight. He was the skilled knight. Head of the entire guard.
"But I, Maera of House Thorne, will serve you in his stead. I am First Lieutenant of the Royal Guard."
"Fine. I can accept that, given the circumstances." I saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes and let it hang. I was beginning to enjoy being unexpectedly reasonable.
"I do have information," I continued. "During the attack, I managed to disrupt whatever spell was cloaking the assassins. One of them flickered into view. I saw his face."
That got her attention. She leaned in slightly, eyes sharp.
"He was killed almost immediately after. The others turned on him and... well, they devoured his head. I assume this was because they were supposed to hide their faces. Still, I had enough time to commit the face to memory. Though this may be of limited use since Lord Orien was able to subdue them so simply."
Maera's eyes widened. "No, that is exceptional. The captain attempted to identify them, but both bodies had a failsafe. They self-terminated, and their bodies were completely destroyed. We've been trying to trace residual mana, but even that has been scrubbed clean. A physical description could be our only lead."
"Then bring me writing supplies."
She hesitated, clearly confused. "Writing, Highness?"
"I'll draw what I saw. A sketch will do more good than a vague description."
Back on Earth, I'd been a decent artist. Even if this wrist hadn't spent hours sketching portraits, the memory of it in my mind might still be enough.
Without another word, Maera reached into her pouch and pulled out a notebook, far larger than the space it came from, and a sleek, metal pencil.
When she handed me the pencil, I simply stared at it. At my confusion, she took the metal pencil and pressed the back of it. A small pulse of blue light ran through it, and the tip clicked forward, revealing what looked like a sharpened stick of graphite.
I took it and tested it on the paper. It wrote smoothly. Definitely graphite.
Honestly, I expected something more magical. Sure, the magic was what pushed the graphite out, but that just felt... excessive. Like enchanting a spoon to stir itself. Surely a spring wasn't that difficult to make?
I set to work on the sketch, focusing on the moment I saw his face. The shock on it was still vivid.
It wasn't difficult, not really. Every detail from that night was burned into my mind. I could walk through it in my memory like a scene frozen in time, crisp and unshakable.
By the time I finished, my wrist ached, but the image on the page matched what I had seen. A plain-looking young man with a narrow face and extremely short hair. The pencil wasn't enchanted for color, so I marked arrows to the eyes and hair, jotting down their hues in the margins.
I handed the sketch to Maera, and to her credit, she looked genuinely impressed. A flicker of pride stirred in my chest. Brief, but real.
It didn't last.
The door opened and Bram stepped in, moving quickly. His eyes stayed on the floor, and his face was tight with worry. There was sympathy there too, quiet and unspoken.
He took a breath, then finally spoke.
"Now is the time to see Ella, should that be your wish."