2025-03-09 12:41:54The palace gardens at night are hauntingly beautiful, bathed in the silver glow of the twin moons. The lanterns flicker weakly, casting long, jagged shadows across the marble paths. The scent of roses lingers in the cool night air, but the silence here is unsettling—too vast, too empty, as if something is missing.
My thoughts are still tangled in the Queen’s challenge. One month. One month to prove I deserve the title of Marquess more than Zenthio, Lavinia, or Demario. But proving myself to the Queen isn’t the only thing that weighs on my mind. Zenthio and Demario won’t play fair. I’ve already seen what they’re willing to do to claim power. Then I hear it. A choked gasp. A muffled cry. The unmistakable sound of something—or someone—hitting the ground. I freeze, my senses sharpening. A rustling of fabric. A pained whimper. My gaze sweeps the dimly lit garden, and then I see him. A small boy, barely more than a shadow against the cobbled path, lying motionless near the fountain. His silver hair glows faintly under the moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark bruise forming on his knee. His small fingers dig into the cold stone, struggling to push himself up. I move instantly. "Are you alright?" My voice is steady, but my pulse quickens as I kneel beside him. The boy flinches. His head snaps toward me, but his unfocused, cloudy eyes don’t meet mine. Blind. The realization hits me immediately. “I—I fell,” he murmurs. His voice is quiet, hesitant. Too composed for a child in pain. I extend a hand. "Let me help you up." He hesitates, his small hands twitching slightly. But then, slowly, he reaches out, his fingers cold as they curl around mine. I pull him up gently, steadying him as he wobbles. He’s far too light. Too fragile. “You’re hurt,” I observe. “Did you trip?” The boy nods stiffly. I glance around. "Where’s your attendant?" A pause. Then, with an edge of bitterness far too mature for his age, he whispers, "They don’t come when I call." Something in my chest tightens. The palace is filled with servants. No noble child should ever be left wandering alone at night, especially not a prince. And yet, here he stands—abandoned, ignored. "What’s your name?" I ask carefully. The boy hesitates again, then murmurs, “Zorion.” A pause. “Zorion Brightmoon.” Brightmoon. The Queen’s son. My grip on his hand unconsciously tightens before I quickly loosen it. The prince. Left to fend for himself in the shadows of the palace that should be his home. "You’re the Queen’s son," I say slowly. Zorion stiffens. “…Yes.” Something in his tone makes my blood simmer with quiet anger. “Prince Zorion,” I murmur, “why are you out here alone?” He exhales softly. “I wanted to go to the library.” “The library?” I blink. “I like listening to the scholars when they talk about magic and history,” he admits. “But… I got lost.” His voice lowers, frustration slipping through. “I thought I knew the way.” I understand that frustration all too well. "You tried to navigate alone," I say. Zorion nods. “I don’t like asking for help.” A small, sad smile tugs at my lips. "Then let’s call it guidance instead." Zorion flinches slightly at my words, as if unsure whether to believe them. Then, hesitantly, he grips my sleeve. I lead him forward, our steps quiet against the stone. The flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows along the path, but I keep my focus on him. His small fingers clutch the fabric of my sleeve tightly, as if afraid I’ll disappear too. "Has it always been like this?" I ask after a while. Zorion doesn’t answer immediately. Then, softly, he whispers, "Yes." I already knew the answer. But hearing it aloud makes my chest ache. Silence stretches between us. Then, he say, "You’re Helio, aren’t you?" I halt mid-step. Zorion tilts his head slightly. "Your father talked about you." I swallow. “…My father?” "Marquess Alessio," Zorion says quietly. "He used to visit the palace. He told me about you. He said you were clever. That you could memorize entire rooms just by walking through them once." I stare at him. Father… spoke about me? Zorion shifts slightly. "I always wanted to meet you." The sincerity in his voice stuns me. "Why?" I ask. "Because you're like me." The words hit harder than I expect. I inhale deeply. "Zorion," I say carefully, "do you ever feel… alone?" A beat of silence. Then, so softly I almost don’t hear it. "Yes." I exhale slowly. I release my sleeve from his grip and instead take his hand fully, holding it firmly. "You’re not alone anymore." Zorion stiffens. “What?” I squeeze his hand. "I’ll be your friend, if you want." The stillness around us deepens. I can feel him holding his breath. Then, at last, his small fingers squeeze mine back. "Really?" he whispers. “You mean it?” “Yes,” I say. A long pause. Then, for the first time since we met, Zorion smiles. But before I can say anything else, rustling. A shift in the wind. Footsteps. I turn sharply, my grip on Zorion tightening. Someone’s here. Watching. "Helio," Zorion whispers, sensing my tension. I scan the darkness, my pulse quickening. Someone lingers just beyond the lantern’s reach, hidden in the shadows between the trees. I hear the faintest breath. The quiet scrape of a boot against stone. Then, a low, irritated sigh. "You're making my job difficult, Helio." The voice is smooth, laced with disinterest, but I recognize it immediately. Nyx. My body tenses as the shadows shift, revealing his figure leaning lazily against a stone pillar. His violet eyes gleam under the lantern light, filled with something between boredom and annoyance. "You were supposed to stay out of this," he mutters. I step protectively in front of Zorion. "Stay out of what?" Nyx gestures vaguely at the boy. "Him." I glare at him. "He’s a child." Nyx scoffs. "He’s my responsibility—unfortunately." His voice drips with disdain. "But I don’t see why I should waste my time guarding a prince no one cares about." Zorion flinches at the words, but I don’t let go of his hand. "You don’t get to decide that," I snap. Nyx tilts his head, then smirks. "No, but neither do you." His body dissolves into mist, his final words curling through the air like smoke. "Careful, Helio. Attachments get you killed." Then he’s gone. The garden falls silent once more. Zorion’s fingers tighten around mine. “…Helio?” he whispers. I steady my breath, my jaw clenching. "Let’s get you to the library," I murmur. But deep inside, I already know—this was only the beginning.
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Pain blossoms across my jaw before I even register the movement. The impact snaps my head to the side, my ears ringing, the taste of iron blooming across my tongue. I stagger but do not fall. My grip tightens around my cane, steadying myself. My breath hitches for a moment before evening out, but the pain lingers—a dull, throbbing ache where Hale’s fist connected. He hit me. Hale hit me. I exhale slowly, tilting my head back toward him. “Are you finished?” My voice is level, but there is a coldness beneath it. Hale stands rigid, his chest rising and falling sharply. His fist is still clenched, his knuckles white. His entire body is wound tight, as if he’s barely holding himself together. “No,” he growls. “Not even close.” I swipe my thumb against my lip, smearing the blood there. “So that’s how we’re handling disagreements now?” Hale scoffs, his face twisted in frustration. “I don’t know how else to get through to you.” He takes a step forward, his eyes burning. “You weren’t liste
