The slow, deliberate thud of boots echoes on the stone, each step a measured beat against the howling wind that whips through the torchlit corridors.
The Prince moves like a shadow drawn towards the dungeons, the flickering orange light painting his face in fleeting glimpses of grim determination
Guards snap to attention as he passes, their bows stiff and silent, swallowed by the cavernous space.
He offers no acknowledgement, his gaze fixed, inward, a storm of unspoken thoughts churning within.
He reaches Freya's cell and gestures curtly, a flick of his wrist dismissing the guards.
One of them, his face impassive, relinquishes the heavy iron key.
The scraping of metal against metal bites at the silence as the key turns in the lock.
The gate creaks inward, revealing Freya.
Her skin, even in the dim light, displays the scattering of freckles he knows so well.
He doesn't speak, he doesn't hesitate.
He steps inside and pulls her into a fierce embrace, the air expelled from her lungs in a soft grasp.
Freya clings to him, her arms tightening around his back, "What's wrong, my love?" Her voice, muffled against his chest.
They release each other, a restless energy propelling him to the far wall.
He sinks to the cold stone floor, his back resting against the wall.
His head drops, his gaze fixed on the unyielding ground.
"The last time I was here,: he begins, his voice low and heavy, "you said the relic, the shards from Rolandia, were taken by the King's guards.
I asked them, in secret. They claim my father took it. Even they don't know its current whereabouts."
Freya squats before him, her hands resting lightly on her knees. He lifts his head, his eyes finding hers.
"I think it is still here," she says, her gaze deepening, the pupils widening as if absorbing the scant light, "I felt it's power today,".
His own heart clenches at the certainty in her voice, "I believe you," he admits, the words catching his throat.
"I think… I think my father used it to revive my mother, but she isn't the woman I knew.
There's darkness clinging to her, a coldness in her heart", his voice wavers to the pained tune of his own heart.
Freya settles beside him.
He turns to her, his hand sliding along the cold stone until it finds hers, his fingers lacing through hers.
"Freya, I believe you were manipulated into this, I don't know how. I want to protect you. And I suspect giving the relic back would return my mother to her vegetative state.
Even then, taking it from her would be… troublesome. She's grown powerful"
"What are you going to do?" Her voice is barely a whisper, her head resting on his shoulder, the weight a familiar solace.
He stares at the dark walls of the cell, "Your story to the present situation, it all fits too perfectly.
And in truth, I don't know what to do.
Every path I see leads to violence," he sighs,a the sound heavy with defeat.
"I had hoped we could coerce Lady Sylvia to work for us, buy some time, but things are getting out of hand. The Rolandians demand your head, of course, that's not happening", he says.
"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," Freya says, a faint smile touching her lips.
A small, involuntary chuckle escapes Alaric, "And I haven't even worn it yet." He turns his head, his gaze softening as he looks at her.
"Freya…"
"Yes?"
"Be my queen," The words hang in the air, a fragile offering in the suffocating darkness.
Freya lifts her head, her eyes searching his.
A faint smile finally touches his own lips, a flicker of light in the gloom.
"Your father was against this," she reminds him, her voice soft.
"My father is gone. He's left me with this… massive headache born of his desire," he says flatly.
"Politically," he continues, his gaze unwavering, "it will be supported. You are the strongest warrior in all of High Town," his eyes glisten, catching the faint light, mirroring the turbulent emotions within.
"And other than that, Freya, I love you. I can't face this darkness without the light in my world."
They lean their foreheads together, a silent communion with the cold cell, "I love you with all my heart, Alaric," she whispers.
NIRVANA
Kane just finishes a meal and one of the fairies levitates the empty plates and replaces them with a succulent looking fruit, "Thank you," he puts it in his mouth and his eyes pop open widely as the taste makes love to his taste buds.
Emilia is absent from their small gathering beneath the sprawling gazebo.
The men are surrounded by a flurry of cheerful fairies, their laughter like tinkling bells.
A plump, matronly fairy hovers above a cluster of younger ones, her voice a melodic drone as she weaves tales of ancient history.
The gazebo itself is a haven of woven, dry straw, the thick roof filtering the ambient light. Fireflies, captured in glowing glass jars, drift lazily overhead, casting a soft, magical glow.
Laughter and music played by a fairy on a wooden flute while perched on a low branch.
Daylight is soon replaced by night, a glowing moon shining upon this magical land with divine grace.
Kane's ears go deaf, drowning the voices of the world as a feeling he recognises ensues in his heart, yet the origin, elusive for his memory to grasp.
His heart aches, a subtle dissonance humming beneath the surface of his mind. A memory, close and yet far, out of reach.
Leaving scars of something unknown, unremembered.
A fleeting image flashes before his eyes; a woman. Her attire, foreign and out of place from what his eyes has seen in this world.
"Could it be from my previous world?", he wonders.
She glances at him, a sidelong look that holds a strange intensity, and then she vanishes.
"I did not have the balls to pursue her," a thought, unrecognisable but clearly his own.
"Kane, my man, are you alright?", Emmet notices a strangeness upon his features.
"Yes," Kane plays it off and raises his head to see Emilia standing in the distance, Caspian, standing beside her.
Without a word, propelled by a sudden urge, Kane pushes himself to his feet.
He leaves the convivial group beneath the gazebo and walks towards the darl elf and the fairy
Blue lights of glowing petals spread their glorious colours, illuminating all of Nirvana in its marvellous light.
The murmur of their voices begins top penetrate his awareness, faint whispers at first, growing clearer as the crunch of twigs announces his approach.
Caspian floats towards him, his expression guarded.
"Hmph, Skyborn, I hope you don't turn out to be a White Death," the fairy says, flying past him with a suspicious look in his eyes.
Kane just shrugs his shoulders, his eyes fixed on Emilia.
"Hi," he finally gets time with the dark elf. His brownish trousers blending into the night like darkness itself.
He joins her as she watches the moon, his own gaze dropping to the vista below.
They stand atop a hill, the sound of water rising from the verdant lands below, mingled with the chirping chorus of crickets.
She turns her gaze to him, "We haven't had any real time since we escaped Pyrrhus," he scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick clutching in his throat.
"Rolandia… was awkward," he adds, offering a weak smile.
She turns fully to face him, her gaze searching.
"We've been through a lot. I never really got to ask you how you are. You know… after Eden", he holds her gaze, his own filled with a quiet concern.
Her green eyes, holding the reflection of the moon in them.
They get glassy, her lips shake weakly, "Are you alright?", tears burst out of her eyes, a face recognised from when their arrival in Pyrrhus.
He pulls her into a comforting embrace, her face burying itself in his chest.
She cries into his embrace.
Kane holds her, offering silent solace, allowing her to release the sorrow she has carried, unspoken, throughout their tumultuous journey.
"This isn't just about me," he thinks.
He looks into the skies with her in his arms, "We will get through this, together".
MEANWHILE
Gwendolyn walks with hurried steps in the lit halls of the castle. Magic orbs and torches hang from the walls to illuminate the corridors of the castle.
Guards standing guard at key points, bowing at her presence while she walks with bent brows.
Her feet quickens, her feet carrying her with a sudden urgency, a swiftness that leaves the guards barely a glimpse of her retreating figure.
She dashes past them like a phantom until she reaches the heavy oak door of her private chambers.
The room beyond is plunged in darkness, the magical lights dimming in her presence, an unspoken command.
"Willow," she calls out, her voice echoing in the sudden stillness.
And like a creature born of the shadows, the snake-kin materialises from the deeper recesses of the room.
Her head is bowed low before the queen, "The maids have just taken the Rolandian's meals to their chambers. I hope you have done what I commanded," she stares intensely at the dark-scaled woman.
"Yes my Queen. Your wish has been fulfilled", she bows.
A chilling smile spreads across Gwendolyn's face, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"Good. If Alaric won't do what must be done, I will".
A low, unsettling laughter fills the room, a sound that speaks not of joy, but of a dark and burgeoning madness.