It had been two days since her youngest son, Raezel, left the halls of Thaimera to live among mortals in Velmor.
Two days since his presence no longer filled the grand corridors of her domain, since the ever-watchful Nihaga had taken up his silent duty beside the boy.
Two days since Medusa had last seen him.
Her palace, vast and untouched by time, had not changed in his absence. The golden halls still stood, the towering statues of past victories still loomed, and the ever-burning torches still flickered with their enchanted glow.
And yet—everything felt different.
Medusa sat upon her throne, draped in flowing obsidian silk, her serpents hissing softly as they shifted in irritation. She had known this day would come—Raezel had always been different, always searching for something beyond what his bloodline had given him.
She had accepted it.
She had let him go.
Then why was she so... restless?
Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the carved armrest of her throne. Her golden eyes, which had once petrified kings, now simply stared into the distance, unblinking.
A mother's instinct was not so easily silenced.
And worse—her kingdom was not silent about his absence either.
Nyssa adjusted the sleeves of her midnight-black robes as she walked through the now-oddly quiet halls of Thaimera. The lack of Raezel's presence was not something she cared to admit affected her.
But it did.
She wasn't sentimental, nor was she the type to wallow in emotions. However, she was observant. And what she observed was unsettling.
The entire palace was uneasy.
The air felt heavier, not with fear, but with something unspoken. The servants moved with an odd stiffness, the guards exchanged glances when they thought no one was watching, and the warriors—men who would face entire armies without flinching—seemed strangely restless.
They were all thinking the same thing.
Their prince was gone.
And mortals were the ones looking after him.
A flicker of amusement crossed her lips. Mortals. The very idea seemed ridiculous to them.
As she passed the grand dining hall, she spotted a gathering—no, a silent protest.
The caretakers, the cooks, the warriors—they all stood, whispering amongst themselves.
The moment they saw her, they straightened, their expressions carefully neutral.
Nyssa smirked. "Are we holding a rebellion?"
A few servants flinched, but the oldest caretaker, an elderly woman who had served since Nyssa's birth, stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Forgive us, Princess Nyssa," she said. "But we... we cannot accept this."
Nyssa raised an eyebrow. "Accept what?"
"The prince," another voice spoke—one of the palace chefs, his arms crossed in discontent. "He is out there, living among mortals. Eating mortal food. Being cared for by mortal hands."
The horror in his voice would have been amusing if it weren't so dramatic.
A warrior—a man who had sworn his life to Medusa's children—stepped forward. "Princess, we do not question Queen Medusa's will," he said firmly. "But how could she allow our youngest prince to live among those beneath him?"
Another spoke. "They are weak. What if they cannot protect him?"
The oldest caretaker shook her head. "And they do not know him! Our prince is reserved, he does not voice his needs. How can mere mortals understand him as we do?"
"And the food," the chef muttered darkly. "What if he is eating something bland?"
Nyssa stared at them.
Then she laughed.
It wasn't cruel, but it was sharp enough to make some of them stiffen.
"Oh, so this is treason by overprotectiveness?" she mused. "How amusing."
The caretakers looked ashamed. The warriors looked indignant. The cooks just looked deeply offended at the mere thought of Raezel eating subpar cuisine.
Nyssa crossed her arms, tilting her head. "You do realize Raezel chose this?"
Silence.
She sighed. "I won't lie, I don't particularly like the idea either. But he has made his choice. And if there's one thing you all should know—" her golden eyes darkened slightly, her smirk sharpening, "—Medusa's children are not so easily harmed."
The warriors exchanged glances. The caretakers hesitated.
Then the chef grumbled, "I still don't trust mortal food."
Nyssa chuckled. "Neither do I."
A row of palace staff stood before Medusa.
Silent.
Still.
Judging.
Medusa, the Queen of Thaimera, one of the most feared beings in existence, was being silently judged by her own people.
Her fingers taped against her throne. Slowly. Rhythmic.
She exhaled. "Speak."
The head caretaker stepped forward, her elderly face lined with years of unwavering service. "My Queen," she began, her voice carefully measured, "we... do not doubt you. But we are concerned."
Medusa did not blink. "Concerned."
"Yes, My Queen," another voice chimed in—one of the warriors this time. "Prince Raezel is strong, but he is still our prince. And yet, he is out there—"
"—Among mortals." The chef finished bitterly.
Medusa's serpents shifted slightly, sensing her amusement.
They spoke as if she had abandoned her child in a wasteland. As if Raezel, her son—who could bring down kingdoms if he wished—was a defenseless babe in the arms of cruel strangers.
The absurdity of it all almost made her smile.
Almost.
"And what," she said slowly, her voice a dangerous lull, "would you have me do?"
The room tensed.
No one dared to suggest forcing Raezel to return. That would be a direct defiance of his will. And none of them would dare suggest going against their prince.
And yet—
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desperation.
Medusa sighed, rubbing her temple. "He will return when he wishes," she said simply.
"But what if he doesn't?" someone muttered.
Medusa's eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Then I will simply bring the realm to its knees until he does.
But she did not say it.
Instead, she exhaled. "If he does not return soon, I imagine some of you will pass out from sheer agony."
A few warriors actually nodded in agreement.
Medusa closed her eyes. This was ridiculous. Her people, the most ruthless warriors in all realms, were behaving as if their prince had been tossed into a storm and left for dead.