Emery's POV
The air in Solara always felt thinner when the King's mood soured, and lately, it had been a blizzard of unseen anxieties. Emery felt it in the way the guards walked their rounds, stiffer and more numerous, in the nervous glances exchanged between servants, and in the heightened frequency of the hooded Palace Seers, their silent patrols like a cold breath on her neck. Her internal battle to suppress the raw magic was unrelenting. Every flicker of fear, every spark of frustration, every surge of despair, had to be crushed before it could bloom into the violet-black fire that threatened to consume her. She was a pressure cooker, the lid held down by sheer, desperate will.
Her fruitless search for the old stable hand had only intensified her feeling of isolation. He was her only link to understanding, to a past she couldn't remember. The amnesia, a dense, dark fog, stubbornly clung to her mind. Sometimes, a phantom scent or a fleeting sound would brush against the edges of her consciousness – a faint echo of laughter, the distant chime of a bell – but they were like trying to grasp smoke. The dark magic that had stolen her memories was a relentless guardian, refusing to yield. It was a constant reminder of how formidable her enemies were, even the invisible ones.
The only relief, a twisted one, came in the library. Not the King's grand, forbidden archives, but a small, dusty collection of discarded books in a forgotten corner of the servants' quarters. These were the books deemed too old, too damaged, or too 'unsuitable' for the palace's main collection.
Amongst them, she'd begun to find fragments. Tales of ancient Solara, before Karin's reign, before the great purge. They spoke in veiled terms of "the Sky-Weavers" and "the Earth-Whisperers," of an era when Solara was vibrant, its power intertwined with its people, not suppressed. No explicit mention of 'white magic,' but the words, the imagery, the subtle sense of a world connected to raw forces – it spoke to something deep within her. The danger of being caught reading them was immense, but the thirst for knowledge, for answers about the growing fire in her veins, was a stronger hunger than any fear. She learned to steal moments, hiding books under her pallet, devouring words by the weak light of a stolen candle stub.
Today, the palace hummed with a different kind of tension. A distant, muffled cheer had rippled through the outer courtyards earlier, a sound rarely heard within Solara's somber walls. Whispers had followed: "The Prince returns." "Lord Thorne, home from Valoria."
Emery didn't know much about Prince Thorne, only that he was the King's son, a warrior, and had been away for what felt like an eternity, battling the defiant city-state of Valoria. She pictured another version of Veronica, perhaps older, more severe. She didn't expect him to be any different. No one in this palace was.
As she emptied slop buckets into the refuse chute near the main kitchens, the sounds of approaching fanfare grew louder. Drums thumped a martial beat, horns blared a triumphant, if somewhat forced, melody. The kitchens, usually a chaotic symphony, fell into a hushed anticipation. Servants peeked through cracks in doors, their faces etched with a mix of fear and excitement. The Prince's return was an event, a momentary crack in the monotonous oppression.
Emery kept her head down, emptying the last bucket, her back to the main corridor. She just wanted to finish her chore and disappear before she could be spotted. A rush of cold air, suddenly devoid of the kitchen's warmth, signaled the opening of the heavy outer doors. Footsteps, heavy and numerous, echoed closer.
A different kind of presence filled the corridor – not the light, venomous step of Veronica, nor the grim, calculated stride of the guards. This was deliberate, grounded, almost… weighty. She heard the hushed murmurs of the kitchen staff, suddenly bowing low.
"Your Highness," a chorus of voices.
Emery remained bent, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the stone. If she was insignificant enough, maybe she wouldn't be noticed.
Thorne's POV
The roar of the Solaran faithful had been a balm to Thorne's soul, a stark contrast to the grim, endless skirmishes in Valoria. He had returned, victorious, albeit with a victory hard-won and costly. The city-state was subdued, its defenses shattered, its leaders brought to heel. But the faces of his men, hollowed by the brutal campaign, haunted him. His father's tactics, while effective, were merciless, leaving little room for honor or mercy. Thorne found himself increasingly at odds with King Karin's vision of conquest, a chasm growing between them that felt wider than any battlefield.
He moved through the grand corridors of the palace, the cheers of the outer courts fading, replaced by the hushed, almost reverent silence of the inner sanctums. Courtiers bowed deeply, servants pressed themselves against the walls, their heads down. He acknowledged them with a nod, a brief, almost imperceptible gesture, a stark contrast to his father's imperious silence. Thorne was a prince of Solara, bound by duty, but he carried the weariness of a man who had seen too much blood spilled, too much life wasted for a crown's ambition.
His boots, still caked with a thin layer of Valorian dust beneath the meticulously cleaned leather, echoed on the polished marble. He was headed towards the throne room, prepared for the inevitable, strained reunion with his parents.
King Karin would demand accounts, details of the subjugation, metrics of dominance. Queen Kolin would offer platitudes, her eyes, like his father's, cold and assessing.
As he neared the main kitchens, the scent of roasting meat and spices grew stronger. He rarely ventured into these lower, utilitarian parts of the palace, his life confined to the polished upper floors. But something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A small figure, clad in the drab grey of a palace orphan, was bent double, scrubbing at a refuse chute. Her threadbare cloak was a stark contrast to the opulence around them, her bare feet startling against the cold stone floor.
He halted, his retinue pausing behind him. The girl's movements were precise, almost mechanical, imbued with a desperate efficiency. He saw the raw, chapped skin of her hands, the visible strain in her thin shoulders. He'd seen hardship on the battlefield, but this was a different kind of quiet suffering. It pricked at something within him.
He had expected the palace to be exactly as he'd left it – a cold, controlled machine. This girl, in her stark vulnerability, was an unexpected flaw in the perfect, oppressive tapestry. Her posture, hunched and defensive, spoke of years of being overlooked, or worse, targeted.
His eyes narrowed as he took in her profile, partially obscured by strands of dark, dull hair. There was a fragile defiance in the line of her jaw, even in her bowed head. He saw no fear in her posture, only a rigid, almost superhuman control. It was not the blank emptiness of a defeated spirit, but the suppressed tension of a coiled spring.
"What is your name?" Thorne's voice, accustomed to issuing commands on the battlefield, was surprisingly soft, yet it cut through the silence of the corridor like a blade.
The girl flinched, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor that rippled through her slight frame. She froze, her scrubbing rag still. Then, slowly, with a careful, measured pace that spoke volumes of enforced obedience, she straightened.
Emery's POV
The voice was deep, resonant, and unfamiliar. It wasn't the King's, nor Veronica's, nor Mistress Elara's. It was calmer, yet held an undeniable authority. Her blood ran cold. She had been seen.
"What is your name?" she heard from behind.
Panic clawed at her throat, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. Don't feel. Don't react. Don't let anything out. She could feel the familiar thrum, a faint, dangerous warmth, begin to pulse in her palms. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her skin, anchoring herself to the pain.
Slowly, she straightened, her body screaming at her to remain invisible. She kept her eyes down, fixed on the polished boots standing before her. They were well-made, riding boots, and they gleamed. Not Veronica's cruel, pointed ones. Not a guard's heavy, blunt ones. These boots were worn, but in a way that spoke of long journeys, of purpose beyond the palace walls.
"Your Highness," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, trained to be unremarkable.
"Your name," the voice repeated, a hint of impatience, but also something else – curiosity? – in its tone.
Emery forced herself to lift her gaze, slowly, reluctantly, past the boots, past the strong, leather-clad legs, past the richly embroidered tunic, until her eyes met his.
And for the first time, Emery saw Prince Thorne.
He was nothing like she'd imagined. Not cold like the King, not cruel like Veronica. His face was rugged, worn by sun and battle, not the pampered pallor of the palace. His eyes were not ice-blue, but a deep, earthy brown, and in them, she saw not judgment, but a strange, unsettling intensity. He was studying her, truly seeing her, in a way no one in Solara ever had.
For a fraction of a second, something shifted within Emery. A sudden, overwhelming urge to tell him. To confess. To show him the raw power that gnawed at her, the fear that haunted her. The suppression almost broke. A blinding flash, a memory fragment – not clear, but a jolt of warmth, a scent of something green and living, not snow. It was gone before she could grasp it, leaving behind a faint ache in her temple, a whisper of dark magic's insidious hold.
She squeezed her fists harder, cutting off the nascent surge of emotion. No. Dangerous. He's the King's son.
"Emery, Your Highness," she managed, her voice steadier now, stripped of all emotion.
Thorne's gaze lingered, searching her face, as if trying to decipher a complex riddle. He noticed the dullness in her eyes, a shadow that seemed too deep for a girl her age. He saw the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her clenched hands. He saw the forced blankness, a mask worn too tightly. It was a look he knew from the battlefield – the eyes of a soldier who had seen too much, done too much, and was trying desperately to hide the scars.
A courtier, one of Thorne's own captains, stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Prince Thorne, His Majesty awaits you. He sent word for your immediate presence in the throne room."
Thorne didn't break eye contact with Emery immediately. He seemed to weigh the unspoken words, the pressing duty against the unsettling enigma before him. Finally, with a sigh that was almost imperceptible, he broke his gaze.
"Very well, Captain," Thorne said, his voice returning to its usual timbre, authoritative yet tinged with a weariness that was almost palpable. He took one last, lingering look at Emery, a look that spoke of a question left unanswered, a curiosity suddenly ignited.
"You may return to your duties, Emery," he said, and then, without another word, he continued his journey towards the throne room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the long corridor, his retinue following in his wake.
Thorne's POV
He walked, but his mind remained fixed on the girl. Emery. Her eyes, storm grey and shadowed, had held something – a depth, a hidden resilience – that belied her subservient posture. He'd seen fear in a thousand forms, but hers was different; it was an internal struggle, a constant suppression. The sudden stillness in her, the way she seemed to contain herself, was unlike any servant he'd ever encountered. She felt… tightly wound. And for a moment, when their eyes met, he'd felt a strange pull, a sense of something profound lurking beneath her forced meekness. It was unsettling.
He dismissed the feeling.
He had more pressing matters. The King awaited, no doubt eager to dissect the Valorian victory, to gloat, to find fault. Thorne steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation with his father, pushing the image of the orphan girl to the back of his mind. He was a warrior, a prince. He had a kingdom to serve, a demanding father to placate, and a war to conclude. A quiet servant girl, however intriguing, was not his concern.
Yet, as he approached the grand doors of the throne room, a faint, almost imperceptible scent seemed to cling to him – the smell of something faintly scorched, like distant embers, mingled with the lingering chill of Solara. He brushed his hand across his tunic, but there was nothing there. Just a phantom scent, a strange, lingering echo of the unsettling encounter.
Emery's POV
Emery stood frozen, watching the Prince's retreating back until the last echo of his footsteps died away. Her heart was pounding, not just from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of that brief encounter. He had seen her. Truly seen her. And in that moment, the tightly constructed walls around her emotions had almost buckled. The warning, the memory fragment, the raw power thrumming under her skin – it had all surged to the surface.
She pressed her palm to her forehead, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes. The amnesia had clamped down harder, almost as a defense mechanism, erasing the fleeting image of green and warmth. It was a frustrating, terrifying battle, trying to recall what was deliberately hidden.
The kitchen staff, who had remained frozen in a collective bow, slowly began to stir, muttering amongst themselves. They cast furtive glances at Emery, a mixture of awe and suspicion in their eyes. The Prince had spoken to her. That alone was an event.
Emery quickly turned back to her work, scrubbing with renewed fervor, as if she could erase the encounter as easily as she could clean the stone. But the scent of scorched air, though faint, seemed to linger around her, a secret brand.
She needed to understand. The old man was gone. The palace was a cage of watchful eyes. But she had the books, the veiled tales of Sky-Weavers and Earth-Whisperers. And now, she had the memory of Thorne's eyes, a fleeting moment of being seen, that both terrified and compelled her. Her life had irrevocably shifted, not just in the shadow of a hidden power, but under the unwelcome, yet undeniable, gaze of the Prince. But if she had her ways, she'd play a different tune for her destiny.