Elsewhere, under the high marble spires of Lunaris, the Knight Department hummed with anxiety.
Three young men faced the commanding officer's desk, soaked and frantic. Their skin was ashen, their speech shaking.
"I promise you," one of them urged. "It was dark magic! —he cured the kid's arm like it was nothing… but it wasn't light magic. It was something else!"
The knight behind the desk scrunched up his face. "Impossible. There has not been a dark magic practitioner on this planet in more than a decade."
"We're telling the truth!" the second boy wailed. "You must believe us. The magic—it turned black. It consumed our spells like they were nothing."
A second officer moved forward, arms folded.
"If there was dark magic," he said, "then the border detection stones would've blackened. But they remain red. Stable."
The third knight broke the silence, icily. "And if a child born with dark magic were born within our borders… we'd already have handled it."
The three boys were silent. One of the officers gestured.
"Home. We'll handle it from here."
With reluctance, the boys departed, the thick wooden doors creaking shut behind them.
With the room now empty, one of the knights bent in close to the commander and whispered, "What if it is true? What if a Dravencian came across the border?"
The commander's face darkened.
"Then it can mean only one thing…" he whispered. "Dravencia is provoking us — placing one of their own within our kingdom. And if it is a dark magic practitioner… then war is close on its heels."
—
The soft velvet drapes rustled gently in the wind from the open balcony, the moonlight spilling across the black marble floor.
Within the imperial bedroom of Dravencia, the Crown Prince remained seated in silence.
Ignareth — the Emperor's eldest son, knight commander, and the only practitioner of the ancient ice magic of the Empire — reclined in a velvet armchair beside the fire. His silver hair cascaded down his back in the warm glow of the flames as he cradled his teacup, his face impassive. Cold beauty adhered to him like a second nature.
A knock sounded.
"Enter," he murmured indolently.
One of his knights entered, armor jingling. He bowed hastily. "Your Highness… news has come from the Kingdom of Lunaris. They think that Dravencia has sent knights over the border. They think we're planning evil against their capital."
Ignareth raised an eyebrow and set his cup carefully on the saucer.
"A jest," he replied flatly. "Do they believe that we would squander our knights on such a paltry diversion? We don't even have the pretext to burn that shining wood of theirs. How dull."
The knight stalled. "They're asking for an envoy to clarify the miscommunication."
Ignareth rose to his feet slowly, his large presence dominating the room like a winter gale. "Then I shall go."
The knight blinked. "But… His Highness Prince James already offered to deal with the issue."
Ignareth's eyes narrowed. His voice was icy and cutting.
"Tell him to mind his affairs."
The knight shifted uneasily. "He's already gone, Your Highness. He went over the border this morning."
Silence.
Ignareth's face darkened as he turned away from the fire. He strode to the window, his eyes looking out over the mountains, the wind whipping the tips of his hair like threads of silver.
"Who let him go?" he growled under his breath.
Not waiting for a reply, he stormed past the knight and out the door, his boots clicking onto the polished floor with determination.
As he strode the hallway, his mind seethed.
That worthless piece of garbage stands in my way again. Always dashing forward, always playing the hero. He doesn't even possess our father's power. No bloodline strength. No frost. Just insipid smiles and naive ideals.
His fists clenched.
"James," he growled. "Leave me alone."
—
The wheels of the carriage slowed, halted in their gentle motion.
The door squeaked open, and a man stepped out under the gray afternoon sky. He had a black hooded cloak wrapped around him, the hem lightly speckled with dirt from the road. As he pushed back his hood from his head, sunlight caught his golden-blond hair and the pale blue of his eyes for a brief moment, bright, watchful, and serene.
He glanced around.
The village was tiny, peaceful, situated between gentle hills and ringed with trees that were just coming into flower. Children darted by with baskets slung over their arms, villagers saluted each other in whispers, and a little farther down the cobbled road, there stood an ancient chapel, the doors flung wide.
Attracted by some instinct or motive, the man headed towards it.
Inside, the pews were almost filled. Heads were bowed in silence, hands clasped. The soft hum of prayer hung in the air, and the smell of burning incense clung heavy, soothing.
He slipped into a pew toward the back, unseen.
Beside him sat another young man — a bit younger, maybe seventeen. Black clothes covered him, posture erect, hands folded in quiet prayer. His dark hair curled a little over his eyes. He did not glance about, did not speak. He was serene… and remote.
James peeked sideways at him, then bowed his head as well, adhering to the custom.
He didn't know why, but there was something familiar about the stranger sitting next to him. Not by appearance, but by presence. Like they were two distinct stars circling the same quiet.
As the prayer finished and the bells tolled softly, the young man standing next to him rose with no word. When he turned, James got a better look at his face. The stranger glanced back, for a fleeting moment.
Their eyes met.
Dark, stormy eyes and gentle blue. A pause of quiet between them.
But the boy — Sebastian — broke away first. Silently, he turned and exited the chapel.
James did not move, watching him go. And then quietly rising, following after. Curiosity burned in his chest like fire.
He watched Sebastian take a side road and come to a small stone house at the end of the village. He went in without glancing back.
James stood there for an instant, committing the house to memory.
In going, he patted his greatcoat pocket and drew out a crumpled letter. He read the address in neat script — and glanced up once more at the very same house.
.So it is him," he whispered.