Solvane's days passed in a monotonous rhythm—training, memorizing endless strategies, attending lectures on diplomacy, and listening to complaints about the affairs of the realm. Every lesson seemed the same, every problem a repetition of the last. He knew it was necessary, but to him, it was painfully dull. He sometimes wondered if this was what it meant to be trapped by royalty—an endless cycle of learning but never truly living.
Today, however, he broke from the routine. Wrapped in heavy robes and a deep hood, Solvane wandered the outer corridors of the palace alone. His thick fur, always a symbol of his lineage, was concealed beneath the cloth. He had dismissed his guards with the excuse of seeking his father, though the truth was far simpler: he craved freedom. Even the illusion of solitude was precious.
Yet, the further he went, the more unease gnawed at him. What if someone still recognized him? The hood helped, of course, but a careless slip of fabric could betray his identity. Still, he reassured himself. Among Aspers, golden fur was common enough. In fact, many desperate youths dyed theirs that shade to trick and rob nobles. If anyone noticed his, they might think him another street rogue. For once, his princely features could serve as a disguise rather than a curse.
Turning a narrow corner, Solvane stopped short. Before him stood a secluded structure he had never paid attention to before—the guards' bathhouse. His first thought was simple curiosity, until his gaze drifted to the sign above the archway. His stomach tightened. This was not the men's bathhouse. It was the women's.
He froze, his mind racing. He shouldn't be here. Male and female guards were strictly separated, their routines divided to avoid scandal or temptation. To even be near this place without permission could bring punishment.
But he hesitated.
No one was in sight. The courtyard behind him lay empty, the corridor ahead silent. Even the breeze seemed to hush itself, as though daring him to move forward.
Against his better judgment, he stepped closer.
At first, he saw only steam drifting lazily from within, the faint sound of water sloshing and feminine voices laughing faintly through the walls. Then his eyes landed on her.
A yellow-furred Asper, no older than himself, stood near the entrance. Her body was lean, hardened by training, yet carried a natural grace. She peeled away the straps of her armor with a soldier's ease, oblivious to being watched.
Solvane's breath caught in his throat. His conscience flared immediately.
I shouldn't look. It's wrong… it's so wrong.
His pulse quickened. He clenched his fists as if by force he could drag his eyes away. But before he could turn, a voice—low, rough, and unmistakably close—answered the thought he had never spoken aloud.
"Of course it is wrong."
Solvane spun around, terror surging like fire through his veins.
"AAAAAGHHHH!"
The scream ripped from him before he could stop it, echoing violently against the stone corridor.
Below, chaos erupted. Shouts rang out from the bathhouse, sharp and furious. Steel hissed from scabbards as female guards stormed toward the entrance, their voices rising in alarm.
"If it's you again, old man," one of them bellowed, her words carrying the weight of command, "I swear I'll cut off your legs and feed them to you!"
She emerged into view, towering above the others. Her presence was commanding, her features striking with a beauty edged in danger. The way her hand gripped her blade made it clear: this was no empty threat.
But Solvane never had the chance to meet her gaze.
In the blink of an eye, the old man's gnarled hand clamped around his arm, and the world tilted violently. The ground vanished beneath his feet. His stomach lurched as the wind roared in his ears, and then—suddenly—he was crouched on the tiled roof of the bathhouse.
The transition had been instant. Impossible.
Solvane staggered, struggling for breath. His heart hammered against his ribs, his vision spinning.
How? How is he so strong? I definitely weigh more than him… yet he carried me as though I were nothing.
He glanced at Fil, the old man shrouded in his tattered hood. But Fil's attention wasn't on him. Not at all.
The female guards below had settled, unaware of the two figures perched above. They cursed and laughed among themselves, dismissing the noise as the old man's trickery. The towering woman barked orders, restoring discipline.
Solvane tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to calm. He turned to speak—to demand answers—but the words caught in his throat.
The old man's face was tilted downward, eyes locked on the scene below. His lips hung slightly open, the faintest glimmer of moisture tracing the corner of his mouth.
Solvane froze.
Is… is he drooling?