Lilian sat quietly by the bedside, her fingers laced neatly on her lap, her gaze fixed on Jasmine's pale, sleeping face.
What could have caused this? she wondered. It wasn't easy for someone of Jasmine's strength to simply drain all her mana. Even powerful spells couldn't have done that, not unless she had been recklessly pushing herself, which Jasmine never did.
Lilian's brow furrowed slightly. Her mind drifted to a darker thought: the royal family.
There were those among them who didn't like Jasmine. That much was no secret. They often made a habit of scorning her, sometimes behind her back, sometimes not. For reasons that varied. Her unnatural appearance, her quiet nature, her unusual abilities, her uncanny intellect, or her mother.
Could one of them have done something? Lilian wondered. Mana poisoning… or some kind of spell meant to drain her energy?
The thought lingered, unsettling and sharp.
But after a moment, she exhaled softly and shook her head. No. Even if some of them despised Jasmine, none would be foolish enough to try something so reckless. Not against the emperor's own daughter. The punishment for such a crime would be unthinkable.
Still, she couldn't shake the thought entirely. She tucked it away, just in case.
Her eyes drifted back to her sleeping lady. Then what could it be…
After a long silence, Lilian sighed quietly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She turned her gaze toward the large windows overlooking Jasmine's private courtyard. The afternoon light spilled across the polished floor, warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the chill that lingered in her chest.
"Whatever it is," she murmured under her breath, "we'll find out soon enough."
When she looked back, Jasmine's breathing had steadied, her color a little less pale.
At least she seemed to be recovering, even if only a little.
Lilian smiled faintly. "That's good, my lady," she whispered.
And with that, she settled back into her chair, keeping silent watch as the young princess slept on.
...
The next morning, the palace stirred with quiet purpose.
William, eldest son of Emperor Elowen, stood before the large table in his war chamber, scanning the maps laid out across its surface. It had been only a day since his return from the southern continent, but for him, rest had lasted long enough.
Duty called once more.
He dipped his quill into the inkwell and began writing, his script steady and precise. Line after line filled the parchment, a list of names. Trusted mages. Veterans of his southern campaign. Most of them had fought under his command before, and he intended to bring them north as reinforcements.
This time, though, it wasn't war that awaited them.
Roderick, his younger brother, was already stationed at the northern border, working to ease tensions with the elves. The situation was fragile, but not yet violent. William's mission was one of presence, a show of strength and support, not aggression.
Still, he knew better than to go unprepared.
He signed the bottom of the parchment with a practiced flourish and handed it to one of his retainers standing nearby. "Deliver this to each company commander listed," William instructed. "Tell them to assemble their units by sundown and be ready to move at dawn."
"Yes, my lord," the retainer replied with a deep bow before leaving swiftly.
William then turned to his desk, methodically checking the contents of his storage ring. Weapons, enchanted armor, recovery potions, and greater mana stones all accounted for. He added a few sets of clothes and, with a small smile, slipped in a selection of fine food and wine.
"Roderick will appreciate this," he murmured to himself. "Anything's better than those tasteless rations the fort cooks make."
Satisfied, he closed his hand over the ring, watching it shimmer briefly before its contents vanished into the pocket dimension.
That done, he straightened his cloak and made his way toward the throne room. Though he wouldn't depart until morning, he preferred to settle formalities early. Being prepared was a habit he had never shaken.
As he approached the grand double doors, the imperial guards recognized him immediately and stepped aside.
"His Highness, Prince William," one announced, before opening the doors wide.
Inside, the vast throne room was filled with light. Golden pillars rose high into the arched ceiling, and the emperor sat upon his throne, regal, calm, and commanding. Before him stood the imperial council, twelve men and women of power and influence. Their voices fell silent as William entered.
He crossed the marble floor and bowed deeply. "Father."
Emperor Elowen inclined his head slightly. "William. You've returned sooner than expected."
Even though he had already spoken to his father about his return the day before, it was important that he speak of the matter again before the council, though only in passing, to keep them up to speed and have them take note of his achievements.
He knew that they would all be going to check on the details of his campaign once they concluded the meeting here.
"Yes, Your Majesty," William replied. "The campaign in the south concluded without issue. I've come to inform you, I intend to depart for the northern border tomorrow at dawn. I'll be taking a small company of mages to support Roderick and maintain the peace with the elves."
Elowen regarded him quietly for a moment, then gave a single approving nod. "Very well. You have my leave."
William bowed again. "Thank you, Father."
With that, he turned and made his way out of the throne room, leaving the emperor and his council to resume their discussions.
The heavy doors closed behind him with a soft echo.
William exhaled quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Tomorrow, his next campaign would begin, one of diplomacy, not war.
Or so he hoped.
...
That evening, the sky over the imperial capital burned gold and crimson as the sun dipped toward the horizon.
In his chambers, William moved about with quiet purpose, making his final preparations for the journey north. A large pack sat open on his desk, and beside it, his sword lay gleaming under the light of a floating orb. He checked everything one last time: spare potions, scrolls, food rations, maps. The more he prepared, the less room there was for uncertainty.
He adjusted his cloak, glanced once at the fading light beyond the balcony, and allowed himself a brief moment of calm. Tomorrow, they would depart. He had every intention of keeping things at the border peaceful, or as peaceful as the elves would allow.
Just as he was fastening his scabbard, a soft knock came at his door.
"Your Highness," a retainer said as he entered and bowed. "Forgive the interruption, but… it concerns Princess Jasmine."
William turned to him sharply. "Jasmine?"
"Yes, my lord. Word from the inner palace says she's fallen ill. The court healer was summoned earlier today."
William's brow furrowed. "Ill?"
He had only seen her once since his return from the south, not unusual, given how reclusive she tended to be. Still, it wasn't like her to fall sick.
After a moment of silence, he nodded curtly. "Very well. I'll see her myself."
He dismissed the retainer and left his chambers, his stride quick and purposeful.
By the time he reached Jasmine's quarters, the sun was setting, the corridors bathed in dusky orange light. He stopped before the familiar carved doors and knocked lightly.
A moment later, the door opened, and there stood Lilian.
William offered her a polite nod. "Lilian."
"Your Highness," she said, bowing respectfully.
Even so, William could feel the quiet strength in her presence. He was well aware of who she really was, or rather, what she was capable of. A master-level mage serving as a handmaid. It had always puzzled him, though he supposed his father had his reasons. Emperor Elowen rarely did anything without one.
"Is Jasmine inside?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Highness," Lilian replied evenly. "But Her Ladyship is unwell and has requested not to be disturbed."
William blinked, a little taken aback by her directness. Most servants would have simply stepped aside and let him in, regardless of the princess's wishes. But Lilian stood her ground, composed and unflinching.
Before he could reply, a faint voice drifted from inside the room.
"Who is it?"
Lilian turned her head slightly. "It is His Highness, Prince William, my lady."
There was a pause, the quiet hum of evening filling the space between words.
Then Jasmine's weak voice came again. "...Let him in."
Lilian inclined her head, trying her best to hide the surprise from showing on her face. Her lady's response was unexpected. By all rights, there was a high chance Jasmine would turn him away, so this was out of her expectations. "Yes, my lady."
She opened the door wide and stepped aside, bowing slightly as she gestured for William to enter.
William gave a small nod of thanks before stepping inside.
The room was dim, bathed in the fading light of dusk. Books lined the walls, and the air carried a faint trace of lavender. On the bed, Jasmine sat half-upright, pale and fragile-looking, a stark contrast to the sharp, composed sister he remembered.
William's expression softened, concern flickering in his eyes.
Lilian helped Jasmine sit up by shielding her back with some of the cushions on her bed.
Jasmine sat against the pile of cushions, her long hair unbound, falling across her shoulders. Her skin was pale, even more so than usual, William noticed, and though she managed a small smile, he could see the faint tremor in her hands.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his tone gentle but steady.
"I'm doing better than I was earlier," she replied, voice soft but composed. It was an obvious understatement.
William said nothing to challenge her. He merely nodded, his sharp eyes taking in the lingering feverish sheen on her skin, the faint shadows beneath her eyes.
"I heard you'd taken ill," he said quietly. "I thought I'd see for myself."
"That was kind of you, brother," she murmured, then, almost as if to steer the topic away from herself, added, "How are your duties faring? I heard you returned from the southern campaign."
William exhaled, leaning slightly against the table beside her bed. "Tiring, as always. But the campaign ended as expected — the southern tribes have been pacified. Nothing too remarkable."
"I see." Her gaze drifted, unfocused, to the window where the last light of day lingered.
The truth was, her mind wasn't here. Despite the dull ache in her head and the weight pressing on her chest, fragments of her dream, the battlefield, the clash of steel, his death, haunted her every thought. She tried to push it aside, to focus on his words instead.
Her tone was calm when she spoke again, though she chose her words with care. "And… what of the North?"
William raised a brow. "The North?"
She nodded slightly, her eyes on him now. "I heard Roderick was sent there. To handle the elves."
"Yes," he said. "The situation's tense, but still stable. I'm leaving tomorrow morning to join him, a small reinforcement detachment. Just to keep the peace."
Her fingers froze against the sheet. The calm mask she wore faltered, just for a heartbeat.
"…Tomorrow?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost too quiet.
"Yes," William confirmed, not noticing the sudden stiffness in her tone. "At first light. Nothing serious, just precautionary measures."
But Jasmine's pupils had already narrowed into sharp pinpricks. The blood drained from her face, and her chest tightened. Her breath came unevenly, the edges of her dream flickering to life again in her mind, the valley, the armies, the spear.
Her brother's death.
She stared at him for a long moment, her heart pounding.