Days grew into months. The once-stoic assassin, born of ice and silence, began to thaw. Leo called her El-e-boon, a name on his lips like a sacred hymn, as though she were a gift from the gods sent solely to fulfil his yearning. And though she had never known a warmth such as his, she did not shy away from it. She let it surround her. She allowed herself to hope.
But hope, in her world, was a fragile thing.
That fragile thing shattered the day she held him in her arms, the blood running through his head was still warm. His eyes had gone glassy. His breath was shallow. Her name was his last word. They killed him to hurt her. They succeeded. In that moment, Ella Boone was consumed by rage. The West Organisation was swept away in a tide of vengeance. No mercy. No survivors. When the blood ceased to flow and silence reigned over the building, her own body was among the dead.
Meanwhile, within the marbled halls of Berly Palace, seat of the Astandra Empire, a great stir of commotion swept the royal household. Word spread swiftly through the colonnaded corridors and gilded chambers; His Highness, Crown Prince Flavian, had awakened. Within a day of his return to the capital, the prince had opened his eyes, and the palace breathed again.
A chorus of relief followed: from the Lords in the court to the lowest pages in the servants' wing. But none more than Their Imperial Majesties, the Emperor and Empress, who received the tidings with trembling gratitude.
When Anton and Elzar had returned, bearing the unconscious forms of both Flavian and Leesa, a tremor of dread had seized the palace. Physicians were summoned without delay, and servants were dispatched with haste to prepare the chambers and bring every comfort at their disposal. The prince, it was said, had been rescued from fire and sea alike, though few dared ask what terrible journey had brought him to such ruin.
Leesa, however, remained unmoved, as though lost in a sleep no man could reach. She was laid in her own chamber, a soft veil drawn over her still face. There, Weinne remained faithfully at her side, not departing even for sleep or sustenance. Anton and Elzar visited daily without fail.
As the days passed, Flavian, though not fully restored, began to move about his chambers, his heart restless. He took to spending long hours beside Leesa's bed, parchment and scrolls in his lap, sealing edicts and signing royal decrees in the quiet presence of the one he feared he might lose. He would look up from time to time, gaze upon her pale, silent form, and sigh. A thousand times he willed her to open her eyes, but they remained closed.
It was on the seventh day of her slumber that Jeremy of the mage tower arrived, summoned by the whispers that had travelled beyond the capital. He found Flavian seated behind his desk, half-dressed in ceremonial robes, ink staining his cuffs, his eyes shadowed with worry. Jeremy, ever formal, took the seat across from him, sipping the tea provided. But his calm soon gave way. He set his cup down with a clatter that rang through the study.
"So," he said darkly, "you allowed yourself to be taken, abducted no less, on the whim of helping Lady Marlene recover fragments of her past?" His voice thundered through the chamber.
Flavian, caught off guard, lowered his eyes and pretended to return to his parchment.
"I asked you a question," Jeremy snapped, striking the desk with his palm. Scrolls leapt at the force of it. "Answer me, you eccentric idiot!"
"I... I am sorry," Flavian stammered, the heir to the empire reduced to a guilt-ridden boy.
"Do you understand the peril you placed yourself in? Had it not been for Lady Marlene, you would have perished, burned alive, drowned, or worse. And look what has become of her!" Jeremy's voice cracked with grief. "She has not awakened. It has been seven days."
Flavian sat frozen, colour draining from his face. His fingers clenched the arm of his chair, white-knuckled. "I never thought, I never imagined that she would be harmed. If I had only thought further…"
Jeremy's anger softened into exasperation. He collapsed onto the sofa opposite, running a hand through his hair.
"It is clear you care for her," he said at last. "I daresay the Emperor and Empress may put aside their search for a bride, now that it is plain where your heart lies. But Flavian Attila Hadrian, Crown Prince of the Astandra Empire, did it never occur to you that you might not be found? That you could have disappeared into oblivion?"
Jeremy's gaze locked onto Flavian's. "Did you simply believe… that you would be saved?"
Flavian swallowed hard. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes… I did."
Jeremy stared. "By whom?"
"…By her," Flavian said softly. "I knew Leesa would find me. I don't know how. I only knew she would."
Jeremy blinked, then gave a slow exhale of disbelief.
"You are beyond help," he muttered, rising once more. "And yet, I cannot fault you entirely. The gods play strange games with the hearts of men."
He paused at the doorway.
"And do you believe, truly, that this madness of yours has helped her remember anything?"
Flavian straightened, his eyes gleaming with quiet certainty. "Yes. It will. In time."
Jeremy studied him for a moment, then gave a brief nod.
"Then let time pass. And let her find her own way back to us."
Flavian looked once more toward the door; his voice was low but unshaken. "She will."