"Who's that?!"
The queen's voice cracked through the dungeon like thunder on hollow stone. Princess Lyra pressed her back harder against the cold statue, and another shard of brittle stone broke off, clattering to the floor. The sound betrayed her, confirming the fact that someone was indeed behind the statue.
Queen Namerie's eyes darkened. She took steps closer to the statue.
"Come out! If you love your life!"
Princess Lyra flinched behind the statue, cradling her knee.
'I'm dead! I'm dead!' she screamed inwardly.
She could see the queen's reflection from the dim light of the flickering torch. Queen Namerie's eyes narrowed, black as onyx, her face catching the wavering light of the torch. Each deliberate step she took rang on the stone tiles, heel first, like a death knell.
Closer. Closer. Until Queen Namerie leaned forward and peered behind the statue.
Lyra had her eyes shut for a moment. No voice rang. No blade came swinging. When she saw nothing coming, she patted her eyes to see the queen staring at her.
It took all the ounce of strength in her not to bolt or scream. Remembering that the necklace had turned her invisible, the tightness in her chest eased up a little.
'I need to get out of here.'
But then Namerie's hand slid beneath her dark robes, fingers curling around a thick, leather-bound grimoire. The old tome snapped open, its pages fluttering like restless wings, as though eager for the magic within to breathe free.
Lyra's breath caught, reminded of Queen Namerie's background.
Queen Namerie Darkdorm—once known as Namerie Kaida, sister of Grandmaster Kaida of the House of Mages.
'She's going to cast a spell?!'
The queen chanted, her voice low, resonant, and sharp with syllables that twisted the air. Strange symbols burned above the book, casting sickly green light on the walls. The dungeon itself seemed to groan.
Lyra's gut knotted. Her hands trembled as she clutched her knees tighter, trying not to gasp, not to move. What if the spell pierced through the necklace's magic? What if it dragged her into the queen's sight?
The air grew heavier. Heat pressed down on her shoulders like an invisible hand. Lyra's lips quivered, a whimper threatening to escape.
Then—silence. The glow faded. The pages snapped shut, dust puffing into the air.
Namerie's eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer on the space Lyra occupied. And then, with a sharp click of her tongue, she turned.
"No one," she muttered, almost amused.
Her steps receded, heels clicking back to the priestess.
Lyra released the breath she had been choking on. Her whole body trembled. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying aloud, then whispered into her palm.
'I need to get out of here, before she tries again.'
She staggered to her feet, knees weak, her invisible form darting toward the side passage of the dungeon.
DAWN > EXECUTION GROUND
The square reeked of smoke and sweat. Hundreds of peasants pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising like a storm, half jeers and half prayers. The guillotine blade hung high, clean and daring.
The condemned priestess knelt on the wooden scaffold, wrists bound in iron cuffs, her ceremonial white robes stained with dirt and ash. Her hair, once braided with charms of protection, now clung in oily strands to her face.
The faces of the royal family did not look good—at least some of them. Others concealed their delight behind fake tears. The royal family of Eldrida had taken an emergency trip over, their king's face etched with discontent.
Lyra currently sat beside her mother, her eyes widened in dread. She was visibly shaken, so badly she didn't even notice the last prince of Eldrida, Dominic Redblade, her little brother, trying to console her.
Her mind was filled with a replaying scene of the fifth prince grinning earlier when she had stared at him. They had even locked eyes before he walked away.
First Prince Viktor, the executioner, stood beside the priestess—hooded, masked, unknown, broad-shouldered, gripping the lever that would drop the platform.
The herald's voice boomed across the square:
"By decree of King Gemma, this woman is found guilty of the gravest crime—murdering His Highness, the Crown Prince, heir of our kingdom!"
The crowd erupted—shouts, stones, spittle. Some cursed her, others whispered her innocence under their breath, too fearful to speak louder.
The priestess raised her chin despite the ropes biting her wrists. Her eyes glistened, but not with tears—something like defiance. So convinced that she made the right choice, she held her head high.
The herald raised his hand.
"May justice for the crown prince's death hereby commence!"
Even with the feeling of dread pitting in everyone's stomach, no one uttered a word, and with the tall upright frame of the guillotine, she awaited her execution.
The crowd hushed, an eerie silence spreading like frost.
Then—
Before she could even accept her fate.
A sound.
At first, only the scrape of boots on cobblestone. Then heavier. A stagger. A drag. The sound of something wet slapping the stones.
It was loud. Deliberate. Unnerving.
From the far archway of the square, a figure appeared.
As they all turned heads to see who dared appear from the royal entry, gasps rippled through the crowd. Women clutched their children. The guards at the gallows froze, uncertain.
Queen Namerie sprang up, her eyes frozen. Sweat clung to her temple as if she had seen a ghost drag itself from the grave. Her hand gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles whitened.
The figure's steps echoed louder, dripping with each drag of his foot. He still wore his burial wear. His skin was pale, his lips ashen—yet his presence swallowed the square whole.
The Crown Prince.
Kaelin.
Alive.
Their murmurs turned to screams, panic breaking the stillness as people shoved and clawed to flee the square. Others dropped to their knees in disbelief. The name "Kaelin" flew across the crowd like wildfire, their voices wavering between awe and terror.
Lyra's vision blurred instantly, tears flooding before she could breathe. Her heart cracked, then pieced itself back together in a heartbeat. Her hands pressed against her lips as her whole body trembled.
He's alive. By all the gods, he's alive!
She staggered to her feet, nearly collapsing as her legs gave out beneath her. Her sobs broke through the stillness, ugly and raw, the tears streaming down her face in torrents. She didn't care about her appearance; a single impossible sight had made her world whole, even though it had been shattered just hours earlier.
But the queen—no. Her reaction was different.
Her lips quivered, her chest rising in shallow, panicked gasps. Her mask of poise cracked, and for the first time in public, the iron Queen Namerie looked afraid.
She mouthed something under her breath, but no sound came.
The king's expression was neutral. Almost like a child pronounced dead for over two days suddenly walking out was a normal thing you would see on a random morning.
The greatest shock of all, however, sat on the execution platform.
The priestess, who had braced herself for death, now stared in horror as the prince staggered across the stones. Her entire body stiffened. Her eyes bulged with recognition.
"No…" she whispered. "No, no, no—"
Her voice rose into a scream that silenced even the crowd.
"He should not be walking!"
Kaelin's steps slowed, his pale eyes fixing on her. For the briefest moment, his lips twitched—then spread into a grin. A terrible, chilling grin that held no warmth, only cruel amusement.
The priestess rocked her head, chains rattling against her wrists. "Stay away from me!"
But he did not stop.
He climbed the scaffold, every movement deliberate.
The entire square held its breath. Even the first prince, Viktor, tightened his grip on the guillotine lever, though he did not move.
Kaelin crouched before the kneeling priestess, his grin widening until it nearly split his pale face.
He leaned down, his hand gripping her chin so hard her face puffed under the pressure.
"The queen," he whispered, his voice low but carrying across the silent stage. "She tried to kill me… didn't she?"
The priestess's entire body convulsed. Her mouth opened, but no words came—only the strangled rasp of a woman whose soul had just been crushed.
The crowd gasped. Lyra's sobs halted into a strangled hiccup. And Queen Namerie—her face drained of all color.
Kaelin's whisper still hung in the air like smoke.
Her eyes widened in terror, sweat streaming down her face. Then, with a guttural cry, she lurched forward, but still couldn't escape his grip.
"No! You are not him—you are not the prince."
"So who is the prince?" he whispered back.
His words struck her dead silent. Her eyes twitched again and again.
"Exactly," he said. "There was no crown prince to begin with."
"W...wh...at?"
"Poor you," he cooed softly. "You should have stuck to your rituals. Thanks to you, my connection to IT grew stronger."
She snapped instantly. Her hands twisted despite the iron cuffs, blood dripping where the chains cut her wrists. Dark runes erupted from her skin, glowing sickly violet. The very boards of the scaffold splintered as a surge of black flame burst outward, writhing like serpents of shadow.
He released her and jumped back.
The crowd screamed. Some fainted, others scrambled back in terror as the priestess spat her curse.
"UMBRATHAR! I CAST YOU BACK TO THE VOID!"
The torrent of magic shot straight for Kaelin.
But before it could touch him, someone intercepted the blast.
A wall of steel surged forward as the royal guards locked their shields. The torrent of magic struck, splintering against their enchanted armor; the shockwave throwing sparks across the scaffold. The crowd shrieked, scattering back in terror as the smell of scorched metal filled the air.
Kaelin never flinched. His grin only widened, as if entertained.
The priestess shrieked, straining harder against her chains, summoning more of the forbidden light. Her body shook violently, blood spraying from her nose, her voice rising into a raw scream of desperation.
"HE IS NOT YOUR PRINCE! HE IS—"
Through the chaos, Viktor moved. Steel cut her words short.
He stepped in without hesitation, his executioner's blade slicing clean through her neck in a single, merciless arc.
Her head toppled from her shoulders and rolled across the boards, chains clattering as her body slumped forward. The violet runes faded instantly, leaving only the stench of scorched wood and spilled blood.
The square went deathly still.
Viktor's blade dripped red, his eyes cold beneath the hood. He planted the weapon into the scaffold, his voice echoing over the terrified crowd.
"The execution has been carried out!"
The people bowed their heads, some muttering prayers, others choking back fear.
And above her headless corpse, Kaelin looked down. Blood now clung to his boots. He tilted his head, then whispered—not to the crowd, but to the lifeless priestess at his feet.
"Cast me back to the void?
I'm the void."
TBC...