The square was empty now.
What had been a sea of peasants just half an hour ago lay deserted, littered with broken shoes, torn cloth, and the faint metallic smell of blood that clung stubbornly to the air. The guillotine blade, still stained from its grim work, glimmered dully in the gray morning light. The scaffold groaned under the wind, and somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.
Silence. Heavy. Oppressive.
But the royals remained.
They stood scattered around the execution ground, their faces masks of control—though the cracks showed. Their eyes never strayed too far from the young prince who had returned from the grave. Some stared with reverence, others with suspicion, and more still with outright dread. Some stared openly, as though looking upon a stranger who wore the face of their prince.
Kaelin sat at the edge of the scaffold, legs swinging carelessly, pale and boyish in frame, yet the sight of him twisted every stomach that dared to look too long. His feet dripped faintly with the blood of the priestess. He didn't seem to notice. Or didn't care.
The first to move was Lyra.
Her steps were hesitant, skirts brushing lightly over the cobblestone as though she feared the ground itself might shatter beneath her. But she pushed forward, her small frame trembling, and when she finally stopped before Kaelin, she bowed low, her voice soft but clear enough to be heard.
"May the spirit, light, and nature guide you. I greet my lord."
Her tone was ceremonial, but her eyes—her eyes brimmed with tears, a mixture of relief and terror, love and disbelief.
Kaelin tilted his head, watching her for a moment, then smiled faintly. Before the moment could settle, another voice broke the stillness.
"My prince!"
A woman rushed forward, her silken veil nearly tearing from her hair in her haste. One of the royal concubines—Aiden's mother. She ran across the scaffold without care for her dignity, tears spilling freely as she threw her arms around Kaelin. Her sobs were wild, unrestrained, the kind that clawed at the chest.
"Oh, my prince! You live—you live! May the gods forgive me for doubting, but you live!"
Kaelin didn't embrace her back. He sat motionless as her arms clung desperately around him, her tears soaking into his burial robe. He only blinked slowly, as though weighing whether her warmth was real.
Concubine Auren pulled back just enough to cradle his face, her trembling fingers tracing his pale cheek.
"Your brother Aiden… he—he never left your side. He was by your bed every night." Her voice cracked, both pride and sorrow tangled in it. "He prayed, he wept, he would not leave even when the guards forced him. You must see him—he needs to see you."
At this, Kaelin's lips twitched again, though the expression was unreadable.
"Aiden did that?"
She nodded. Unlike the others, there was no restraint in her, no hesitation. Her face beamed with reckless joy.
The royals still stared. Some crossed their arms tightly as if to shield themselves. Others whispered to one another, their eyes sharp and suspicious. The king alone seemed unmoved, his expression unreadable, a mask carved of stone.
At that, Kaelin's face softened, just slightly. He leaned back from her embrace, eyes brightening with a boyish spark. For the first time since stepping onto the scaffold, he looked like the child he was.
"Then Kaelin will go find him!" he declared, shaking off the heaviness clinging to the square like an animal shaking off water.
He bounded down the bloodstained steps of the scaffold, his bloody boots pattering lightly on the stone. At the base, he paused just long enough to bow with exaggerated flourish toward his father, the king—his dark hair falling across his pale face.
"Forgive Kae…me, Father. I've got something more important to do."
And before anyone could stop him, he broke into a run. Out through the arches, away from the scaffold, chasing the trail of his brother.
The silence of the execution ground deepened in his absence. Royals exchanged glances, whispers bubbling like poison just beneath the surface.
But Kaelin?
He was gone, vanishing into the palace corridors, calling out with a grin echoing on the stones—
"Aiden! Where are you?!"
The Palace
Kaelin had roamed around for hours, ignoring the stares and whispers of the palace attendants, all in search of Aiden.
During the execution, he had noticed a few members of the royal family to be absent. At first, it seemed absolutely casual, but even for Kaelin, who loved the dark, it was sketchy.
The fifth prince, who would always cling to his mother, was also absent.
He ascended the stairs, each step creaking. By now, it was already evening, shadows thrown tall against the vaulted walls. The palace, shrouded in eerie, unusual silence.
Kaelin groaned, his ears straining in the hush of the palace.
At the top floor of the palace, the corridor stretched long and empty. Moonlight spilled pale through the lattice windows, painting the tiles silver. Met with silence, he turned to descend—that was when he saw it.
A slipper.
It lay in the silent hall, its lace still tied, like it was forced off rather than taken off. Kaelin recognized its unique design.
It was his, at least until he handed it to Aiden on the day of the royal ceremonial ritual.
His fourth brother's.
The air thickened. The silence was suddenly suffocating, as though the palace itself was holding its breath. He crouched, fingertips brushing the slipper. The leather was already cold.
A cold shiver raced his spine. Slowly, heart hammering, he lifted his gaze towards the silent hallway.
At the edge of the corridor, the balustrade yawned open into the vast atrium below. Moonlight poured in like a spotlight, pale and cruel.
And there—
He noticed what he hadn't seen before. His boots were stained with blood. Not the blood of the priestess since dawn, but with blood from where he was currently standing.
Kaelin clutched the slipper tighter, his eyes darting to the edge of the floor. He didn't think. He just stood up and moved toward the edge.
With each step, the hallway seemed to stretch longer. Each step echoed louder than the last, as though the palace itself were amplifying his movements. The slipper weighed heavy in Kaelin's hand, the leather sticky now, tacky with drying blood he hadn't noticed before.
The air grew colder as he neared the edge. The moonlight sharpened, cruel as a blade, illuminating something crumpled against the stone balustrade.
At first, Kaelin thought it was Aiden—his heart leapt, relief bubbling up—
But then he saw the hair.
Dark, long, tied loosely in ribbons. And the shoulders—slender, almost delicate, draped in robes of pale silk embroidered with silver lilies.
Not Aiden.
It was the third prince.
Prince Orion Darkdorm.
The prince whose beauty was whispered of in ballads, whose features were so fine and soft he was often mistaken for one of the royal daughters. He was known for his voice—sweet, high, and melodic—as though spun from crystal threads. He walked the palace like a painted figure, adored by courtiers, pitied by warriors.
And now—
His body was a ruin.
The silk of his chest was soaked scarlet, stabbed through again and again, torn open like a butchered animal. His throat had been slit clean across, a ghastly smile carved in red. His head lolled sideways, hair spilling over the marble tiles, lips parted as though frozen mid-song.
Yet—
Both his slippers were still on. Perfect. Untouched.
Kaelin froze, slipper still clutched in his small hand. His breath hitched. For once, he didn't grin. His face was pale as death, his childish curiosity smothered beneath a silence thick with something unnamable.
The palace groaned, wood creaking as though mourning. Somewhere below, a door slammed—or maybe the sound was only in his head.
Kaelin crouched, tilting his head slowly—eerily—as though studying a puzzle piece that didn't fit. His fingers hovered inches from Orion's chest.
The silence stretched on.
Kaelin did not move for a long while. He only stared at the broken beauty of his brother—the third prince, Orion.
His gaze dropped lower to Orion's hand.
The buckle of the slipper known to belong to Aiden was in his hand, clutched tightly as though he held on till death.
Kaelin rose slowly, slipper still clutched in one hand. He turned, eyes following the path.
Step by step, he advanced.
The further he went, the thicker the blood became, sticky and glistening under the cold wash of moonlight. His bare feet left prints in it, prints that glowed faintly wet in the silver light.
Then he saw it.
Very close to the edge. Not even near Orion.
But in the middle of the trail.
A pair of eyes.
They lay on the ground, torn from their sockets, staring sightlessly upward. Veins dangled from them like wilted roots, still wet. Their glassy surface caught the moonlight, reflecting a pale shimmer like jewels.
Kaelin stopped.
The eyes were gray. A little dark. Too sharp around the iris. They were not Orion's, but awfully familiar.
Someone else.
Someone still missing.
His grip tightened around the slipper until the leather creaked. His lips parted slightly, his breath fogging the cold air. Slowly, almost mechanically, he stepped past the eyes, drawn forward like a moth to flame.
Finally, he reached the balustrade.
The blood trail ended there.
Kaelin placed both hands on the cold stone edge, leaning forward, his hair falling into his pale face as he peered down into the vast atrium below.
The atrium yawned open beneath him, pale moonlight spilling down its towering arches like cold water. For a moment, the space seemed empty—silent, unmoving, shadows stretching long and deep.
Then Kaelin's eyes caught the shape.
There.
There he is.
TBC…