Solvane jolted awake, heart pounding like a war drum. A cry—muffled, desperate—slipped through the palace's silence, piercing the stillness of the night. It wasn't the first time he'd heard such sounds; whispers of struggle often haunted the lower halls, vanishing before he could trace them. But tonight, the cry lingered, sharp and insistent, hooking into his chest and refusing to let him rest.
He slid from his bed, bare feet meeting cold stone. The air carried a metallic tang, sharp as blood, wrong in a way that set his fur on edge. Moving silently, he crept through the corridor, each step measured, his tail still as he navigated the shadows. At the hall's end, torchlight flickered, casting jagged patterns on the walls. Two guards emerged, their armor clinking softly, dragging a limp figure between them.
A girl, her dark hair spilling like ink over her shoulders, her skin pale against the firelight. Shadows clung to her, reluctant to let go, as if the night itself claimed her.
"Hold," Solvane commanded, his voice sharper than he intended, cutting through the silence.
The guards froze, their eyes widening at the sight of the young prince. They bowed awkwardly, nearly dropping the girl in their haste. "Young master," one stammered, his voice tight with nerves, "we caught this spy near the castle walls. She crept close under cover of darkness. By dawn, she's to be executed."
Solvane stepped closer, his golden crest catching the torchlight. The girl's eyelids fluttered, revealing eyes like shards of ice—pale, calculating, piercing through him. A Blue Asper. An Oceallah. Taller than him, her body lean and honed, every slight motion spoke of precision, like a blade poised to strike. Her beauty was unsettling, a pull that both drew him in and warned him away. Her crested chest rose faintly, her breathing shallow but steady.
His father's words echoed in his mind, cold and unyielding: "Show strength, Solvane. Never falter. The throne demands it."
King Aubrean had drilled it into him—enemies like the Oceallah could unravel the Sparllahs' grip on Avallah. A spy's execution would be a display of power, a step toward proving himself worthy of the crest. Yet Solvane's heart rebelled. He saw the festival again, the humans' laughter, their freedom from the chains of duty. What if he chose differently? What if he carved his own path, not his father's? To let her die would be to bow to Aubrean's will, to lose another piece of himself to the throne.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest.
Her lips curved, a smirk edged with exhaustion. "You think I'm fool enough to give my name to the enemy?" Her voice was low, silken, sharp as the dagger she surely hid.
The silence sharpened, torches dimming as shadows stretched like claws across the walls. Solvane's instincts screamed of danger, but he held her gaze, searching those icy eyes for something—truth, defiance, fear. He found only calculation, and it stirred something in him. Not fear, but a spark of defiance. He could be more than Aubrean's heir. He could choose mercy, choose himself.
"Release her," he said, his tone calm but firm.
The guards gaped, their faces pale in the firelight. "Young master," one protested, "she's a threat—a Blue Asper! Surely you don't mean—"
"I said, release her."
The command left no room for argument. Reluctantly, they cut the ropes binding her wrists. The cords fell, and she rolled her shoulders, rubbing the raw skin where the bindings had bitten deep. Her eyes never left Solvane's, amusement flickering in their depths, as if she were sizing up a puzzle she hadn't expected.
"Go," Solvane said, his voice unwavering.
She tilted her head, her smirk widening, a predator's amusement. Then, in a heartbeat, a dagger flashed in her hand, its blade a whisper of death aimed at his throat. The strike was flawless—silent, merciless, inevitable.
A massive hand caught her mid-lunge, fingers like steel cords gripping her face. "Naive little prince," growled Master Fog, his voice rough as the wastelands' dust. "You think an assassin walks away? Her blade never misses its mark."
The dagger hovered, its tip grazing Solvane's neck. A thin line of blood welled, warm against his fur, staining his collar. His breath caught, death's chill brushing his skin. He'd wanted to prove he could choose his own path, but the world of Avallah didn't bend to mercy.
"Master Fog…" Solvane exhaled, trembling. "Let her go."
The warrior's eyes narrowed, studying his student. A slow, weathered smile crept across his face. "So. You've chosen this path." He shoved her back, and she stumbled, her icy gaze lingering on Solvane—mockery or curiosity, he couldn't tell. Then, like smoke slipping through cracks, she vanished into the night.
Solvane pressed a hand to his neck, blood warm against his claws. He turned to Master Fog. "Senior… why are you here so late?"
Another voice answered, low and hungry, from the darkness. "To prepare you for tomorrow."
The torches sputtered, their flames shrinking as if cowering. A figure emerged—tall, cloaked in shadow, red pupils gleaming like embers, teeth flashing in the dim light. The air thickened, pressing against their chests, making every breath heavy.