Kingdom of Celeniara, The Forbidden Palace, Year 178
The steam from the bath rose in a fragrant cloud, thick with the heavy scent of lavender and roses. Within the grand ivory tub, so perfectly white it seemed to radiate its own pale light, Prince Peter sank into the warm water, savoring the fleeting peace. He had dismissed Osric, his loyal servant, who was now laboring over the prince's blood-splattered armor from the morning's tourney. Peter knew the painstaking work would keep him occupied for hours, a small comfort in the gilded cage of the palace.
Humming the national ballad composed for his sixteenth birthday, Peter's mind drifted back to the morning's feast. The memory of the roasted boar, the honeyed mead, and the roar of a hundred voices wishing him well felt a world away now, a celebration he had no right to anymore. The warmth of the water, a welcome comfort, was a stark contrast to the clamor of the joust and the brutal reality of the day. He scrubbed at his hair, washing away the last traces of dirt and the telltale crimson that had flecked his golden locks. The sight of it was a bitter reminder of the afternoon's failure and regret—a blot on his perfect birthday and a stain on his soul.
Just as he was about to lean back, to find a single moment of quiet in the eye of the storm, a flash of pure white tore through the window like a sliver of unholy light.
A white raven landed on the floor, its feathers as pristine as fresh snow. It fixed its gaze directly on Peter, its obsidian eyes like twin stars of night. He sighed as his brief calm shattered with this presence. Was this another omen of his bad luck? To have his only moment of solitude disturbed by a bird—and a strange one at that. He had never seen a white raven in all of Celeniara. It must be a rare bird, he thought to himself.
The raven tilted its head and began to hum, a soft, warbling sound that was unmistakably the melody of the national ballad—the very same tune Peter had been humming moments before. Surprise replaced his frustration. He couldn't help but smile, a small, genuine smile, drawn into this bizarre and unexpected company. He started humming along with the bird.
But then, the raven suddenly song words, its voice a clear, resonant echo in the quiet room. The words it song were a chilling new verse:
"The prince's judgment, the day of the murder, he killed his own with his cursed blade.Will he awake to the one in bones and share the blood to spill the magic everywhere?"
The words hung in the air, a prophecy as sharp as a sword. Peter's blood ran cold. He stared at the raven, his mind a frantic, racing blur. Who was the one in bones? What was this cursed blade? The warmth of the bath suddenly felt like a cage, and the silence of the room was filled with a new and terrible dread. Just as he started to question if any of it had been real, the flames of the candles surrounding his bath guttered and died. One by one, the soft, warm glow vanished, plunging the room into a deep, consuming shadow. The white raven with the blur of uncomprehensible words, was gone. The warmth of the water was now just a memory, and a cold dread had settled deep in his bones. The peace he had so desperately sought was gone. It was replaced by a creepy atmosphere.
Peter scrambled from the bath, heedless of the water splashing onto the cold stone floor. He grabbed a white tunic and trousers quickly, his mind racing. The bird, the words, the dying light—it had to be the work of a sorcerer. They were definitely seeking revenge for the execution of the farmer he had so foolishly executed that very afternoon. Was this all a consequence of his judgment, his failure? He had to alert the guards. He had to warn his father.
He lunged for the door, his hand closing around the cold jade of the knob. But instead of the familiar smooth surface, a searing pain shot through his palm. He cried out, pulling his hand away as if burned by a branding iron. A deep, angry mark was left behind: a vibrant green sigil of a "W" entwined with a wreath of leaves, branded into his flesh. It was the mark of his family name, Wilightson as the sigil of his royalty blood.
Confused, terrified, and in agony, Peter stared at his hand in disbelief. He knew the purpose of the jade doorknob. But why did it work on him? He knew the purpose of the jade doorknob. It was a ward designed to scald and repel any individual carrying the stain of magic, a vicious trap for those who would dare to invade his private room. Only those with such wicked power would be marked by it. A chill swept through him that had nothing to do with the cold air.
"Is everything alright in there?" a guard's voice called from the other side of the door.
Peter's heart leaped into his throat. He had to hide the mark. "Everything is fine," he called back, his voice strained, a whisper of a lie. "No need to come in."
He heard the guard's footsteps recede. He knew they were under orders from his father not to open the door until the king gave the command. This strict rule, meant to prevent the prince from escaping, was now a bittersweet blessing. He looked at his marked hand, shaking. If anyone saw this, there would be no trial, no mercy. He would be executed. The son of the king, killed by the very laws he was born to protect.
He rushed back to his private basin, plunging his burned hand into the cold water. The shock was a temporary relief from the searing pain, but it did little to soothe the terror gripping him. Tears dropped from his face, not just from the agony of the burn, but from the unbearable weight of the day. A pounding headache began to build, and the world spun in a dizzying spiral.
"It can't be possible," he mumbled, his voice a broken. "I am the prince. My family is pure, descended from the first kings who cleansed this land of the unworthy. I can't be marked by our own sigil. This white raven must have cursed me. It had to be a sorcerer's trick."
He slipped, catching himself on the edge of the marble sink. It was too dark to see. The night outside was full and black, and the candles remained unlit. He needed light. He wished for it with a desperate plea in his mind. And suddenly, a sound like a gasp of air, and a small, green spark flew from his trembling fingertips. It arced through the air, a fleeting firefly, and kissed the wick of the nearest candle. The tiny flame appeared with a soft pop, a sound too loud in the deafening silence. A moment later, another green spark. One by one, the candles around the room flickered back to life. The first ignited with a soft pop, followed by another, and another, until the whole room was filled with a warm, green glow.
He screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the sudden silence.
"Reveal yourself, you white bloody raven!"
He frantically scanned his surroundings alerted. But the bathroom was completely empty. He was entirely by himself. His head throbbed, making it impossible to focus. Who had lit the candles? A new, horrifying thought crept into his mind. It was me. The light, his desperate wish, had come from him. From his hands.
He found a candle on the floor that hadn't lit, its wax still cold and firm. He picked it up, feeling as though he was going mad. He held it in his hands, staring at the unlit wick, and whispered his wish with all his will for it to light up. A faint, almost imperceptible spark of green magic flew from his fingertips and kissed the wick again. It bloomed into a gentle, silent flame. It was a final confirmation he could not deny.
He threw the candle into the bath water with a hiss, holding his head in his hands. "No, no, it all has to be a lie. A joke. I'm tricked by a sorcerer. It can't be real. It must be a bad dream," he mumbled, his voice trembling.
He stared at his hand. The pain was still there, but now it was a constant, throbbing reminder of the impossible. He had made the candles light up. The realization hit him like a physical blow, and he slid to the floor, huddling against the cold wall. He was cursed by a sorcerer. Magic was in him. The Wilightson Sigil on his hand was not only a punishment but a proof. The very thing he was taught to despise, lived inside him. He was a monster, a traitor, a curse on his own bloodline. And in the silence of the night, alone in the glowing bathroom, he was more terrified than he had ever been.
He should give himself up, confess to his father before this—this evil, this magic—could consume him. He stood and looked into the polished surface of the mirror. It reflected a stranger, a wild-eyed human with a pale face and hair plastered to his forehead. His white tunic was now soaked, clinging to his skin like a shroud. He looked like a despicable sorcerer from the old tales.
Surrendering was his only option. It was his duty as a prince to uphold the law, no matter the cost. But how could he face his father? The man who had taught him duty and honor, who had told him that magic was an unforgivable stain on the soul. The thought of his father's face, a mask of betrayal and disgust, scared him more than the magic that had lit a few candles. It was a terror greater than any sorcerer's curse. He imagined the court screaming for his blood, the sound of their accusations echoing through the halls. The whole region would remember him not as a prince, but as "the cursed prince," a name stained with evil. He would damage his entire royal family's reputation, threaten the kingdom's position, and perhaps even plunge them into a war no one wanted. The people would never be ruled by a family tainted by magic.
No. He had to end it. Now.
He went back to his room, his footsteps leaving wet prints on the polished marble floor. The chamber was vast, filled with tapestries depicting the glorious battles of his ancestors. A large, four-poster bed stood against one wall, draped in rich blue velvet, and a fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm light on shelves lined with leather-bound books.
His gaze fell on a small table beside the bed. On it lay a dagger, a gift from the king for his birthday that very morning. It was a unique masterpiece: a small blade of the purest, shimmering metal, its hilt a work of art adorned with gold and brilliant sapphires. This was no ordinary weapon; it was a ceremonial blade, meant to represent his future as a protector of the kingdom.
Peter picked it up, the cool metal feeling heavy in his hand. This dagger, made to defend his people, would now do its duty in the most final way. By killing himself, he would protect his kingdom from the shame of a magic-tainted prince. He held the dagger to his throat, shaking as he tried to bring himself to the act. He was crying, his mumbled words a desperate plea. One clean slash would spare his royal family and his people from the curse and he wouldn't have to face the world as he was. It was his duty. One slash. That's all he needed. Then a flash of the head of the farmer's kid came into his mind and gradually changed into his own head. He saw his head decapitated and his hands fell to the ground defeated.
"I'm so sorry for what I've done, but I can't do it." he mumbled, tears streaming down his face, the blade slipping from his hand.