My heart was still pounding after the visit of those velvet-clad vultures. But anger had a strange effect: It gave me energy. For the first time since waking up, I actually wanted to move. Really move.
Alright. Here we go. One arm first.
I poured every ounce of will into it, ignoring the pain. My fingers trembled like leaves in an automn wind. Slowly, my hand lifted again from the blanket. A small victory! I almost applauded myself... If I hadn't nearly collapsed from exhaustion just for that.
Breathe.
Don't die on the first attempt. That would be way too ironic. Don't start dying every day either!
After what felt like forever, I managed the same with the other arm. My legs, however… ah, those traitors. Stiff as wood, heavy as lead.
I tried to twist them, to bend them. Nothing. It felt like someone had replaced my muscles with stuffed-animal padding.
But I refused to give up. If I was doomed to lie here forever, condemned to be a potted plant, I'd rather die a second time. Without internet, it would be way too boring!
I took my time, alternating between massaging my legs, doing exercises fit for a premature infant, and enduring the visits of the cat-girl. She fed me porridge, gave me water, always so careful with me, even though I still pretended to be comatose.
Judging by the meals, several days must have passed, though it was hard to tell without windows.
After battles that felt epic (against my own body), I managed to sit up. Not standing yet, but upright.
Honestly, that alone deserved a medal.
Over the next few days, I kept at it, until I could stand. First time only for a heartbeat, before collapsing back onto the bed, I didn't stop,later managing a few shaky steps, straining my ears for footsteps outside the door.
The room looked larger from this vertical angle. And gloomier. Dust-covered furniture, a chest locked with double latches, piles of parchments abandoned on a wobbly table. The air still smelled of dampness, but with a metallic tang now, as if the very stone was rotting from within.
And there, in the corner, something caught my eye: a mirror.
Well, a vague excuse for one. The glass was cracked, freckled with centuries of grime, but it reflected enough for me to see.
I staggered toward it, clinging to the walls like an old man. Each step was torture: shallow breaths, trembling legs, but I wanted to see! I had to see!And then… I discovered myself.
At first, I thought the mirror lied. A pale, almost cadaverous face, with sharp cheekbones and skin so thin it looked like muslin.
My eyes, a piercing ice-blue, carried a strange depth, like windows into a world of glaciers and mist.
And my hair… oh, my hair. A jet-black cascade with bluish reflections, wavy, falling past my shoulders, tangled into chaos at the back.
I wore nothing but a long cotton shirt, slightly yellowed with age.
A prince. A real one. But a sickly, fragile, neglected prince, ready to collapse at the faintest breeze.
I raised my hand toward the reflection. My bony fingers trembled.
So this was him... Or rather… This was...Me?
A wave of vertigo and excitement rushed through me. I was no longer that poor student trapped in a concrete cube, with dark circles from endless cramming and greasy hair from lack of time. No. I was this pale, fragile boy, but… noble.
A nervous smile crept across my lips.If my parents saw me like this… they'd lose their minds.
"Too gothic. Not model son enough."
And strangely… that thought warmed me.
I spent a long time studying the room. On the nightstand, I opened the History book the servant read to me. The leather cover was worn, dusty, but inside were stunning illustrations.
There was even a drawing of "me", the sleeping prince... I looked like Sleeping Beauty like that.
The text was handwritten, not printed, like a medieval monk's manuscript. Gorgeous, museum-worthy… but completely unreadable to me.
The language was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Only the drawings spoke to me.
Little by little, I pieced together this world. Or rather… my world now.
I was a forgotten prince, prisoner of his own body. But I was also an intruder, a stranger in an other skin, not my own.
I ran my fingers through my hair again, fascinated by the bluish glints under the candlelight.
Then, with a sigh, I muttered:
"Well… new body, new world… Even if I'm scrawny, at least I'm kinda handsome."
Despite the exhaustion dragging me back toward the bed, I felt something I hadn't in years: a thrill of impatience to the future.But soft footsteps approached. I rushed back to the bed, resuming my coma act.
The cat girl entered after knocking, head bowed as always, carrying a small tray. Porridge, lukewarm, in a chipped bowl, and a piece of hard bread. Her gaze flicked up to me, and I thought I saw her cat ears twitch upright. Had she noticed something?…
But she said nothing. She went on as usual, setting the tray on the table, then slipped an arm gently beneath my neck to support me, the other hand holding the spoon. She spoke aloud each time before touching me, treating me with such care and respect…
I had never known anything like it in my past life. It warmed my heart, and squeezed it with guilt. I was lying to her, hiding the truth about my state.
"Your Majesty… here is your meal. I hope… it pleases you."
She blew softly on the spoon before bringing it to my parted lips.I let her feed me, resisting the urge to move. The taste was bland, nearly saltless. The same porridge every day… With each spoonful, she massaged my throat to help me swallow.
A sudden noise echoed in the hall. Heavy footsteps. The door burst open without a knock.Two figures entered:
A round-bellied, eyes narrow like a vulture's, and his plump accomplice, taller but just as repulsive, his fingers rattling with rings at every gesture.
Their eyes fell on the slave, spoon still held at my lips.
"What are you still doing here, vermin?"
Spat Duke Veynard.
"How dare you impose your ugliness on our noble sight?!"
He sneered.
The girl flinched but stayed still, hands trembling, ears flat against her head.
"F…Forgive me… I… I've almost finished feeding him..."
She dared, voice barely a whisper.
"...His Majesty… needs to recover his strength…"
For the briefest instant, stunned silence froze the air.
Then the Duke raised his massive hand, bristling with rings, ready to strike her. His rings gleamed in the candlelight.
The cat girl squeezed her eyes shut, ears flattened, bracing for the blow.
But... Before I even thought. My hand shot out and seized the vaultour's wrist.A jolt like lightning coursed through me. My still-bony fingers clutched his wrist firmly, stopping the strike cold.
The Duke's eyes bulged. His mouth hung open in mute shock, like a dead fish. (which, frankly, wasn't unpleasant to see on him)
The slave, expecting a blow that never came, opened her eyes little by little. She froze, mouth agape, disbelief written all over her face.
Silence.
Only the crackle of a candle and my ragged breathing.
I felt a bitter smile spread across my lips. My voice was weak, raspy, graveled as if from beyond the grave, but it emerged all the same:
" Don't touch her."
The Duke staggered back, pale as chalk. The other nearly dropped his parchment in shock.
The girl stared at me, wide-eyed, filled with an emotion I couldn't name: surprise, hope… maybe even a flicker of fear.
For the first time, I existed again.And in their eyes, I wasn't a corpse anymore.I was… the Prince of Almaris.Prince Dagobert III.
(As awful as that name may be.)
.
.
.
.
.
Prince Drago Awakening
Chapter 2: The dungeon
Author: Léonardo de Deuille