Four Years Later
Morning sunlight filtered through woven curtains, painting soft gold across the walls of a small cottage tucked in the quiet edge of Vareth - a quiet village in the southern valleys of the kingdom, known for its mild climate and abundance of herbs. The people live simply, sustained by trade and the forest's generosity. The air smelled faintly of mint, dried leaves, and boiled herbs — familiar, comforting.
Rin sat cross-legged by his low table, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, crushing dried roots into a fine powder. His movements were precise, elegant even, and though his face held calm composure, his words — when they came — carried that sharp, clean edge that always left people unsure whether he was being polite or scolding them.
"Rhen, Riven," he called, without looking up. "If you two keep arguing, I'll make you taste this tonic. It's bitter enough to cure all your nonsense."
The noise behind the door stopped instantly. A muffled giggle followed, then the door creaked open.
Two small boys peeked inside. Rhen, the older by minutes, had dark brown hair streaked with black, and eyes that mirrored Rin's sharp gaze. Beside him, Riven, his twin, had soft brown curls — and eyes of molten gold that gleamed even under shadow.
"Papa," Riven mumbled, clutching a wooden toy. "You always say that."
"And you never believe me," Rin said mildly, stirring the powdered herbs into a small bowl. "One day, I might actually do it."
From the corner, Mistress Elira— his aunt, who had long since taken to helping him raise the twins — chuckled as she hung bunches of thyme to dry. "He will, you know. Your father never jokes about medicine."
Rhen laughed, but Riven only wrinkled his nose. "I don't like medicine. It smells weird."
"That's because it's supposed to heal you, not feed you," Rin said, lips twitching. He looked up and softened slightly. "Come here, Riven. Time for your drops."
The boy obediently walked over, though his mouth turned downward. Rin gently applied a thin layer of crushed Sunsbreath (Golden herb that captures sunlight in its oil. A drop gives warmth to the color of the eyes)around his eyes — herbs that dulled the glow of his irises, making them appear a soft amber instead of gold.
"Does it hurt?" Ren asked, watching curiously.
"No. It just feels cold," Riven whispered.
Rin smiled faintly. "Good. Then it's working."
Mistress Elira watched quietly from across the room, her hands pausing over her work. Every time she saw Rin do that — hiding what set his youngest apart — she felt the same ache she'd carried since that stormy night four years ago.
The night Rin returned home. Broken, exhausted… pregnant.
His father had nearly fainted when he realized, his aunt had cried until morning, and Rin — ever calm, ever composed — had simply said, "I'll take responsibility for what's mine."
That had been enough for them to decide. They left the town quietly within weeks, following his father's old trading route until they reached this small village at the border of the western forest — isolated but alive enough for them to blend in.
Now, Rin managed a small apothecary near the village square. He treated wounds, illnesses, and sometimes — quietly — supplied rare ingredients to the underground black market to sustain their hidden life. Few knew his name, and fewer dared to ask about the father of his children.
But the peace that had held for years was beginning to shift.
Lately, travelers from the Capital whispered of unrest. Of the First Prince, Alaric, whose campaigns had expanded the Empire's borders. Of how his growing influence unsettled the consorts' factions — especially the Queen Consort, whose spies had once hunted Rin.
And though Rin never spoke it aloud, every time someone mentioned the prince, he would pause for just a heartbeat — before forcing himself to move again.
---
Meanwhile, in the Capital, a man stood before a vast table covered in scrolls, reports, and maps.
Prince Alaric, once a composed strategist, now looked more like a soldier forged in fire — sharper, colder. The years had not softened him. If anything, the absence had hollowed him out.
A guard knelt before him. "Your Highness. We've traced the herbal mixtures appearing in the western markets. The signature matches older samples from—"
"From him," Alaric finished quietly.
"Yes, sire. But…" The man hesitated. "The trail ends at a merchant in Drayden town. He's already been found dead. Poisoned."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Another dead end."
Darius, his long-time aide, shifted uneasily beside him. "Perhaps it was coincidence. Many herbalists replicate similar blends."
"No," Alaric muttered, running a hand through his hair. "He wouldn't change his methods. Even if he wanted to disappear, his work would still carry his touch."
He stared at the fading ink marks on the map — paths he had traced and retraced over years. Four years, to be exact.
"How many times now, Darius?" he asked bitterly. "Five? Six times I thought I found him — and every lead turns to ash."
Darius said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. Alaric exhaled slowly, his hand curling into a fist.
"Send word to our informants in the border villages," he said finally. "If he's alive, if he's truly out there, I will find him."
"And when you do?" Darius asked carefully.
Alaric's golden eyes darkened, unreadable. "…Then I'll decide whether to beg for forgiveness or damn myself for losing him twice."
---