ARTIZEA
Click, Click, Click—Ding!
The bell barely rang before Arthur broke open the wine; he had insisted they wait until the clock struck twelve. "Happy birthday!" he exclaimed, pouring the first glass for him, then for Artizea, pushing it towards her, and swiftly downing his.
Artizea laughed under her breath. "Happy birthday…"
Arthur's smile softened as he refilled his glass. "I almost forgot," he admitted.
She picked up her own glass, swirling the wine as if studying her reflection in its surface. "Me too."
There was a quiet moment—one only twins shared, born in the same night, raised in the same fire, carrying the same hidden weight.
She accepted it wordlessly, her eyes distant. When she finally sampled it, it was slightly bitter, a little fruity, with a pleasant aftertaste. Eugene had tried to stay, but he'd left hours ago, unable to sit in the charged silence that had taken over. Now, it was just the two of them.
Artizea stared at the glass, swirling the deep red liquid. She instantly remembered how THEY WERE FORBIDDEN FROM KNOWING THE WHEREABOUTS OF THEIR FATHER'S WINE TREASURY. That is, until they found it (accidentally). .what she woke up to that morning: Blood. She had done so many teas every day since… that day.
"Hey Arthur…"
"What's up?"
"I wish to go somewhere, when we get back, beyond the palace halls, and I need you not to judge me for it."
"Where."
"The brothel."
He spat out his wine, "What are you trying to get laid—" he asked, coughing violently.
She did not answer.
"No!"
"But I—"
"No. No. No. No, and no."
"But I just want to see if—"
"No!" he denied firmly, "I have been there, dear sister, trust me, you do not wish—"
"So you can go, but I can't?"
"For your information, I was dragged there by—a friend," he half smiled. "Why would you even want to? You will find yourself in an irreversible situation with someone you do not wish to be stuck with, let alone marry—"
"I just…"
"NO—"
"Okay! Hell!" she huffed.
Arthur leaned back against the wall, nursing his drink. "Look… If this is about that guy, he does not deserve your tears in any universe."
"Who? Him?" Her voice cracked. "This is not about him! Do not get me started with him—" A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
Arthur stiffened, realizing where his mouth had led him to water in the desert. He set his glass aside, sitting forward. "Tizea… you are just—"
"Don't," she snapped. She downed her glass in one go and poured another before Arthur could stop her. "Do not tell me what I am feeling or should be feeling. That I am fine, or I will be fine. I am not. And I do not think I ever fully will be. Not after this cycle of events." She stood abruptly, replacing the goblet with the bottle, "I keep waiting for it to settle in, for the pain to finally leave, but it doesn't. It never does." She finished the wine in a single swig, staring at the empty bottle like it might hold some answer. "Just as I thought…" she muttered, her voice hollow. "Nothing."
Arthur reached over, gently prying the bottle from her hands. "Tizea…" he started, his voice soft and careful.
But she looked at him with such raw vulnerability that he faltered. "I do not know how to fix this," she admitted, while placing a hand to her heart, her voice trembling. "I do not know how to fix me."
Her voice broke entirely as she looked at her brother, tears streaming down her face. "When am I going to stop feeling like I have ghosts haunting me everywhere I go?"
Arthur stood, crossing the space to her. He gently took the glass from her hand, setting it aside before pulling her into a firm hug. For a moment, she resisted, but then she melted into his embrace. "I keep telling you, you do not have to figure it all out in one night," he soothed, his hand stroking her hair. "Let yourself feel what you need to feel for one cycle in its cycle, or else you will have grey hair and heart problems like me."
He was right, Grey hair would not suit her.
Artizea clung to him, her body wracked with sobs, and for the first time that day, she let herself lean on someone else. As the fire burned low, the clock struck twelve again, marking the start of a new hour.
"LAND HO!" a crew member crowed from above.
The journey back to the palace took longer than Arthur expected. Mostly because Artizea kept insisting she was fine while very obviously being anything but. She stumbled into the carriage first, half-drunk, half-exhausted, but better than when they first boarded. Arthur caught her by the elbow before she missed the step entirely.
"I can walk," she muttered.
"Really, from he looks of it, it seems you have forgotten," he countered, guiding her in before she fell onto the cushioned seat with a soft thump.
As the carriage rumbled through the city streets, Artizea leaned her head against the window, watching the people pass by—the merchants shouting their last sales of the day, the children weaving through the alleys, the guards changing shifts at the corner posts. Her eyes softened.
Arthur watched her carefully. She blinked slowly, as though each lantern they passed tugged a different memory from the depths she'd been drowning in.
"You're thinking too much," he said quietly.
"And you're talking too much," she mumbled without moving.
Arthur huffed a laugh. That was the closest thing to normal he'd heard from her in weeks, his arms wrapped protectively around Rosetta's woven basket. By the time the carriage rolled to a stop at the palace gates, Artizea had fallen asleep sitting up, head against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur eased her upright, handing the basket off to a waiting servant, and lifted her out. Inside the palace, as soon as they crossed the threshold, their parents had clearly been waiting.
Arthur straightened, breath steadying. "I think…" he began, glancing back at his big sister, "…I think I fixed her. Somewhat."
Arthuria reached up and cupped the side of his face, then brushed her daughter's cheekbone the way she used to when she was small. "I'm sure you did what was best," she said softly.
Arthur nodded, then added, "Uncle Alex said he could not stay. Something about a new lead on a trail. Told me Father would know."
Gilgamesh exhaled, "I do," he replied with understanding of what happened.
RHYSSAND
The endless sky of Celestia, expanded with silver clouds, was tinged with orange and pink hues and adorned with a scattering of twinkling stars, whose numbers stretched into infinity. The horizon, however, failed to hold the attention of the Prince of Heaven, whose eyes gazed upon something more beautiful.
Rhyssand stood on the edge of a balcony of the Rimat domain. His eyes were fixed on a small orb of shimmering light floating in his palm. Within it, a vision played—Artizea sitting at her balcony, her growing hair falling loose around her face as she painted by the light of the moon. She was radiant— as always—with a grace that continued to leave him breathless. He watched her, as he had every day since that night. He told himself it was to ensure her safety, but the truth was far more painful. He could not stay away, no matter how hard he tried.
Rhysand closed his eyes, and the world slipped.
The room had been dim, lit only by the faint silver wash of moonlight creeping over her skin. Artizea had been beneath him, above him, around him; he could not remember what memory specifically—only the pull. The inevitable. Her fingers traced his jaw, slow just like he subconsciously taught her, as many other things, hesitant at first when she asked… until the golden vines flared to life across their hands, their pulse, as one.
"Rhys…"
She would whisper, and yet it shattered him and all his senses. Her hand slid up his chest, the vines brightening in rhythm with every sweep of her fingers. His own grip tightened at her waist, unable to stop himself when she made that sound—the one that haunted him. A quiet, broken exhale against his throat. He felt her arch, felt her climax. He remembered the warmth of her mouth when she leaned in. He remembered the taste…His forehead had tipped to hers, her fingers curled in his hair, her nails dragged lightly down his back.
"Rhyssand…—LORD RHYSSAND!"
He jerked upright, breath ripping out of his chest. The memory vanished. Beside him, perched on the stone railing, sat Fin. The freelance genius. "You are watching her again," the bird crowed suddenly, its voice clear and tinged with something close to pity. Its small head tilted as it peered up at him.
He did not turn, his eyes fixed on the projection. "It is against the law, Fin. So, I am protecting her." Rhyssand glanced at the bird for a moment before his eyes flicked back to the orb, longing shining in his eyes.
Fin side-stepped closer, his expression skeptical. "…Right. And I am a Pegasus in disguise."
Rhyssand finally turned his head; his tired gaze landed on the bird. "You would not understand."
Fin quipped, fluffing his feathers. "You are moping."
"I am not moping…" Rhyssand said firmly.
"Royally moping then?" Fin inquired, tilting his head to the right, decidedly unimpressed. "Is that a thing?" He asked again. Do not misunderstand me—I would sulk too if I got dumped by the Artizea Pendragon. Honestly, where do you go from there?"
Rhyssand's voice cut through the bird's nonsensical ramble like a sharp blade. "Are you yet finished?"
Fin chirped, imitating a chuckle. "You wish I were." He continued. "You know, I've been thinking about a promotion. Maybe a raise in seed variety— I hear when bees pollinate the flowers in the human realm, they taste ten times as good—"
"Then go, Fin…"
"You should come with me."
Rhyssand sighed, already tuning the bird out as he turned his sight back onto the orb, enjoying the vision in his palm. Artizea had stopped painting and was now staring out the window, her eyes thoughtful, distant—so unaware of the watchful gaze that lingered on her.
His throat tightened as he whispered, half to himself and half to the bird, "It is better this way for both of us."
Fin let out a resigned sigh, ruffling its feathers as if disappointed in him. "You are a fool, Rhyssand. "
"I know," Rhyssand admitted quietly, his gaze never leaving her as the vision began to fade, the light slipping through his fingers like water. He closed his hand around it and let the orb vanish into vapor. The connection broke, "Trust me, I know."
The golden light of dawn spilled across the horizon, signaling the arrival of the crown princess's birthday.
Fin perched himself on the edge of Rhyssand's desk, stared at the prince of heaven with a look of pure exasperation.
"Pst—"
Rhyssand did not look up.
Fin narrowed his eyes. "—I know you hear me—"
Silence.
Fin straightened like a conductor before a performance. "Very well. You leave me no choice."
Rhyssand's eyes flicked upward. "Don't."
But it was too late.
Fin puffed up, raised his wings like a dramatic cloak—and crowed. Loudly. Like a chicken announcing a day, or rather, the end of the world.
Rhyssand grabbed the nearest book and hurled it across the room.
Fin ducked.
The tome slammed into the wall and fell with a dull thump.
"— Depression—" Fin sang.
Rhyssand exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What—What is it—"
"I miss her," he said finally.
Rhyssand let out a long, tired sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I miss her too…Is that what you wish to hear?"
"Yes, actually, now that we have established you are not brainwashed, now we can go about fixing your mess." He shot back, fluffing his feathers indignantly as he hopped closer.
Rhyssand's jaw tightened with guilt. The bird was right. He leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you want me to do, Fin? Show up at her window with flowers and a heartfelt apology?"
Fin tilted his head, "Maybe on a concubine, though I do not think that works in the human realm, or any realm for that matter." his eyes narrowing. He hopped onto the armrest of Rhyssand's chair. "It is her birthday."
"I know."
"She's twenty-two."
"I know."
"So do something."
He stared at the bird, "I am fairly certain she does not wish to see me."
"You are correct, she does not." Fin flapped his wings, exasperated. "Oh, have ye little faith—You are the Prince of Heaven, aren't you? What can't you do?"
Clever…Genius…
At that moment, an idea was formed. He conjured his celestial spear, its radiance cutting through the morning mist. The spear was no mere weapon; in fact, it wasn't made from any solid material at all. It was a conduit for his immense magic, tied directly to his celestial lineage. A placeholder from the Real deal. He still had a way to go to claim such a thing.
For now, this was enough.
Rhyssand focused his energy, gazing into the heavens, calling upon the stars themselves. With whispered incantations, he reached into the cosmic plane, finding an unformed star hidden in the vast expanse. Using the essence of his magic, Rhysbegan shaping it, carefully binding its light and life.
The process was arduous, demanding every ounce of control he possessed from the throne. Sweat dripped from his brow as the spear acted like a sculptor's chisel, carving the star's radiance to reflect the brilliance of Artizea herself. As he worked, memories of their time together filled his mind—their shared moments, her laughter, her strength. Each thought fueled his determination. When the star finally took shape, he anchored it beside a smaller, dimmer one—a star he had created years ago, before he ever knew her, as a testament to his hope for a brighter future. Now, it has found its companion.
Fin chirped happily.
Pleased with himself, Rhyssand lowered his spear, exhausted but satisfied. He raised his other hand, ready to send off a message.