He saw that the land and people were slowly being sucked dry. Their trade was pathetic, their harvest paltry. Most of the food went to the castle, and the people who toiled under the sun to bring the crops to fruition scavenged to fill their own stomachs.

Morgan had not changed at all. She had worn the ruby necklace his brother had given her and still believed foolishly that he had loved her back. She had killed thousands, seen the depravity of what humans could do. And still believed that monsters like them could be better. Her naivety was both amusing and tragic at the same time. She hated the rest of the world, and loved the one man that had never cared for her in life and would hardly do so in death.

She was still shocked, that much was clear. Her lovely green eyes were starting to fill with red veins. The prince didn’t know what to do with tears, especially those coming from a woman he detested and pitied. His brother would’ve known what to do. Even if his empathy was false and his condolences hollow he would’ve done something. The prince wondered if Nikayl’s death had been the right decision after all.

His parents rarely ever erred, and killing their own firstborn had reemphasized why the people never rebelled. They were justice personified, nothing less. They were the only ones uncorrupted by the power they possessed. The prince knew that his brother had been pardoned more than a number of times. He had passed their curse recklessly, to the loose women who sought his immortality, his fortune and throne. Women like Morgan. She was the only one who had escaped his parents’ clutches and thrived.

All the other fledglings had been culled before their first kill. But Morgan’s reign, her barbarian rule over the small kingdom had earned more fame than anyone had realized. Their people wanted her to be controlled, or they wanted her dead. The prince was still deciding the best course of action. Morgan would’ve been easily controlled if Nikayl had been alive.

She had retreated to her rooms as soon as she heard Nikayl was dead. He wondered how she was still ignorant of the fact. Perhaps her gifts of divination were not as great as her foes told. Perhaps she was less of a witch than she had always proclaimed herself. She had always flaunted herself in front of others, especially in front of him and his brother. With Nikayl, it was with the hopes of gaining his affection. With him it was just an attempt to make him feel inferior.

His skin disgusted her. She saw the light brown as blemished, ugly next to her own porcelain. She might change her tune now that he was the crown prince, but there was nothing she could do that would disguise the centuries-old loathing of him. He was an abomination, yet he was the royal. She was her own definition of perfection, and had clawed and killed her way to a throne.

Even when she held onto his arm, she wore long lace gloves. Anything to place more distance between them. He was glad of her efforts. They walked down to the morning meal together, the first time he had seen her since the news of Nikayl. Another prince was waiting downstairs, an old man with his usual companion of the soothsayer.

The prince knew Awain. He had sparred with the old man when the wrinkles on his face had yet to form and he still had the rosy cheeks of boyhood. He had seen the man grown and gain merit. He was a good man, who had never been interested in finding the right woman. He would die before he ascended the throne, and his younger brother, a pleasant middle-aged man named Hayem would be king. Awain wasn’t the least regretful of his life.

Some men were born to fight, and anything else lost in the bargain wasn’t worth nearly as much as their glory. Awain was clearly one of those men. The prince wondered what purpose the old man had in coming to the little kingdom of Mirtlemeadow. He saw the young girl sitting at the dining table, listening to Awain’s tales…. And understood.

The girl was barely more than a child, a little pale wisp of a thing with full red lips and almond-shaped blue eyes, the darkness in them exaggerated by the long overlapping lashes. Her black hair, soft and silky, was tied back with a simple red ribbon. Nothing about her said she was the princess, and everything did. It was the easiness of her manner, the straightness of her posture.

She was comfortable around Awain, and the prince wondered if the alliance had been formed, if there would be a wedding between the child and the prince who looked more like her grandfather. She was happy around him, that much was clear. Human lives were so funny. They had the longevity of flowers, compared to the eternity that the prince had to endure. Awain would wilt around the same time Sim would bloom. A waste of youth, in his opinion.

The girl looked up as he walked in, and her heartbeat went up. It was the same one, the same hummingbird drum against her fragile chest. It was the same rhythm from the night before. The prince smiled at her, but the effect was anything but comforting. Her muscles tightened, a bird before flight.

“Sim, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “Prince Nikayl?”

“Prince Aryan, actually,” he answered. “My brother has been dead for the past two and a half decades. I hope you’re not as disappointed as poor Morgan here.”

Sim shook her head lightly. It was much easier to not be afraid of a man the queen hated. He looked only a few years older than her, though the reality was a few centuries. His brown skin in the dim fire of the lanterns looked golden. Sim wondered how it would look in sunlight. She supposed she would never know.

She was a glass figurine, pale with the slightest tints of color in her cheeks. So fragile the wind could break her, he imagined. There was an expression in her eyes, her dark intelligent eyes that he couldn’t understand. There was the simplicity of a lost child, and the secrets of one who knew how to lock things away. She looked at him with a fear, muted and controlled, but fear nonetheless. It was better not to focus on her, he decided. She only knew one of his kind, and not an exemplary one at that.

“Hello Awain,” he said. “Recognize me? I imagine that you can. I haven’t changed all that much. But you definitely have, my friend. Such a pity, the deterioration of the human body.”

“Aryan,” the man replied softly. “It’s good to see you again.”

The prince was satisfied. It was good that Awain displayed no jealousy, did not envy his youth. At least some people saw their curse for what it was. The girl stood up, and the prince smiled. He had almost not noticed. She was good at slipping away. Before a second passed she was out the door. He felt her tiny feet scarcely hit the stone steps as she fled.

“Well, I’m starving,” he announced. The maid that had just entered went gray and ran out of the room.

That was probably not the best way to phrase things, the prince thought.