Warm summer days had merged into each other as Payton forgot to keep track of time, lying in fragrant grasses between golden Feresia turning it's bell-shaped flowers to reach the sun, and bushes of heather whose branches bent under the heavy splendour of deep purple clouds of smallest petals. The heavy scent of lilac dulled his senses until his thoughts flowed as sluggishly and slowly as viscous honey.
Hiding behind the Palace greenhouse, they could pretend that those fields of heather were endless and there was no outer world to return to. The marble palace seemed so far away when Payton laid on his back, blades of grass tickling him, and watched feathery white clouds slowly disappear behind the horizon.

"When I am queen, I will enact a law that says that everybody simply has to eat chocolate at least ones a week - no!- a day!", Genevieve said with an unwavering sincerity that only children could manage. "Eating chocolate makes me happy and the only reason I believe grown-ups have to be so grumpy all the time is their missing daily dose of chocolate!", she exclaimed, grinning widely, showing the huge gap in her mouth where her front teeth had just fallen out days ago. She was being silly and was fully aware of it.

In moments like this, Payton watched her with shining eyes, amazed by her playfulness and simultaneously overly aware of his lack thereof. Despite being older than him by a few months, she was a child while he was – not.
Years of loneliness in the harsh cold of the northern winter had left him hardened and hungry - hungry for warmth and life itself. And this girl with her shiny auburn curls and soft mahogany hands that held his in such an innocent, childish manner, had so much of it all that Payton felt himself drawn to her like the earth to the sun.
Basking in Genevieve's rays of sunshine, the boy felt himself forget the clammy walls of the Tower and like a stunted plant kept in the dark and finally introduced to light, he grew and flourished with each day she smiled at him wholeheartedly, like only she could.
They would lay in the fields for hours, picking flowers, stare at the blue summer sky and lazily whack their hands at buzzing insects that got too close. And eventually, Genevieve would turn to him with heavy-lidded eyes, and he would feel her warm breath on his skin until she leaned toward him and placed her soft lips on his in a kiss of the purest, most innocent affection.

As the years passed by and their sanctum in early days, the flower fields behind the greenhouse would be overgrown by weeds, some of that purity remained while parts of it were shattered and tainted by the aftermath of growing up.
How could a kiss be innocent when it was shared between those whose fates ought not intertwine? How could their conscience be pure, when she was promised to another boy, even a man, a future king? A king Payton had pledged to?

They no longer whispered "I love you" into each other's ears, no longer roamed the palace carelessly hand in hand. When they shared a path, Payton followed her at a modest distance, when he had to say something in her presence, he patiently waited for her to ask him to speak.
Eventually, this distance they maintained in public slowly crept into the few moments of privacy as well. At first, there was a sheepish smile on Payton's lips and his voice was mocking when he bowed to his beloved and called her "Your highness", but at some point it became routine and Payton found himself forgetting that this grown and gracious woman was still his Genie, his sunshine, his light, for she was no longer his to begin with.

In the depths of night, when he had sneaked into her room and she laid in his arms, she would talk about marrying each other and leaving the palace behind in a quiet voice that would turn into a whisper with time.
These were childish daydreams, only to be engulfed in under the starry blanket of the night.

It had been autumn when Payton had sought out Genevieve in the room they used to have lessons in together as children.
It felt like time itself had spun back to those early days. Everything was left like it used to be, the two wooden desks facing the front of the room, big rolls of parchment with carefully drawn maps stacked in a corner. Payton had used to be amazed by those detailed artworks that showed their world, from the endless sea to the outskirts of their country and the barren dunes that lay behind it.
Dust particles whirred weightlessly through the air, shimmering golden when the light of the early setting sun fell on them through the greasy glass of the nearest window. Genevieve was sitting on a desk, her legs swinging through the air. Right next to where her skirts laid fanned out, a large black stain soiled the tabletop.
Payton still remembered how the teacher had shouted at Genevieve when she had knocked over the inkwell that day. And somewhere on the back leg of that table there were two letters, unskillfully carved into the wood.

G & P.

"I bought you pralines in town", Payton broke the silence.

She sighed.It was hard to tell which face she was making, for it was turned away from the sun, while the few hairs that stood out from the tight knot at the nape of her neck shone golden like a halo.

"I- I can't."

"You can't?"

"Well, I tried the dress today - the one Reimund's mother wore at her wedding. It's a tight fit. I'm on a strict diet for the next few months."

"Oh", the boy said, letting his outstretched hand with the carefully wrapped chocolate sink.
"Oh gods, don't give me that look", Genevieve said, her voice full of barely contained exasperation.
There was a moment of silence and Payton did not dare to break it the fragile construct made of glass they used to call love was covered with fines cracks, barely visible, like spider threads.
Just one push was enough, one wrong word and it would shatter.

"I'm sorry", she said. "I'm just so stressed out with the wedding preparations and Reimund's coronation, and you just looked at me like a kicked dog and that's really not helping at all as I-"

Later, he would lay restless in bed and repeat this scene over and over in his mind, trying to figure out what exactly it was that Genevieve had said that made him realize that this was really happening.

She would marry another man, she really would.
There was no place for their childhood love in the future. There was no place for it now.

And just like that, he understood. There was no more sneaking out together, no more laying in each other's arms, no more cautious glances, no more sweet kisses. There was a woman, soon to be queen, and there was a boy, and they were strangers.

And just like that, leaves turned brown and fell into small puddles of rainwater. Migratory birds passed by, painting characters of a foreign language into the grey sky. A language Payton could barely comprehend existed. A language of trees that all shed their leaves at the same time. A language of the wind, telling him he should now rage through willows. A language of the clouds, telling them it was time to shed tears and wash away the last remaining dust of summer.

And just like that, autumn became winter.

Payton was lost in a world that had crumbled half a decade ago for days, barely noticing the swaying movement of his limp body over the horse's back, oblivious of the dark gray mountain looming above the army approaching it, casting a shadow on the youth.

He had imagined the air would be foul where the demon king resided, heavy with the smell of sulphur which would have made his lungs burn with every breath he took on the wrong side of the frontline. Yet surprisingly, he had not even been able to tell when they passed the border, not after they were far into the dense dark forest that circled the grey mountain with the castle of shards like an overgrown, dangerous front yard.

Strangely, it was neither the landscape nor the few villages they passed that had changed the most, but the soldiers. With every step they took towards the castle, they became more exuberant and joyful. The prospect of returning home had lifted their spirits.
The night air was now filled with talk and loud laughter as the soldiers warmed their bones in front of the campfires and baked bread willingly given to them by farmers in the villages they passed through. Children would rush up, their hands full of meadow flowers they picked by the wayside, and toss them high into the air.
A rain of blossoms and cheers showered the soldiers, washing away the sadness and loss.
They had left as men and returned home as heroes, and as they slowly became aware of this, the images of horror, of war, disappeared from their consciousness, replaced by picturesquely embellished tales of a glorious battle that had never happened. Peasants and craftsmen who, after weeks of siege, had exchanged their pitchforks for spears, their hammers for swords and defended their homes in their fields set on fire, became fearsome, giant warriors in the soldiers' stories.

And thus history is written, as a story of winners.

However, Payton witnessed this triumphant march in a decidedly different light. Tied to the mare's back, as Lowell had done many days ago, the horse carried him through foreign lands.
Ropes were wrapped tightly around his body, the steady scraping against his clothes had left them holey as a result, rubbing the skin underneath until red welts coiled like serpents around his back.
He hadn't washed for weeks. Only once had they dumped a bucket of foul water over his head and the water had rinsed away the grime from his wounds, which had begun to fester under a dried layer of mud.

He must have made a terrifying appearance, for whenever they approached small villages, a soldier would cover him from head to toe with a cracked blanket.
They shielded children's eyes from the cruelties of war.
A bitter envy rose in Payton.
Who had saved him when the woman who raised him tried to smother him in his sleep? Who had preserved him when the queen sent him to see a battle at the age of ten? Who had sheltered him when the enemy had attacked and he had seen a hundred die? And who would save him from the certain death that lurked behind the walls he was inevitably approaching?

The castle of the shards was so called because it was carved into a mountain of black, shiny stone. Where the obsidian had been worked, clear cuts and edges had emerged like shards of pitch-black glass. Below the castle, the city wound steeply up the mountain, a multitude of houses of all different styles crowded close together. Narrow streets meandered up the mountain, merging into each other in marketplaces scattered on all levels of the mountain.

This was a city that had grown for centuries, preserving its history in the anarchic formation of buildings and streets. It was a living creature, that breathed out smoke through its nostrils that were chimneys. Watchtowers and citadels were it's armour, the dark castle looming above the youth the beating heart, and he was heading straight for the gates, the mouth of the creature that would devour him.

Hidden underneath the blanket, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the city, yet even with his eyes closed he could hear the chatter, the yells of merchants trying to outbid each other, the clopping of hooves and gods, he could smell it. Cattle, spices, freshly baked bread.
After weeks of malnourishment and feeding of crumbs of petrified bread, his mouth and eyes watered at the buttery smell of warm bread. Yet, smelling it, he realized he could no longer remember what it tasted like.

It doesn't take long and the ascent gets steeper, the horses begin to huff under their heavy load. And although it isn't Payton ascending the mountain, he feels his heartbeat hammering, the blood rushing in his ears. Suddenly every breath is a struggle, drawing in not nearly enough air, and the boy feels his airways burn as if he is drowning in the waves of fear that come crashing over him.

This is it. This is how he is going to die.

With a terrible sound of heavy wood scratching over rough stone, the gates of Payton's hell open, the greedy claws of death reaching for him impatiently.

This is his execution, he realizes as he is thrown to the ground. Succumbing to his weakness, he lies on the ground, the moss covering the stone soft to his touch, caressing his battered body. Is this his final resting place?
This is his execution, he realizes as the blanket is torn from his head, the dim afternoon sun blinding him before he looks up straight into the eyes of death himself.