In what was undoubtedly a world-class case of heartless irony, the heavens had been particularly uproarious on that ill-fated morn— their wrath submerging the terrestrial world as though with the intent of drowning out all life.

Beset with sleeplessness, in those wan, lonely hours before daybreak, the youth had slinked out of his chambers and supernaturally skulked through the halls like a vagrant spirit with his unshorn hair and gossamer nightgown. When neither the maids nor the butlers had yet to even rouse to cater to their taxing schedules, the quietude would have typically comforted him. Now, however, it instead brought with it an unbearable undertone of dread— like that tense moment of calm preceding the calamitous advent of a brewing storm.

The castle, despite its immensity, felt oddly restrictive. It was as if its high walls were hell-driven to close in and squash him. And yet, for as much as dreamers resented reality— it was spontaneously more preferable to the cursed realm that waited for him in his resting moments. Rolling around in bed, kicking sheets and bleeding sweat— he would visualize the past in excruciating, blood-red detail, choke on its parabolic smog— and watch it die again, again, again—

… The judicator had already tugged on the drawstring, signaling the end of this criminal’s crude performance. The guilty, who had masqueraded as a passionate and kind peer— per the court dictated, was sentenced to execution via fire, a grotesque mode of punishment that has not been invoked since their country’s more primitive years. 

But the sentence was reflective of the crime— the crime of depriving the people— of the royal family— of the virtuous idol who they revered like that of a shining goddess. Honestly, what truly baffled him the most was the fact that the grieving prince hadn’t taken the matter into his own hands— literally, in the most violent way possible. Albeit the blazing fury in his eyes when the jury reached their ultimate decision sorely implied that he was wholly tempted to march up to the stands and behead the defendant where he stood. 

In the end, he had been but a mere messenger— and when the forbidding truth of the conspiracy was brought to light before the eyes of the courtroom, the prince unsheathed his sword and vowed that he would exact proper justice upon the engineers who were slithering about behind the scenes… even if it meant shattering a thousand-year-long truce.

… And he thought— perhaps that was the moment when Jevon should have intervened— could have grabbed the prince by his shoulders and shaken him out of his fury-induced trance. However, a poison had already been planted in his dear friend. A poison that not even the most potent medicine could pray to expunge— lest it rhymed with raw, bloody vengeance. 

Now, he was a stoking fire. The moment he had encountered that disjointed corpse— shredded and dissected beyond recognition, intensities, and entrails strung like ghoulish garlands and a wellspring of blood dying the pale marble a fiendish crimson— he was doomed to scorch the land in the name of her tainted memory. Even when the prince himself had vehemently and outspokenly abhorred all manner of injustice— the very concept of war was one he had frowned upon as strongly as one would any inexcusable sin— despite being a child of carnage himself— and swore up and down that he would revolutionize Igerene. Uplift it from its warmongering roots, and enthrone himself as a sensible and peace-loving king like his father. 

But even the wisest and most pious of men, amidst their fear, yearning, and sorrow— yes, even they can find themselves bowing before the altar of evil. Even they would tempt the devil and bargain their souls away to appease their innate greed and pride. 

The prince did not consult with demons. Instead, he wordlessly donned his family’s armor and embarked into the abyss, guided by a dark hankering and untold loyalty.

Today, he would join the twisted shadows of war and bloodshed— and by tomorrow, he could be spiked on an enemy’s spear as the mangled husk of the kind boy he once knew.  With a rush of foolhardy bravery, Jevon considered if he could stop his beloved friend before the rising of the banners and the cannon's signaling fire. Before the spilling of the first blood— before he ventured beyond those unreachable crossroads, and madness had him completely ensnared. 

 And so, Jevon found himself loitering around the outermost wall of the palace, sheltering himself beneath the eave— arms atingle with goosebumps from the rainy air and trepidation— coiled firmly around himself. For an unknowable stretch of time, he watched the indignant rain with abstracted intrigue through the apertures in his outgrown bangs. On the surface, he appeared somewhat dissociative— as if he was dreaming while standing, his expression far-off. However, he was inwardly a roiling hurricane— the doddery floodgate that threatened to burst and consume everything in its path. 

When the rusted gates rolled open with a drawled groan, Jevon snapped out of his half-trance and darted out from his hiding spot to greet the advancing vanguard. The chosen platoon was uniformed in extravagant chain mail, pristine steel lineated with splashes of gold; it was simultaneously elegant, if not a bit gaudy, but accordingly robust, adding firm layers of bulk. 

Their expressions were obscured by their helmets— spectacles in of themselves, fitted appropriately and adorned with metallic wings. They wore capes bearing bold shades of purple and were emblazoned with the emblem of House Montague— of twin-headed lions and seraphic plumage. Great swords, spears, broad shields. These warriors in particular— astride majestic war stallions with their ferocious, impressive gaits were the illustrious Valkyrie, primarily comprised of feminine-aligned people— but it was a heroic title that any honorable fighter could come to possess, given that the work was put in. They were plucked straight from the castle’s personal garrison and typically acted as silent guardians, seldom participating in the likes of warfare— designated as among some of the best their ranks had to offer— descendants and prentices of bona fide legends. 

And, of course, at the forefront of the charge was none other than the esteemed Crown Prince himself, otherwise known by his other designation: the undefeatable Warrior Prince.  

His armor of choice, he recalled, had been designed in his honor when it was decided that he would inherit the throne. It was among one of Igerene’s many long-standing traditions for a ruler to model armor in the likeness of an animal of their choosing— and while, in the past, imposing predators like wolves, dragons, and other ferocious cats were chosen, this was the first time that any has dared to enlist their sacred symbol as inspiration: Emperor Drucilla’s several-winged lion— not modeled since her own time. 

Though then again, the people of Igerene have deluded themselves into believing that the Crown Prince was her reincarnation— someone who embodied her unmatched strength and beauty— as well as her heavenly popularity. And within this suit of gold, in a way, Jevon had thought that he was gazing upon one of the untold portraits that lined the walls of the palace— mock renditions of her glory, lost to the sands of time. Here— he was but a fossil of a former monarch, miraculously restored to life. 

Not a single patch of skin was left unguarded; however, he could spot little creases in the armor that showcased glimpses of a dark-colored bodysuit-like garb looming underneath. Otherwise, it was astoundingly extravagant— the prince was on the more lithesome side, but the ensemble made him appear broader— grandly so with its ornate pauldrons— a plated skirt, thick breastplate and ornamented vambraces with opulent decoration abounded throughout. 

The most notable feature, however, was the helmet— it was breathtaking, leonine in appearance while the neckline was trimmed with fur, characterizing its legendary mane. He was mounted on a purebred warhorse— and at such a height, Jevon thought as if he was staring up at a mountain in his vain attempt to communicate with a being of impeccable divinity. But he tried nevertheless—  pressed into the rocketing deluge, swamping his thin clothes in an instant.  

 With the helmet folded upward, he could distinguish the prince’s face amid the heraldry— his long, unbraided hair was soggy, estranged strands dripping down in front of his eyes, hiding his countenance. When he heard the slush of approaching footfalls across the dampened earth, he tilted his head in Jevon’s direction— and he found himself coming to a crashing halt.  

“Roxxy...”  

To him, the prince was like the sun incarnate. A benevolent light that never failed to warm him, clearing out the eternal rainstorm that seemed to hover over him like a curse. Now, however, that cherished luminance was comparable to a bedimming candle— but a breath away from enfolding the world in complete darkness. Pellets coursed down the elegant sheen of his armor in rapid waterfalls as they maintained a long stare, taut with unspoken words, forsworn promises— and on Jevon’s end, unconcealed desperation.  

“... Please, don’t go,” his plea was but a murmur amid the bulleting rainfall, however. Hardly discernible. He felt as if he had drifted to the abyssal depths of the sea, and wondered if his muffled voice could reach the surface— could reach the sun. If he had been stronger, then— he would have fought a little harder— swam a little faster, and pushed himself through the harsh currents— he would have submerged himself countless times in order to save him. 

But he was weak— and his voice never traveled far, not above the rageful tide, and not above the roar of the flames and their shrill cries. As such, the prince had not heard him. How could he— when in the face of his hatred, the world around him may as well be as unimportant as a hive of buzzing insects? He had but a single goal: destroy in her name, avenge in her name— even if it meant casting aside his own virtues and principles and embracing primitive barbarity— even if it meant shunning the other half of his heart.

For they both knew— have known since they met at the waterfront of the crossroads of fate— that they were wound together by some inescapable cord— an inseverable cord.  

But he left regardless. Speechlessly, without even so much as addressing Jevon by his name, turning his attention to the dire road ahead, sliding his helmet down. With a flick of the reins, they departed— and all Jevon could do was watch as that back he admired— a strong and capable back that had managed to balance the immensity of the world with such grace even when its weight threatened to crush him— that acted as a support and a council whenever Jevon required it— slowly but surely disappear into the haze of the horizon. And all he could do was watch, glued to the earth with a fist curled tightly against his heart— a trembling lip heralding oncoming tears, following the cascading droplets in blending lines.  

“... I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he had whispered to no one in particular— as if his entire existence— his meaningless, cursed existence— was something he simply felt compelled to apologize for. Vowing to be an aegis— 

And yet he had failed him— let the fires roar and consume. Again.