A deep frost permeated through the forest and fell before the hyperion trees, at its end softening to spring. And on spring’s side was Drugar, the empire of humans.

To the winter side was Araya, nestled deep within the sleeping valley of hymns, the cradle of winter Nimyi. And Ariansyll was its northernmost dwelling, whose gates upon the vibrant winter festival was open to all.

At it’s summit in the winter coliseum sat kings and queens, princes and princesses, nobles and dignitaries of allied nations, cities and civilisations rows upon rows akin to  flocks of white winter birds.

At the coliseum’s dais was the imperial family, though better referred to as a council of Nimyi. With faces obscured by white veil sat the crown prince of Araya, Arelle, the bearer of the sun, to the right of the empress. And the first prince Reven, the bearer of the moon sat to the left of the lady of the moon, the guardian. To her right  was the second prince, the bearer of the night, Asael. Though his predecessor Astara dwelt in Isryx and was  absent.

“And so Drugar has sent a warrior?”

Murmurs were alight the arena, the source of their speculation presently dwelt in its centre battling a strange creature.

“ How long?” The second prince sighed,  for the past three hours, he had been holding a circlet of white winter flowers in his hands, its petals already beginning to frost over.

“ Longer than anticipated. . . sweet tea your highness?” Beside him, the aide poured a stream of blue flower tea into a warmed porcelain cup.

Heroes and warriors, competitors of vassal states and allied kingdoms had come and gone, but none had been able to subdue the strange creature.

As the warrior entered the blood splattered grounds, a soft wetness pushed against his feet. Water, cold  and undulating, stretched across the field. The grip on his sword tightened as he cautiously approached the creature obscured amongst the white blizzard. As he swung the sword into the thick mist, a tendril of water trickled up his arms and the sword fell, swiftly slipping across the ice, stopping too far to be retrieved.

He waited, watching for movement, yet there was none. Only the sound of his own breathing, the trickling water and the deafening sound of the crowds pulsed annoyingly in his ears. The warrior unhurriedly slipped his fingers along his leg armour and retrieved a blade, be it sword or dagger, it did not matter. These weapons to him were akin to his own limbs. As he knelt down, he felt a soft touch upon his knees, seeping coldly onto his skin underneath.

The warrior’s  gaze lifted and met with a pair of pallid viridian eyes. Innocently it watched him twirl the dagger in his hand, then a curtain of black hair fell past its shoulders onto his hands, dripping and dissolving into water.  And it surrounded the two in a world of their own. A siren. . . it extended an arm, translucent and with overwhelming softness that it slipped from his hold.

His eyes slipped past the coy face, a pair of long white legs formed from the water surrounding him. The warrior sighed. Thanking the fact that his mental faculties were still intact.

As the Siren unblinkingly stared at him the Drugan warrior felt a bit confused.

It did not attack and stared innocently at his face as if in admiration. He cocked a brow twirling the dagger in his hand and sheathed it back into his pants.

“ What?’ Asked the warrior.

But the siren continued to stare before meekly turning away and walking off to the distance, the mist between them cleared and he was left standing dumbly in the midst of countless cheers. But just as he relaxed the siren turned around the unfamiliar face was gone and he found himself meeting a pair of eager brown eyes,  black hair stretched towards him in the wind and a soft voice spoke coyly.

“ Lucen. . .”

He was no longer standing in the winter coliseum of an enemy land but in a great familiar forest. Birds and butterflies fluttered around them, and in the midst of the forest clearing, bathed in a soft light sat Neven, once a lover and now a bitter memory. Lucen pulled at his hair in frustration. So this was the siren’s snare. . . the deepest desires of his heart, too bad that he longer wanted to do anything with Neven.

He rubbed his eyes, yet Neven's figure did not waver, inching closer and closer until they stood only a finger apart. The familiarity with which this illusion gazed at him was foreign, for he had never once being the subject of such tenderness at the hands of his lover. This was easy. . .  He rolled his eyes and took off his outer jacket and pulled it over the siren’s head. It was only an image. . . there were certain truths that an illusion could not replicate.

“ You’re unpleasant to look at”

The illusion around him wavered and fell apart, dispersing along the blizzard. The astonished face of the siren once again appeared.  yet in a last ditch attempt to lure him, the kneeling siren looked up at him with teary eyes, holding his hands in its own, reluctant to let go.

He looked down at the pair of hands and smiled, cherishing the false warmth before letting go.

In the dais, behind the shimmering veil the second prince smiled to himself,

“ What peculiar ways”  besides him the guardian mirthfully pondered. “ and such a strong will”

The Drugan warrior exhaled, his long black hair fluttering frantically in the wind. Cutting violet eyes traced across the coliseum and paused at one figure in its zenith. Ignoring the stunned siren behind him, he lazily shook off the array of weapons on his person, daggers, swords, bows, arrows and threw them across the field. The blizzard blew past him and amidst the bellowing jeers and stupefied gasps, he knelt.

There was not a hint of fear in his eyes, instead a languid mocking smile etched across his sharp features. And if there was blood, it belonged to the many that had fallen before him. He awaited the council's blessing. 

The second prince stood up and glided towards the balcony, the white veil lifted, but the face behind it remained hidden.

The circlet of winter flowers fell upon Lucen’s head, sprinkling dew onto his eyes.

“ Care for some tea?” The prince’s silken voice inquired,  dismissing the anger seething from the warrior.

“ Please your highness” Lucen smiled.

The coliseum fell to silence, after dozens of competitors had fallen only the warrior from an enemy nation  had been brave enough to stand before the imperial council. Yet he had not fought nor wielded a sword and behind him the siren sat hidden in shadows. Was this not admitting defeat?

The aide appeared beside the second prince and a faint scent of chamomile wafted between them, Lucen stared at the hands that accepted them, white, translucent and tender. Almost naturally he found himself looking back towards the shadows, yet the siren lay hidden . The cold blizzard brushed past the veil, a tress of white hair cascaded down the fine silken robes and fell onto Lucen’s hands. Very very soft, he couldn’t help but think. As he accepted the cup of blue tea from the second prince, the veil fell once more, obscuring the prince’s figure.

Amidst the aghast crowds, Lucen carried the tea towards the shadows. The siren still sat covered by his jacket  now turned to its original appearance. It looked at him with a wronged expression.

“ It’s for you anyway” Lucen smiled, his heart softening at the sight. Maybe this was the siren’s snare as well, either way he could be as kind as it wanted him to as long as he didn’t have to see Neven’s face again. He had come here to run away from his responsibilities after all.

Besides he wasn’t quite sure if he had won, if all he had to do was face the siren’s snare then he felt he passed too easily. Was there nothing more? It was suspicious, he felt a little strange. He had shed far too much blood and bled far too many times in this coliseum to be laying at ease at the first sight of serenity.

The siren sipped at the tea calmly, every now and then looking at him with an indescribable gaze. At the slightest of his movements it would tremble as if anticipating an attack. It’s not that he did not want to, but seeing the second prince’s demeanour he felt that fighting was not needed here. All that had fought before him had fallen and only those who had fled, survived. And in the moment of his arrival his sword had been kicked away. . . surely there was a reason behind it.

Lucen raised his hands in defence and sat down opposite to it watching it meekly sip away. As the liquid in the cup drained, a thick white mist appeared around them and a puff of smoke covered Lucen’s eyes, curling  into the snowy fog.

He had expected many things to happen, for the siren to completely disappear, to form into an inanimate object whose consciousness was loosely strung together by illusory magic or even for it turn into the second prince, but . . . a little white wisp spun around the tea cup, throwing itself at the remnant blue liquid in frustration, as if the creature from before had been an illusion.

His gaze drew towards the balcony where moments before the second prince had stood, the seat was now empty and the veil was lifted.

An illusion huh?

Lucen laughed, scaring the little wisp into shrinking. For a moment he looked at the little thing with an indecipherable gaze. Then he placed his hand on the snowy ground, opening his palms to the wisp. 

“ Wanna go home with me?”

The deafening roar of applause and cheers broke through his reverie and the little wisp approached him nestling cozily on his palm, indifferent to the blood and dust. It had no mouth but Lucen heard a soft chime, akin to a bell swaying gently in the wind before it closed its eyes, falling asleep.

He had played the part of a warrior so perfectly that he wished the empress and the mother empress of Drugar could have seen it. They would have been so proud of him, he had not only hidden his identity but also had come out as the final victor. He looked at the wisp that was nestled peacefully on his palm and brought it to his face rubbing it’s fuzzy softness against his skin. He really felt like bringing this one home with him, thinking this Lucen placed the little thing in his inner pocket and covered it from the cold wind.

And if he was not allowed to then he would just have to steal it.