Rhys had attempted to smile with a nod, but his throat failed him and he regretfully choked on a sob. His hair had hung around him in a curtain, now brushing his lower back. Fern no longer braided his hair—weakness that came with age among an illness not yet named had ridden him to bed for two years now, leaving him with no strength to do much of anything, much less twist hair longer than a foot.

Rhys had missed dearly those quieter moments, before war took over and before Mother fell ill. He had not yet realized as a child the pitiful parts of life—the parts that whither away what’s left of childhood within you.

Then came the scent that Rhys had only experienced once before. The setting sun casted the sky aglow in an array of blue and purple hues, dusk bringing a calm even over the war ladened land. Yet something else lit it lower in a fog so hazy, Rhys could choke on it. He paused his movements, not yet knotting the thread he’d plucked through the soldier’s flesh, suddenly gasping for air. His lungs filled with smoke. He quickly tied off the string and rose, assisting the soldier as much as he could with his smaller build outside. But there, the air was worse. 

Rhys clung to the blue velvety fabric of his chest, coughing in a fit, tears stung his eyes, clumping his eyelashes so. 

“Mother—” he croaked, turning back around and climbing the never ending stairs of the castle.

By the time Rhys reached his parents’ private chambers, he did not knock. Another first. He simply barged in to help Fern stand, the sight before him did clench his heart.

Once so unspeakably beautiful, Fern now lay still, eyes closed in a peaceful rest, though they were sunken much further than before. His graying hair had gone completely so around the same time he fell ill, but now it was an even sadder sight. Fern’s skin ran pale and nearly blue. Quickly, Rhys felt for a heartbeat at his mother’s wrist. Rhys’ eyes widened, “Mother?” He slowly raised a hand only to lower it. What good would a slap do if he were dead? Still, Rhys wouldn’t chance such a thing and so, with a silent apology, he lowered his hand. Fern’s head only lulled to the side.

Rhys’ lungs were still aching with the constant intake of whatever fumes had been lit by the enemy. Rhys croaked another breath, falling to his knees in despair, his heart twinged at the same time it suddenly felt empty. “No..” he shook his head, only the single whispered word left his mouth before he was jolted upright on his knees. Boots pounded against the carpeted floors, dozens of them. Rhys held his breath then, clasping a hand over his mouth to keep what little noises he made muffled.

Those boots ran down every hall, Rhys could hear them from above and below, as well as just outside. He winced as a single pair of boots stepped into the room.

He cowered behind the bed where he knelt, yet another pair of boots still found him and caught him by the underarms as he was dragged backward. Even with the motivational fear of whatever lay beyond the chambers he was in, Rhys could not muster up the strength to outmaneuver the much larger man. Alpha, he had reckoned, or at the very least a beta. Rhys shot an elbow back only for a low growl to escape the unknown man behind him, causing the very line of the omega’s spine to tingle in fear instinctually. He cried out for his mother as he did when he was a child. Yet now, it was much more sorrowful—his hand stretched out to clasp the doorway once they reached it, but was only yanked harder, now caught by the waist and shoved forward. “Walk.” A booming, commanding voice sounded. 

Rhys’ panic, for some odd reason, did not seem to comprehend this demand and took a step in the opposite direction, attempting to reach his mother. That same voice then grabbed him by the waist once more and slung him over it’s shoulder, kick as he could, the man hardly budged, only adjusting his grip once to keep Rhys from falling as he cried against a broad back.

Not of his own volition, Rhys was set down in the ballroom again, still in a panic and with his breath now coming in short wheezes, he could not think straight, the edges of his vision blurring despite every nerve within him screaming to stay conscious.

He kept his eyes open, they darted about the room. More boots. Then more. Then finally, the last of them.

“Prince Rhys.” A new voice echoed behind him. He jolted further awake, blinking away the haze until his eyes landed upon a man who’d stepped before him now, kneeling with an extended, calloused hand.

“Alaric Vaust. It is good to finally meet you.”