Chapter 2 : Alister

"My prince, please!" Quinton, my ever-fretful adviser, called as he hurried after me.

I strode into my study, casting off my cloak and draping it over the back of my chair. Sitting down, I reached for a quill, dipping it into the inkwell with deliberate precision. Quinton's voice droned on behind me.

"Did you find what you were seeking, sire?" he asked, his tone hovering between concern and curiosity.

I ignored him, my mind elsewhere. Seraphine Hawthorne.

Her name echoed in my thoughts like a melody. I could still see her clearly: her warm, rich brown skin, her hair—a cascade of soft, raven-black curls—and those eyes, green with flecks of earthy brown. She was unlike anyone I had ever encountered. There was a pull, a gravity that bound me to her in a way I could not explain.

If offering her a position here in the palace meant I could see her again, then so be it.

Folding the letter before me, I pressed the royal seal into the wax and held it out to Quinton.

"And what, pray tell, is this?" he asked, frowning as he took the parchment.

"Deliver it to the steward of staff," I instructed, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

Quinton's eyes narrowed. "Your Majesty, this...this is highly irregular."

I stood abruptly, brushing past him. "Quinton, your concerns are noted, but I would like a moment to myself."

"But, sire, the nobles have—"

"Enough," I interrupted, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and steering him toward the door. "It has been a long day, and I wish to retire."

He opened his mouth to protest, but I smiled disarmingly. "Please ensure the letter is sent tonight."

Quinton hesitated, clearly itching to argue further, but instead gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Before he could launch into another query, I closed the door behind him, letting out a breath.

I leaned back against the doorframe, staring at the ceiling. Stripping off the formal attire of the day, I donned my nightclothes and extinguished the candles. Sliding into bed, I gazed up at the painted angels and cherubs above me.

For as long as I could remember, I had carried a sense of incompleteness, a void I could not fill. But when I met Seraphine—when our eyes met—it was as if that void had been bridged, if only for a fleeting moment.

Closing my eyes, I drifted into the dream that had haunted me for as long as I could remember.

"Sicilian!"

The girl's scream pierced the chaos, her voice desperate. I held tightly to her hand, but the grasp was slipping. People surrounded us, pulling us apart with brutal force. The air reeked of blood and fire, the remnants of battle all around us. Yet none of it mattered—only her tear-streaked face, her terrified eyes.

"I'm sorry," I croaked, my voice breaking as our fingers strained to stay connected.

A figure emerged from the smoke—a man clad in black, his movements deliberate and menacing. A sword gleamed in his hand, dragging against the ground as he approached.

"He will kill you!" she cried, panic rising in her voice.

"I will not let go!" I bellowed, my resolve unshakable. "I promised you—I will never let you go again!"

Her gaze shifted from me to the dark figure, her fear palpable. My own eyes flickered between her and the approaching threat.

"Look at me!" I shouted, trying to anchor her to the moment.

Her eyes met mine, and a faint smile softened her features. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," I choked out, tightening my grip.

But then her expression changed—resigned, determined.

"And you're right," she said softly, her voice trembling. "You won't let go. But this time...I will."

"No!" I screamed as she released my hand.

The man in black halted, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. He wasn't human—I could feel it in the oppressive weight of his presence. His gaze shifted back to her as she was forced to the ground, her limbs pinned by unseen hands.

"Don't you dare touch her!" I roared, thrashing against the invisible restraints holding me back. "Don't do this!"

"This will continue," the dark figure intoned, his voice cold and unfeeling, "until you understand."

"Understand what?" I shouted, desperation clawing at me.

He raised his blade high, the steel glinting ominously before it plunged downward.

"No!" I screamed, agony ripping through me as the sword pierced her chest.

I jolted awake, my chest heaving, my voice a broken whisper. "Understand...what?"

The morning light streamed through the curtains, chasing away the lingering shadows of the dream. Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I stretched and rang the bellpull.

Moments later, two maids entered, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty," they greeted in unison.

I went through the morning routine: bathing, having my hair styled, and enduring Quinton's detailed recitation of my daily itinerary as I ate.

But my mind was elsewhere—on Seraphine and the letter I had sent.

Abruptly, I stood, startling Quinton mid-sentence. "The letter I entrusted to you last night—was it delivered?"

Quinton blinked, then nodded hastily. "Of course, my prince."

I grinned, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Quinton!" I called as I darted out of the room, ignoring his flustered protests.

Racing through the palace halls, I passed maids and guards, their startled greetings barely registering. My pulse quickened with anticipation as I reached the head maid's office and knocked on the door.

"Enter," came her voice.

I stepped inside, and she rose to her feet with a respectful smile. "Your Majesty."

"The letter," I began, trying to mask my eagerness. "Was it received?"

"Yes, sire. Miss Hawthorne has been sent an invitation."

"Excellent," I said, struggling to suppress a grin.

As I left the office, my hand instinctively rested over my heart. I would see her again—soon.