Chapter Two

Asche sat on the edge of his stall, the chill of the morning gnawing at his fever-weakened body. The past weeks had been unbearable—every glance from the townsfolk was a judgment, every whisper a reminder of what they believed about him. The rumours Karl had were spreading weren't just talk; they were true, and they clung to Asche like a mark he couldn't scrub away. Some townsfolk had even started to come to Asche's stall, not to buy charms, but a night with Asche.

 Sales were nonexistent, and Asche had to survive by selling all the items to other stores for cheaper prices. He had stopped operating his father's charm business and his sick father was not happy in the least when Asche told him. He had used all his strength to attempt to strangle Asche. Asche had stopped selling after Jorg asked why people wanted to sleep in their cave when they had houses, and since when did Asche have so many friends who wanted to have a sleepover with him? Thankfully, at least Jorg did not see their father strangling him.

In the corner of their small home, his younger brother Jorg lay curled under a tattered blanket, his breathing shallow and fevered. He'd also caught the fever. Asche's chest tightened at the sight. Jorg had always looked up to him, and relied on him, and now, with the stall closed, there was barely enough money to keep them fed, let alone buy medicine.

Asche exhaled after feeding his father, forcing himself to his feet. Brymoor. The name had rolled around in his mind all night. The town was two hours away—a daunting distance for most, but his unicorn blood made it manageable. With his speed and endurance, he could be there by mid-morning, sell his wares, and return before sundown. It wasn't ideal, but it was a chance. 

"I'm going to Brymoor," Asche announced whilst now feeding Jorg.

Jorg stirred, his voice faint. "You're going to Brymoor?"

"I'll be back before you know it," Asche said, forcing a smile he didn't feel.

"You're sick," Jorg murmured, his words tinged with worry.

"I'll be fine," Asche replied firmly, though he didn't believe it himself. He couldn't afford to be anything else but fine.

By the time the sun rose, Asche had packed his goods and stepped out into the crisp morning air. He avoided the town so that no one would see his unicorn form., With a deep breath, he broke into a run.

Brymoor wasn't just another town; it was essentially the trading centre of all the small towns around. The Brymoor market always buzzed with energy, a sharp contrast to Baelridge's relaxed style. 

An ache in Asche's chest as he set up his stall. His father's shop permit, worn but valid, hung prominently at the front — a shield against questions, though it did little to invite customers. He'd risen at dawn and crossed miles in mere hours, and for what? To be ignored.

The day dragged on in stifling silence. Buyers strolled past his stall, their eyes barely brushing his wares. Whispers swirled just loud enough for Asche to catch.

"Who's he?"

"Doesn't look like he belongs here."

"Bet he's desperate."

"He's so pretty."

Each word struck like a stone, but Asche kept his head high. He couldn't let them see him falter. //He attempts to sell, they mock his beauty. //Then a group of guys sauntered toward his stall, their swagger designed to command attention. The leader, a broad-shouldered brute with a jagged scar on his jaw, stopped and leaned over Asche's display. His lip curled as he prodded a bundle of herbs.

"Pretty little setup," he sneered, tossing a dried sprig into the dirt.

"Leave it alone," Asche snapped, his voice taut with suppressed anger.

The thug's grin widened, revealing crooked teeth. "Touchy, are we? With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, he sent Asche's wares crashing to the ground. Glass shattered, spilling powders and tinctures onto the dirt.

Laughter erupted from the group. "Oops," one of them mocked, nudging the debris with his boot. Asche's heart sank as he fell to his knees, hands trembling as he tried to salvage what he could. The crowd around them didn't intervene. Most didn't even look. They just walked on, pretending not to notice.

"Stop this!" Asche shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. The bullies didn't even glance back, their laughter fading into the din of the market. He stood frozen, clutching a shard of glass from his ruined stall, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Humiliation burned in his chest, clawing at the edges of his resolve. This was supposed to be a fresh start. How was he going to make any money now that all their petty wares had been destroyed? He had a father and a little brother to feed, and now that everyone was sick—

"Quite the mess," a voice observed, smooth and sharp, like velvet drawn over steel. Asche's head snapped up. A man stood before him, draped in a dark cloak that seemed to drink in the light. The fabric concealed much of him, but not the air of authority that radiated like a silent warning. His eyes, cold and piercing, swept over the scene with unsettling precision.

"Who…?" Asche began, but the words faltered on his tongue. The stranger raised a hand, pulling back his hood. Gasps rippled through the crowd, and a murmur rose like an uneasy tide.

"The fourth prince!" someone whispered awe and fear mingling in their tone. Everyone around who heard immediately curtsied or bowed. Asche didn't waste time looking at the stranger's face and followed suit immediately. He didn't want another trouble on top of his misery.

The man silenced them with a single gesture. His golden hair caught the sunlight, a striking contrast to the dull grey of his eyes. Handsome, yes, but in the way of a blade: sharp, cold, and unyielding.

"Enough," he commanded, his voice quiet but absolute. "Get up. I'm not here for reverence." Reluctantly, the crowd obeyed, rising with bowed heads. Asche forced himself to stand as well, though his legs trembled beneath him. He kept his head down, not daring to look in the face of royalty. Asche had heard all sorts of terrifying rumours about this fourth prince—how he was the most efficient yet the most feared of all the royals. They said he smiled while cutting down enemies who dared to cross the borders of his duchy. Asche's stomach churned with unease; he had a sinking feeling this man's reputation was well-earned.

"Unfortunate," the prince started, his tone polished but edged with mockery. His voice sounded so scarily familiar… He crouched, plucking a crushed jar from the debris. "But such incidents are inevitable when one lacks… protection—" He suddenly stopped drawling. "Hey. You! Look at me when I'm speaking!"

Asche obeyed, and the moment their eyes met, his blood ran cold. Recognition struck like a blow. This was no stranger. This was the man who had haunted his memories, the one who had first bought him from his father. The realization hit with the force of a tidal wave, dragging him under. A prince. The prince. The tormentor who had shaped his nightmares was royalty.

Despair tightened its grip on him, a suffocating weight that stole his breath. How could he fight against someone like this? How could he escape?

"I suppose," Claude mused, his smile thin and humourless, "you could call this a stroke of bad luck. Or perhaps… fate." He straightened, his shadow falling over Asche. "Do you believe in fate, little merchant?"

As if he didn't know him. Little merchant? He was clearly warning him to act as if they didn't know each other. Asche couldn't answer. His throat felt like it was closing, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure Claude could hear it.

"Perhaps," Claude said, almost to himself, "a little compensation is in order." He turned to the crowd, his voice rising with effortless command. "Who here saw what happened?"

The gathered people exchanged nervous glances, some pointing toward the fleeing bullies. Claude nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good. Such behaviour will not be tolerated." He motioned for his guards to pursue them, then reached into his cloak and withdrew a small pouch. The soft jingle of coins filled the air as he tossed it to Asche. It landed at his feet with a dull thud.

"For your losses," Claude said, his tone devoid of warmth. "Ensure your goods are restored." Cheers erupted from the crowd, though they sounded hollow to Asche. He stared at the pouch, bile rising in his throat. This wasn't generosity. It was a leash, a reminder of his place beneath the prince's heel.

Claude turned to leave but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His smile was razor-sharp, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and malice. "We'll meet again, Asche," he said, his voice low and cutting. "Sooner than you think."

When his father fell ill two years ago, Asche had dared to hope. Months passed without a single sighting or word from his tormentor, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to believe the man might be dead. Perhaps the gods had intervened, or perhaps fate had finally shown mercy. But now, standing amidst the wreckage of his stall, he realized the truth: He had never been gone.

The rumours made sense now—whispers of the fourth prince waging war against rebel factions at the border. The shadowy figure who had haunted his nightmares was not just a nobleman but Prince Claude, the infamous ruler of the nation's most dangerous duchy. The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest, each piece of the puzzle clicking into place with cruel clarity.

His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, his trembling fingers clutching the shard of glass he still held. The sharp edge bit into his palm, but the pain was distant, drowned beneath the storm raging in his mind. Claude's mocking smile, and his cold, piercing gaze replayed endlessly in Asche's eyes.

Where? Where could he possibly go that the prince's reach wouldn't follow? Asche clenched his jaw, but his shoulders shook with silent sobs. The shard of glass slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground with a dull clink. He quickly cleaned his eyes and started arranging what was left of his stand, defeated.

The Brymoor marketplace slowly emptied, the sun dipping low in the sky. Asche was still reeling from the encounter with Claude, the prince's words lingering like a shadow over him. He stood in the now organised ruins of his stall, gathering the last of his belongings. The crowd had scattered, some still murmuring about the prince's intervention, others too quick to forget and return to their busy lives. He hoisted what was left of his wares into a bundle, barely noticing the cold of the evening air creeping in. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and confusion— and all he wanted was to return to Jorg. 

But as he turned to leave, a figure stepped into his path, blocking the road. A tall man in dark attire, face partially obscured by a hood, stood there, waiting. Two more figures flanked him, their silent presence menacing. Asche stopped, his heart racing, the hairs on his neck standing up. He didn't need to see their faces to know they weren't here for small talk. One of the men took a step forward, his voice rough but polite. "We have orders from His Highness, the Fourth Prince." The words sent a chill down Asche's spine.

"Orders?" Asche echoed, narrowing his eyes. "I don't care about your prince's orders. I'm leaving." The man's hand shot out, grabbing Asche's arm with surprising strength. Asche tried to pull back, but the grip tightened, and the second man moved closer, his expression unreadable.

"You don't have a choice," the first man said softly, his voice edged with something far colder than politeness. "The prince demands your presence." Asche's stomach lurched. He'd hoped, prayed, that he could avoid the prince's presence today. He was already done, already humiliated, and the thought of facing Claude again—especially after what had happened in the market—was too much.

"Let go of me," Asche snapped, trying to wrestle his arm free, but the men were unyielding. A third man moved from the shadows, speaking in a low voice. "No one resists the prince. You'll come with us, or we'll make you."

Asche's heart hammered in his chest. The world felt like it was closing in on him. He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to be a plaything for the prince again. His mind screamed for escape, but his body was already too tired, too beaten. Without another word, the men hauled him forward, dragging him through the streets of Brymoor. Asche stumbled and fought the entire way, but he couldn't break free. His thoughts flickered to Jorg—he had to get home. Had to get back to Jorg. Was he going to die here?

They led him away from the market, toward the outskirts of town, where the roads grew darker, more secluded. The last of the sun's light faded, and only the cold silence remained.

"Where are you taking me?" Asche demanded, his voice hoarse with fear and frustration. "I told you, I'm not going with you."

The man who had spoken earlier gave him a warning look. "You're not in a position to make demands. The prince wants you. And you will go."

Asche's head throbbed as he was dragged through the woods as well. Claude's men barely spared him a glance as they hauled him forward. The dizziness from the rough treatment only increased when they finally threw him to the ground. His knees scraped against the cold, unyielding earth. His hands were suddenly bound tight behind him, the ropes cutting into his skin. Yet none of it compared to the weight of the cold, piercing gaze that bore into him.

Claude stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back. His golden hair gleamed faintly in the moonlight, but there was nothing warm about him. His expression was detached, almost bored, like a man inspecting an old possession he'd misplaced and only recently found.

"Still alive?" Claude asked, his voice smooth and calm, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edges. It was barely louder than the wind, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

Asche didn't respond. He couldn't. His chest was tight with fear, his breath shallow and uneven. He forced himself to look away, but Claude's presence was a suffocating, invisible hand pressing down on him.

Claude took a step forward, slow and deliberate, his boots crunching softly against the dirt. "I must admit," he began, his tone light, almost conversational, "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

Asche's stomach twisted, his body stiffening as Claude crouched down to his level. The prince's face was mere inches from his, his sharp grey eyes unblinking as they studied him.

"But here you are," Claude continued, his lips curving into a smile that was anything but kind. "Alive and... well, not entirely well, but close enough. It's been, what, two years?" He tilted his head, as though genuinely pondering the passage of time. "I thought you might've forgotten about me."

Asche flinched at the words, his mind screaming at him to stay silent. His anger was like flame magic. It came anywhere and at any time and the trigger was usually whenever Asche would speak.

Claude's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with something almost akin to delight. "But I didn't forget you, Asche. Oh no. How could I?" His hand reached out, and Asche instinctively flinched, but Claude only brushed a stray strand of hair from his face. The gesture was unnervingly gentle as if mocking the very concept of kindness.

"I've thought about you often," Claude murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I wondered how you were faring. If you missed me. If you'd grown stronger, or weaker." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting against Asche's cheek. "I missed you, you know."

Asche's throat tightened, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. He tried to pull away, but the ropes held him in place, and Claude's gaze pinned him like a predator savouring its prey.

"You... you're insane," Asche finally managed to choke out, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound defiant.

Claude chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. "Perhaps. But that's never stopped me before, has it?" He rose to his feet, towering over Asche, his shadow stretching long in the moonlight. "You should be glad. You've always been such an... entertaining distraction."

Asche's heart pounded, his eyes racing for a way out, but there was none. Claude was as meticulous as ever. His guards were blocking all possible escapes.

Asche's breath caught in his throat. "You sent them?" he asked, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound defiant.

Claude's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Of course I did. I had to make sure you didn't go running off before we could talk properly."

Asche's voice broke as he said. "I don't want anything to do with you. Please, Let me go."

Claude's gaze softened, but it wasn't kindness. "It's too late for that," he said, his words cool and final. "Plus, Don't you need my help?" He pointed to Asche's threadbare clothes.

"I don't want your pity," Asche spat.

Claude's eyes darkened, a brief flash of something dangerous flickering beneath his calm exterior. "You'll learn to want it," he said softly, his voice low and dangerous. "In time."

Claude stood, taking a few steps back to admire his work, his head tilting slightly as though considering the best angle for his next move. The silence stretched unbearably, the weight of it pressing down on Asche like a vice. He could see the glint of something cruel in the prince's eyes, but there were no words this time, no mocking speeches. Just a quiet, calculated malice that was far worse.

Without warning, Claude raised a hand, motioning to one of his servants. The man stepped forward, holding a small vial in his gloved hands. It was unassuming, almost delicate in its design, but Asche's blood ran cold at the sight of it.

The prince's gaze flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. "Your father has been awfully quiet, Asche," he said softly, his tone deceptively calm. "Not a single letter. I waited for you before I went to the war and none of you came. Is this the trick you and your father planned to pull on me? Hoping I'll die at war so that you can cheat me out of my money?"

Asche's throat tightened, his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to speak, but the words caught, tangled in the sheer weight of fear pressing down on him.

Claude took the vial from his servant, rolling it between his fingers as though it were a mere trinket. " His voice dropped lower. "Weir. Not a single message from your father. Not a single sign of gratitude." He laughed, clearly furious. His cold grey eyes locked onto Asche's. 

The cork popped free with a soft sound, and the faint, acrid scent of the liquid inside hit the air. Claude tilted the vial, watching the liquid swirl as though it were a fine wine. "Perhaps it's time I reminded you of your place."

"No!" Asche burst out, the word escaping before he could stop it. His voice trembled, but desperation lent it strength. "It's not what you think—my father..." He faltered, his breath hitching. "My father has been deathly ill for over two years. He couldn't write to you. He could barely hold a pen."

Claude froze, the vial still in his hand. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—an emotion too fleeting to name. He straightened slowly, his gaze narrowing as he regarded Asche with a cold intensity.

"Ill?" he repeated, the word clipped, as though testing its weight.

Asche nodded, his heart hammering. "Yes. He's been bedridden, he's barely able to speak. I've been trying to keep us afloat by selling in the market since then, but..." His voice cracked, and he looked down, unable to meet Claude's gaze. "That's why. That's why he never wrote."

For a moment, there was only silence. The vial remained in Claude's hand, his fingers tightening around it. His expression was unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that gave nothing away.

Finally, he turned, walking a few paces away as though collecting his thoughts. "Two years," he said quietly, almost to himself. 

"Can I go now?" Asche said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He immediately regretted it, his breath catching as Claude turned back to him, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Claude's lips curved into a thin, humourless smile. "Go?" he repeated, his voice soft and dangerous. "You're right, Asche. You can go. But I do expect obedience. I expect respect. Next time I need you, I'll find you myself so make sure you obey and don't displease me." He motioned for the servant to step forward again, handing the vial back with a casual flick of his wrist.

"You'll pay for your insolence," Claude said, his tone flat. "But not today. Consider this your warning."

The prince's gaze lingered on Asche for a moment longer, sharp and unyielding, before he turned on his heel. "Untie him," he ordered, his voice devoid of warmth. "We're done here."

Asche's body sagged with relief as the servants hauled him to his feet and relieved him of the ropes still biting into his wrists. The reprieve felt hollow.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The prince was already gone, disappearing into the trees, leaving Asche alone with the aftermath of his torment. Asche's body ached with exhaustion, but it wasn't the kind of ache that could be soothed by rest. He walked back to the cave, numb to the world around him. His mind was already miles ahead, repeating the torment. He just wanted it all to end.