Chapter 2: The Library

For four days and four nights, the people mourned—not with wails, but with solemn rites. Each home lit its own pyre, the smoke rising to the heavens as silent prayers filled the air. In the palace, the central pyre blazed with intense heat. Clouds gathered overhead, a rolling blanket of gloom that draped the entire kingdom, as if the gods themselves had joined in the mourning.

Prince Marcel sat alone in the royal library, refusing to see anyone—not even his wife, Celine. His father's passing had hit him harder than it had anyone else, sending him into a spiral that he could not break out of.

The library felt colder, his father's warmth replaced by a chilling void. His fingers brushed the spine of a well-worn book, its leather cracked and faded from years of use. His father's favorite. He remembered the low rumble of his voice, patient and steady, guiding him through the lines when he was a boy. The memory was so vivid it ached—the way his father would lean back in his chair by the hearth, a book in one hand and a cup of black tea in the other. He remembered how hard he would laugh at his father's clumsy attempts at wit and how much it hurt now that he was gone.

The chair sat empty, waiting for the king to return. Marcel sank into it, his arm resting on its armrest, and for a moment, he felt his father was still there.

His gaze lingered on the hearth, watching the flames twist and flicker—a cruel mimicry of life's fragility. Around him, tapestries and portraits of his father loomed, their presence oppressive beyond words. The eyes bored into him from every angle, offering no solace—only relentless reminders of his loss.

He knew the throne would soon be his, yet he felt unprepared—drowning in a sea of doubt and uncertainty.

A faint whisper crept over the crackling fire, pulling him from his daze—a knock at the door. It creaked open, revealing a short, older man with streaks of white running through his otherwise blackened beard. Loppe Auclair, clad in his usual robes of midnight blue, entered, smiling—a practiced expression worn down from years of court life. His presence was calming, though he exuded a quiet intensity.

"May I speak to you, Your Highness—or should I call you Your Majesty?"

he said, his voice warm but laced with a faint, almost imperceptible edge.

The attempt at humor was met with silence.

"My apologies, Your Highness,"

he said, bowing his head.

"That was… ill-timed of me."

Marcel waved a hand, his voice weary but polite.

"No, Mr. Auclair, I should be the one apologizing. You and the other courtiers have gone out of your way to offer me comfort, yet I've only repaid your kindness with silence."

Loppe's smile softened, though his sharp eyes remained calculating. He stepped closer, each movement measured, leaving enough space to avoid crowding the prince.

"Your Highness,"

he began,

"you may not wish to hear of my troubles now, but when Celine's mother died, I was lost. I stayed by her grave for weeks—refusing to eat, to sleep, to see anyone. I even pushed away my own daughter in my grief."

He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Yet your father… he refused to abandon me. He pulled me from my sorrow, showed me the path forward. I owe him everything."

He placed a hand on Marcel's shoulder, his grip a fraction too firm, the touch lingering a moment too long.

"I know I cannot replace your father, but with your permission, I would be honored to guide and advise you as I did him—and as he did for me."

Marcel's demeanor softened, though he remained guarded.

"During that time, your father said to me, 'You do not honor the dead by losing yourself. You honor them by moving forward with their memory.' For a long time, his words did not reach me, but I hope they will reach you."

Marcel's eyes dropped to his hands, his fingers tracing his calloused knuckles—the product of years spent working to meet his father's expectations. The words echoed in his mind, sharp and unrelenting: *You do not honor the dead by losing yourself.*

"He was right. I've been drowning in my sorrow, but that won't bring him back. He would want me to move forward."

Loppe remained silent, his presence grounding, giving Marcel the space to wrestle with his grief.

The older man's gaze drifted toward the window, where the first rays of pale morning light stretched across the horizon, pushing back the darkness. Beyond the glass, the kingdom began to stir—a hum of life rising to meet the day, as if the world refused to linger in stillness.

The prince and the advisor sat together for a moment, savoring the comfortable silence. The hearth's flames seemed to soften, their fierce glow becoming a gentle warmth. And for the first time in days, Marcel's mind was still, allowing him the space to breathe.

"Perhaps,"

Loppe said at last,

"a change of scenery could do you good. What about a hunt? The woods are beautiful this time of year, and the fresh air could clear your mind."

The thought of leaving the library was daunting, but the walls were closing in, and the shelves loomed ever taller. He had sought refuge in the unchanging library, but all he had found was a suffocating stillness—a stillness so sharp his mind was in tatters.

He had to escape. He had to move forward.

"You're right,"

he admitted.

"It would be better than holing up here forever."

Loppe smiled, so soft that it was almost genuine.

"Wonderful! I will make the arrangements, Your Majesty."

He paused for a while, as if seeing how far he could push the topic.

"It might be wise to invite a few courtiers. Lord Remi, for instance, and Lady Calista's son is a skilled hunter—it could be an opportunity to strengthen ties with their family."

Marcel frowned, furrowing his brow.

"A hunt does not need to be a political affair, does it?"

His weary tone mixed with subtle annoyance.

"Why not keep it simple? Just us two?"

Loppe seemed displeased, a flash of impatience peeking out from under his mask, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

"Of course, Your Majesty,"

he said, his tone uneven.

"Please, Loppe. I know that you've likely invited them long before I said yes, but I am not yet ready to face the court."

The advisor sighed, knowing he couldn't keep pushing this issue.

"Very well, Your Majesty… I will adjust the arrangements."

As he turned to leave, Marcel's voice called out to him.

"Loppe."

He paused, looking back at the prince.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

Marcel hesitated, as if the words were catching in his throat.

"Thank you."

Loppe's smile turned into surprise, but he kept his composure.

"I-It is my honor, Your Majesty."

With that awkward exchange, he slipped out of the room, leaving Marcel alone once more. The prince stood by the window, feeling the cool morning breeze on his skin. His chest still felt heavy, but it was different now—lighter.