The Secret Return

The evening sun had arrived draped in garments of many colors after the rain.

In the sky, an unseen battle between orange and blue was underway.

Sometimes the victory belonged to the orange, and sometimes the triumph became the fate of the blue.

Whichever color won, it scattered countless hues across the sky —

as if God too was busy in a painting at that moment.

To the north of the palace, green mountain peaks stood,

and from those peaks stretched a vast, shimmering view of the bluish sea as far as the eye could see.

Since the weather was cold, the wind was chilly.

The trees' leaves had bathed in the rain, and so now they were content.

And time — in this scene — was walking slowly, as if it wished to remain here forever.

At the top of the hill, wrapped in a velvet cloak of many colors, stood the girl —

Princess Tasha Alzar Valenheart.

On her head was a white hat that hid her face.

She had turned her back to the palace

and let her eyes lose themselves in the vastness of the sea.

In front of her stood a large canvas, and in her hand, a brush.

She was painting with complete focus.

Before her, a reflection of an old painting was taking shape —

a princess, walking, slowly drowning into the sea.

The painting was a replica of the legendary work of the famed painter Lazine.

She was painting in her usual careless way —

as if every truth, every conspiracy, every pain could be captured in just one scene.

While moving her brush across the canvas, her hands suddenly stopped.

Lazine wasn't even a princess… then how did she, centuries ago, capture my sorrow in this painting?

Lines of sadness spread across Tasha's serious face.

But the two royal guards standing a little distance away could not sense that sorrow.

They were utterly silent and alert.

In the presence of the princess, they even breathed quietly.

There was a strange fragrance in the air — damp earth, salty sea, and dry pigments.

The princess picked up her brush and drew a black line — right at the horizon's edge.

Tasha smiled.

In Lazine's painting, the sun was just like it was today.

She smiled again, looking toward the sun, when suddenly…

her brush stopped on the canvas.

Her eyes narrowed in focus.

In the middle of the sea, a small boat had emerged.

The boat was rocking —

sometimes drifting to the right with the wind, sometimes to the left.

Tasha noticed that someone was sitting in the boat, head resting in their hands.

The guards too, startled, stood upright.

Taking a few steps forward, they respectfully addressed the princess:

"Princess, someone in the boat is injured."

The princess lifted her gaze, but her eyes held no surprise.

Only interest — as if she wasn't particularly concerned about the injured one.

"This scene should be captured in a painting… how complete the image is."

There was excitement in her voice.

The boat slowly bumped into the shore.

The injured young man suddenly raised his head.

From afar, his features were unclear, but he seemed tall and well-built.

The young man, gathering his strength, staggered out.

Soaked in wet clothes, wounded, and weak —

he managed to take only a few steps before collapsing.

The princess turned her face toward the guards.

"Go tend to him."

The guards ran at once.

In just two minutes, they were headed toward the shore.

A few minutes later, carrying the youth, they turned respectfully toward the princess and said:

"He's alive…! Princess, he's wounded — but alive."

The princess glanced at the young man, paused in silence for a moment,

then turned back to her painting and lifted the brush again.

"Take him to the palace physician."

Her voice was commanding.

The guards bowed their heads and carefully carried the young man away.

The princess's hands moved faster than before.

Colors spread wildly across the canvas —

a princess wrapped in blue robes, drowning with the sun.

☆☆☆

Rain makes many decisions of fate easier.

In the midst of mountainous forests, far from human sight —

where the trees hold their breath and listen to stories,

and wild animals create tales to keep their young from wandering deep into the woods —

there, in such a forest, stood a two-story wooden cabin whose light glowed faintly in the distance.

The lamp outside the cabin flickered in the heavy rain.

The rain was torrential,

but alongside it was a strange, continuous rumbling sound.

On the cabin's lone glass window, mist would leave its reflection,

but the next moment, raindrops would erase it again.

On the cabin's roof, the falling rain sounded like a melody —

as if God's fingers were tapping out the rhythm of an ancient raga.

Inside the cabin, in a comfortable armchair, sat an old wizard.

His white hair fell to his shoulders, and though his face was thin,

a glow of experience spread across it.

He sat before the flickering flames of the hearth, turning the pages of an ancient book.

He was deeply absorbed in his reading.

The bones of his hands protruded slightly, and when he turned a page,

the room's silence was momentarily disturbed.

The fire's light cast shifting black shadows upon the walls —

sometimes the shadows danced, sometimes they sat curled up, weeping.

Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the outside,

and a few moments later, thunder cracked so fiercely

that the wizard lifted his head from the book.

And at that very moment, there came a knock on the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The wizard paused for a moment.

"Perhaps it's just my imagination," he muttered, a tremor in his voice.

But just then,

the knock came again — three times. Soft. But the knock of human fingers...

The wizard closed the book.

He placed it calmly on the table.

Threw a log into the fire — and rose to his feet.

He paused before the mirror hanging inside his cabin.

There, his reflection shimmered.

With a shaky gait, he made his way toward the door.

The moment he opened it, a wave of rain splashed upon him.

Outside, it was pitch dark —

and just below the three wooden steps of the cabin, someone stood.

The wizard narrowed his eyes, trying to see clearly.

The figure appeared to be a woman —

wrapped from head to toe in a red cloak, her face veiled.

Rainwater dripped from the hem of her cloak to the ground.

"You must be the one," the wizard said.

His voice held exhaustion — but even more than that, hope.

The cloaked figure gave no reply.

She ascended the steps and came to a stop directly in front of him.

Locking eyes with him for several moments,

she finally bowed her head in respectful affirmation.

And entered the cabin.

The old wizard stood in the rain for many more moments.

Has she returned for good...?

He closed the door.

And as he re-entered,

she had already removed her cloak and lifted her veil.

She was standing before him.

The wizard stood frozen.

It was the same face —

the same eyes,

the same aura,

the same solemnity.

He found himself bowing.

"Princess...

Queen...?

My daughter."

He didn't know how to bow with the right title.

But she was not pleased with the words —

and stood expressionless.

Her eyes were burning in an unseen fire.

She walked and sat before the hearth.

The wizard stood in front of her.

She had changed greatly —

but only in manner.

Otherwise, she was exactly as she had been,

as if time itself had passed without touching her.

Both were silent, lost in their own thoughts.

Outside, the rain began to lose its strength.

The wind had calmed.

Moments later, the room's silence broke.

"The time has come."

She spoke for the first time, eyes fixed on the fire.

Her voice was cold —

so cold, that the chilly rain outside lowered its head in shame for not being as cold.

The wizard picked up his staff and placed it near the fire.

The flames began to rise.

"I thought you had left me forever.

Gone to that world where I had no place."

She shook her head slowly,

as if she had just strangled a thousand memories.

Then, from her robe, she took out a stone.

A glowing stone, wrapped in golden light.

She extended it toward the wizard and said:

"This was my mother's trust.

She knew this day would come."

With trembling hands, the wizard accepted the stone.

A golden light passed from his hand into the hearth,

and the flames blazed higher.

"The age of patience is over.

Now it is time to rule Valenheart."