Chapter 6: Tristan

Two weeks had passed, and Lord Tristan was bored out of his mind.

Tired of being cooped up inside the palace walls.

Tired of everything.

He had completely lost interest in his clingy, overbearing mistress. And for that, his father had beamed with pride—if only for a short while.

But that joy didn't last.

Tristan, in his typical fashion, found someone new to amuse himself with: Caroline Eastline.

She was a high-class courtesan from one of the more refined brothels near the city square.

With long, luscious brown curls, delicate pink-and-green eyes, and a warm, compassionate smile, she was the type of woman who looked like she belonged in a painting.

But that wasn't why Tristan liked her.

He liked her because she talked less.

Much less.

And that meant she didn't annoy him.

She didn't complain.

She didn't ask questions. Not one.

She didn't care where he went, what he did, or who he did it with.

She simply provided him with the pleasure he needed—when he needed it.

To Lord Tristan, Caroline Eastline was a blessing.

At least, for now.

Currently, that blessing was sitting in his carriage, fidgeting restlessly as they took an early morning ride through the misty hills near the mountains.

Tristan sat opposite her, one hand casually resting on the window, the other rubbing the bridge of his nose in growing irritation.

Their carriage suddenly veered off the road that led toward the mountains.

Tristan's brow twitched. He pressed two fingers to his forehead, trying to suppress a curse that would surely make Caroline flinch.

He rapped once on the roof of the carriage.

"Mr. Phineas Wakeport?"

"Yes, sir?" the young driver called back, clearly startled.

"Why are we not heading for the mountains?" Tristan asked coolly.

A brief silence. Then, "Um... sir, the mountains aren't considered safe. Especially not at this hour. Morning or evening."

Tristan's eyes narrowed. "Since when did we take rumours seriously?"

"It's not just rumours, Your Highness," Phineas added, voice low. "They say the Huntress is there… and in spirit, sir."

The last words were almost a whisper.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Tristan's voice was calm—too calm. "Because if it is, it's not a particularly funny one."

He leaned forward, locking eyes with the young driver. "If you don't head for those mountains right now, Mr. Phineas… you can kiss your job goodbye."

His tone was bold, commanding—but it was his eyes that sealed the threat. Cold. Serious. Unyielding.

Phineas swallowed hard and gave a tight nod. "Yes, Your Highness."

With clear reluctance, the driver redirected the horses toward the mountain path.

The guards accompanying the carriage exchanged uneasy glances. They'd escorted royals through these parts before, always with trembling hands and whispered prayers. And somehow, they'd always been lucky.

But not today.

Today, their luck ran out.

Without warning, the carriage jolted violently—once, then twice—before chaos erupted.

Caroline screamed beside Tristan.

A thick cloud of dust engulfed the air, choking him.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't hear.

Painful screeching noises echoed in his skull like metal being torn apart. His throat burned as if he'd swallowed fire. He squinted into the haze but could see nothing—only fragments of the broken carriage splintered like bones across the road.

He should've listened.

He shouldn't have been so stubborn.

But no—he just had to go.

His head throbbed so violently he nearly screamed.

Through the dust, the sunlight pierced like needles. And in that strange brightness, he saw his father's face.

Handsome. Grim.

Sad.

Tristan wanted to scream, I hate you. I hate you so much! But he couldn't.

His lips wouldn't move.

His eyes slid shut, and darkness swallowed him whole.

Silence.

-----

The door to Evangeline's office slammed open with a bang that nearly knocked it off its hinges.

Beatrice burst in, out of breath, eyes wide with alarm.

"The demon struck again," she gasped.

Evangeline was instantly on her feet—like a spirit snapping into motion. She followed Beatrice into the nursing room, tension gripping her like a blade.

And what she saw made her freeze in place.

Bones.

So many broken bones.

Blood everywhere.

And lying amidst it all—the prince.

Lord Tristan Boltstruck.

His clothes were torn, streaked with dried blood. His face was pale, his body limp. But the blood on him wasn't his.

It belonged to the woman beside him.

Her neck was twisted grotesquely. Either she had always been that pale… or there wasn't a single drop of blood left in her body.

Evangeline knelt down swiftly, two fingers on the woman's neck.

No pulse.

Definitely dead.

Three other men lay nearby—guards, possibly. All in varying degrees of ruin.

Dead.

And now she knew for certain—

The monsters had returned.

They were all dead.

Every last one of them.

Except Tristan.

Only Lord Tristan Boltstruck was breathing—slowly, steadily.

He was the only one who survived.

And that alone made Evangeline suspicious.

The demons showed no mercy. That was what made them terrifying. Unforgiving. Unpredictable.

So why him?

His body was caked in dirt, dust, and dry grass. Scratches marked his skin. He looked like he'd rolled halfway down the mountainside just to get here.

She examined him carefully, narrowing her eyes.

And then, she felt it—shame.

Shame for suspecting him.

He was unconscious. Barely alive.

But still—her anger sparked. What in the name of the gods was he even doing in the mountains?

What kind of idiot went up there this early in the morning?

A prince, no less.

A reckless fool of a prince.

After summoning the village doctor, Evangeline turned sharply to Lilian, who, to her credit, seemed less rattled than everyone else.

"Beatrice," Evangeline called over her shoulder, and the tall, quiet woman stepped forward with a respectful nod.

"Keep an eye on him," she instructed. "Burn the other bodies. I want them gone before dusk."

She turned to the rest of the group, her eyes like steel. "The rest of you, return to your duties. Nothing of this sort is to happen again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma," they chorused.

"Good," she said. "Decorate."

They scattered immediately—some relieved to be given something normal to do, others still stunned into silence.

Evangeline stood over the prince once more, her jaw clenched, thoughts racing.

Why you?

Evangeline nodded at Beatrice, then turned and walked toward her office.

"What will you do now, Geline?" the young girl asked quietly, almost too meekly.

Her soft, chestnut-brown hair and innocent expression made her look even younger than she was.

"I need to send a message to Lord Hansel," Evangeline replied, her voice clipped. "So, excuse me."

She closed the door behind her.

The silence of her office settled around her like a familiar cloak. She stepped over to the shelf, pulled down a small, worn notebook, and flipped it open.

There it was.

The quote.

The same quote from the prophecy that had once appeared in her diary.

She hadn't written in that diary since March 19th, 933, until April 16th, 934. An entire month lost—blank.

She couldn't remember a thing from that time.

No feelings.

No events.

No memories.

Nothing.

All she remembered was waking up at her desk, as if she'd been locked inside something—shut away from the world.

And in front of her, her diary lay open.

The date: April 17th, 934.

There was writing on the page—but it wasn't hers.

She had never written those words.

And yet, there they were:

"On a certain day, at a certain time, what you have locked will soon be opened.

And what we have lost, we shall have.

Beware—

The demons you fear shall return.

And this time… nothing will stop us.

Until she returns."

Evangeline's fingers trembled slightly as she traced the words.

Who was she?

Who had written this?

And what had happened in those lost years?