The morning light filtered through the royal gardens as Edward strolled beside Cordelia Silverly, his fiancée and the epitome of noble composure. Her voice, smooth and even, carried on about the upcoming festival preparations. The dappled sunlight caught in her golden hair, and her sapphire-blue eyes flicked toward him with every word.
“To make the festival memorable, we’ll need your presence front and center,” Cordelia said, her tone carrying the weight of expectation. “After all, what is a festival without its prince?”
Edward didn’t reply immediately, his attention drifting to the intricate patterns of shadow and light that danced along the cobblestones. Her words flowed past him, distant and muffled, until she finally stopped and looked at him, her gaze sharp.
“Edward,” she said, a faint edge to her voice. “Are you even listening?”
He forced himself to focus, his expression unreadable. “Of course,” he replied, his voice steady. “Every word.”
Cordelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes searching his face for cracks in his facade. She always had a way of saying things that felt both supportive and suffocating. Cordelia was perfect—too perfect, as though her every move had been rehearsed. To the court, she was an ideal match for Edward, poised to ascend the throne as queen. To Edward, she was a stranger wrapped in silken armor.
They continued their walk, their steps falling into rhythm. But as the sunlight shifted, a strange sensation crept over Edward. It was subtle at first, a faint prickle of awareness at the base of his skull. The cadence of Cordelia’s voice, the way the shadows stretched across the path—it all felt too familiar as if he had walked this path before. Yet something was off, like a note played out of tune.
And then it came—an image, sharp and vivid, flashing across his mind.
Cordelia stood beneath the boughs of an oak tree, her expression tense. A figure cloaked in shadow faced her, their face obscured. She leaned in, her voice low, urgent.
“…it must be done before the festival…”
A glint of silver—a small object, quickly concealed within the folds of the figure’s cloak.
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“…no mistakes.”
The vision vanished as abruptly as it came, leaving Edward disoriented. He blinked, the gardens snapping back into focus. Cordelia was beside him, her expression serene, her steps measured. There was no sign that she had noticed anything amiss.
Edward’s heart raced. The images had felt so real, so immediate. He had experienced moments like this before—glimpses of something unexplainable, fragments of events that hadn’t yet come to pass. But this time, the vision left him shaken.
“Edward?” Cordelia’s voice broke through his thoughts, her gaze turning to him. “Is something wrong?”
He forced his features into a mask of calm. “Nothing at all,” he said lightly. “Just tired.”
Cordelia’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. “The festival is important,” she said at last. “You’ll need to be at your best.”
Her words were simple, yet they rang with a weight Edward couldn’t ignore. He glanced at her, trying to decipher the guarded tone beneath her usual composure. Lately, Cordelia had been... different. More distant. More deliberate. His instincts, sharpened by years of training and intuition, screamed that something was wrong.
“Are you sure everything’s alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Cordelia turned to him, her sapphire eyes cool and steady. “Of course,” she said, her tone effortlessly calm. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
But Edward could feel the distance in her answer. The echoes of the vision played in his mind—her hushed tones, the shadowed figure, the glint of silver. A knot tightened in his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something, that she was part of a puzzle he wasn’t meant to solve.
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Later, Edward stood alone at the edge of the training grounds, the wind tugging at his cloak. He held the sword in his hand, its familiar weight grounding him. But the doubt that coiled within him was heavier still.
He had always believed the blade to be a symbol of his purpose. It had guided him through battles, and anchored him in moments of uncertainty. Yet now, as the visions and questions gnawed at him, the sword felt... insufficient.
Reaching into his cloak, Edward withdrew a letter from Ann Xing, the princess of the distant mountain kingdom. Her words were a balm to his restless thoughts.
“I miss our talks and the quiet moments we shared. Things have become complicated here, but I will write as often as I can. Until then, be safe. Yours, Ann Xing.”
Ann had seen him as more than a crown, more than a role to fulfill. With her, he had found moments of clarity, of peace. But she was miles away, and here, the storm within him only grew.
The wind carried the faint hum of the city below, mingling with the whispers of the past and the heavy silence of the training grounds. Edward clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
The flashes of Cordelia and the shadowy figure returned, fragments of a mystery he couldn’t yet piece together. Something was coming—something that would test him in ways the blade alone could not.
For the first time, Edward doubted whether he was ready.