The light from the recovery room window poured in at strange, inconsistent angles. Sometimes golden and warm, other times pallid and cold, as if the sun itself couldn't commit to a single course. Shadows stretched and recoiled across the sterile walls, flickering like memories Alden couldn’t quite grasp. The shifting hues of daylight marked time’s passage, but it meant nothing to him. Day had become night, and night had returned to day, a silent rotation he neither noticed nor cared to track.
The princess was gone.
He remembered her presence, faint and fleeting now, like the echo of a dream slipping from his grasp. She had stayed by his bedside once, hadn’t she? But now the chair where she had sat was empty, tucked neatly against the wall as though she had never been there at all.
Alden lay motionless on the bed, his body sunken into the soft padding, while the world around him wavered, blurred, and fractured. It felt like a bad dream, an echoing space where time flowed like syrup one moment and shattered glass the next. The steady beep of monitors pulsed faintly in his ears, merging with distant voices, footsteps, and the occasional hiss of air escaping unseen vents.
None of it felt real.
The room was too warm. Or was it too cold? Alden couldn’t tell. His body felt distant, locked behind layers of invisible glass. It wasn’t his own anymore; it was a shell that barely held together. Somewhere deep inside, he tried to count the days since the explosion, but the threads of time unraveled whenever he grasped at them. Days? Weeks? Hours? The entire concept was unsteady, brittle. Everything stretched and snapped like a damaged lute string.
A hiss broke the monotony as the door slid open. Alden’s eyes, dulled and unfocused, tracked sluggishly to the figures entering. At the forefront stood Serkai, her presence commanding even in the softened light. Ministers and attendants trailed behind her, their muted conversations ceasing the moment they stepped into the room. Serkai’s sharp features were a study in control, though grief lingered in the subtle downturn of her lips and the faint tightness around her eyes. Her arms were folded behind her back, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, a posture both formal and restrained.
She approached the bed with measured steps, her crimson coat trailing behind her like the embers of a dying fire. When she spoke, her voice was steady, carrying the weight of authority. “You are being named Duke, Alden. The estate stewards will manage the holdings until you come of age. But the title is yours now. Do you understand?”
Alden’s gaze flickered briefly to her face, his green eyes glassy and devoid of comprehension. To him, she was not Serkai, not the aunt he might once have known. She was only the Empress, a distant figure cast in cold light. He blinked slowly, then gave a mechanical nod—an empty gesture, more reflex than understanding.
The ministers exchanged glances but said nothing. Serkai lingered, her grip on her elbows tightening. Her voice softened, though the edge of formality remained. “They will look to you. Even if you do not feel ready, they will look to you.”
She straightened, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, before turning sharply on her heel. The attendants followed her out, their whispers resuming as the door hissed shut behind them. The room settled into silence once more, leaving Alden alone with the machines and the emptiness.
The soft hiss of the recovery room door broke the stagnant air again. Had it been hours? Days? Alden didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. People came and went—doctors, nurses, attendants—all blending into the same faceless blur. They moved around him like shadows, their voices muffled as if filtered through layers of glass. He stared ahead, his glassy green eyes fixed on a speck of light refracting through the window, his mind adrift in the vast, empty void of his grief.
The room pressed in on him. The sharp, antiseptic scent stung his nose; the distant hum of monitors was a grating constant in his ears. The light pouring in from the window shifted in uneven patches, sometimes too bright, sometimes flickering as if unsure whether it belonged in this moment. The world itself seemed undecided, stuck between clarity and haze. Time stretched and snapped like an elastic band—erratic, unreliable.
Then came a voice.
“Duke Fairwood.”
Crisp. Commanding. Cutting through the haze like the crack of a whip.
The words pulled at Alden’s awareness, sharp and deliberate, but wrong, Duke Fairwood was his father. The title hung in the air like an ill-fitting coat, foreign and suffocating. Slowly, as if moving through water, his gaze shifted toward the man standing at the foot of his bed.
The figure wasn’t imposing in the traditional sense. He was of average height, leanly built, with features meticulously crafted for precision—sharp cheekbones, a pointed nose, and pale, piercing eyes that seemed to strip away layers of pretense. But for a brief instant, the man’s outline flickered, and those sharp features twisted grotesquely into the contorted grimace of the final assailant.
Alden froze. His muscles locked, his breath catching in his throat like the snap of a closing trap.
The pristine white walls blurred, dissolving into jagged shadows. Fairwood Manor rose around him, jagged and broken, a phantom reconstruction of his final moments there. The blade was in his hand again, as if it had never left. The hilt was warm and sticky, its weight anchoring him in a moment he wanted desperately to escape. He felt the sigh of flesh as the blade sank in, the sickening give reverberating up his arm.
He had missed the heart on purpose.
The memory was too vivid, too immediate—he had wanted the death to be slow, agonizing. He could feel the phantom weight of the attacker’s neck in his other hand, cold and clammy, the ridges of bone pressing against his tightening grip. Tighter. Tighter.
A sound. Wet. Gurgling. Blood bubbled and spilled over his fingers, warm and slick, thick like syrup. The figure beneath him twisted, its struggles fading into weak, pitiful spasms. Somewhere in the distance, a voice called his name. He didn’t hear it. The only sound was the drumbeat of his pulse and the muffled echo of his parents’ screams in the background of his mind.
The weight in his hand grew heavier, crushing, pulling him downward like an anchor. Then the blade wasn’t in the attacker anymore—it was in him. Piercing through his own chest. He could feel it, cutting him open from the inside. A scream built in his throat, raw and silent, until—
The monitors screamed for him, their shrill alarms snapping him back to the present. Alden flinched violently, gasping as if breaking the surface of water. The shadows of Fairwood Manor faded, but the sensation lingered—the weight of the blade, the sticky warmth on his hands, the crushing grief in his chest.
Lights on the medical monitors flashed red in alarm, their sensors struggling to recalibrate as his body shuddered. A faint flicker of the suppression field crackled, a spark of magic subdued before it could manifest. An orderly rushed into the room, his expression a mix of alarm and urgency as he checked the screens.
Alden’s chest heaved, his body damp with sweat that slicked his hair to his forehead. His trembling fingers curled into fists, clutching at the fabric of the blanket as if it could tether him back to reality. The orderly glanced over the readouts, his fingers tapping rapidly against a floating control panel. After a moment, the lights stabilized, the urgent beeping easing back into a steady rhythm.
“Everything’s fine,” the orderly murmured, half to himself as he adjusted the controls. His eyes flicked to Alden, who remained frozen, trembling faintly as he stared blankly at the figure standing at the foot of his bed.
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The man was no longer a phantom from his nightmares. He was solid, real, his gaze piercing but controlled.
“I am Headmaster Reenes,” the man said, inclining his head slightly, a gesture that managed to convey both respect and authority. He waited, allowing the orderly to finish his work before stepping closer. “I oversee Starlight Academy, the institution you will soon be attending.”
Reenes’s tone was calm but carried an undercurrent of control, the kind of voice that demanded attention. Alden’s gaze barely flickered in acknowledgment. His hands lay limply on the bed, and his expression remained blank. The introduction washed over him like everything else—another wave in an endless sea of meaningless noise.
Reenes stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking faintly against the sterile floor. “Starlight Academy is the most prestigious institution in the galaxy, Duke Fairwood,” he continued, his voice unwavering. “Only the brightest and most exceptional are admitted. Your condition, while unique, has drawn considerable interest from the Academy Council. They see potential in understanding it—and in you.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken expectation. Alden didn’t respond. He stared at Reenes, his expression so hollow it bordered on unsettling. The Headmaster’s sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment, as if searching for some spark of recognition, some sign of engagement.
Reenes’s gaze flickered briefly over Alden’s trembling hands before returning to his face. His voice softened, though it retained the sharp edges of precision. “You’ve been through a great deal,” he said, each word deliberate, calculated. “But at Starlight, you will find purpose. Structure. And perhaps even answers.” He let the last word hang in the air, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if testing its weight.
Alden’s lips parted, a faint, dry sound escaping as he tried to speak. His voice, hoarse from disuse, barely rose above a whisper. “Answers?” The word cracked as it left him, brittle and uncertain, as though he didn’t quite believe it could exist.
Reenes nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “Yes. Answers. About yourself. About what has happened. Starlight is a place where knowledge thrives, where the brightest minds uncover truths far beyond comprehension. It is your opportunity, Duke Fairwood, to reclaim control.”
Control. The word stabbed into Alden’s chest, sharp and unyielding. Control had been an illusion—a fragile thread severed in an instant, leaving him adrift in a sea of ash and blood. His hands twitched faintly, but he said nothing.
Reenes’s sharp gaze flicked to Alden’s hand, the faint twitch not escaping his notice. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his features—barely perceptible, but there. The boy was still in there somewhere, fractured though he was. Satisfied that his message had been delivered, Reenes straightened. “Arrangements are being finalized for your transfer. The Empress herself has approved your attendance. When the time comes, you will leave for Starlight alongside Princess Elkianara.”
Alden nodded faintly, the motion almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Reenes’s sharp eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before he turned toward the door.
“I will see you again soon, Duke Fairwood,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. “Until then, rest.”
The door shut behind him, leaving the room in oppressive silence once more. Alden stared at the space where Reenes had stood, his mind a tangle of disconnected thoughts. The word “answers” echoed faintly, fading like a ripple in still water.
Elkianara visited often, too often. She perched at the edge of his bedside chair, her hazel eyes searching his face for cracks in the wall he’d built around himself. Her words were bright, deliberate, filling the empty spaces he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge.
“Do you remember when we were small?” she said softly one afternoon, her voice carrying an undertone of warmth and wistfulness. “Before Duke Lucian decided to leave for Marlugrathara?” She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting as if recalling the memory in vivid detail. “We were four and five, practically inseparable. The palace felt like the whole world back then. I used to follow you into every corner, even the places we weren’t supposed to go. The kitchens, the old storerooms, the little garden behind the west wing.”
Alden’s eyes flickered faintly, a trace of something surfacing before sinking back into the depths. Elkianara pressed on, her tone steady but softer now.
“You would always try to carry more than you could handle. Books, toys, sometimes trays of food for the kitchen staff. I remember how you refused to let me help, even when it was obvious you’d drop everything.” Her lips quirked into a faint smile. “Once, you nearly got us caught sneaking cakes out of the pantry. I had to make up some ridiculous story about feeding stray birds in the courtyard. The cook didn’t believe a word of it, but she let us go anyway.”
She paused, studying his face, searching for any flicker of recognition. Her smile faltered slightly, but she forced it to hold, unwilling to let her frustration surface. “You were always so stubborn,” she murmured, her voice soft now, almost wistful. “But I admired that about you.”
Alden’s gaze remained unfocused, but his hands tightened slightly against the blanket. Encouraged, Elkianara leaned closer, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the bed.
“I hope we can find that again, Alden,” she said, her tone earnest. “At Starlight. Maybe not everything will be the same, but… we’ll figure it out. Together.”
The silence stretched between them. Alden’s gaze remained unfocused, his hands limp against the blanket. Her own hands clenched briefly in her lap before she smoothed her skirt with deliberate care. “You’re not alone, Alden,” she whispered, though the words felt fragile, as if spoken more to herself than to him.
The transition to the private room began in fits and starts, as Alden’s dazed state made time an unreliable anchor. One moment, he was staring at the sterile white ceiling of the recovery room; the next, unfamiliar hands were tugging at him, pulling him from the bed.
“Let’s get you dressed, Your Grace,” said a soft, professional voice, the attendant’s tone devoid of emotion.
Alden’s legs felt weak as they were lowered to the floor, his muscles trembling with the effort of standing. He blinked slowly, his vision swimming as the room tilted and righted itself. The attendant steadied him, their hands brisk but firm as they guided him to a nearby chair.
The clothes they slipped over him were soft but stiff with formality—a dark suit with subtle embellishments, the fabric whispering against his skin. The attendant worked in efficient silence, fastening buttons and adjusting cuffs. The weight of the clothes felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
“Do you think you can stand for the ceremony, Your Grace?” the attendant asked, their voice polite but distant.
Alden nodded. He always nodded.
They guided him through the corridors, the polished floors reflecting the glow of overhead lights. His shoes clicked faintly with each step, the sound hollow and distant, like an echo from another life. He barely registered the faces that turned toward him as they passed—nurses, guards, palace staff—each glance lingering just a moment too long.
The private room, when they reached it, was a stark contrast to the sterile recovery ward. The walls were smooth and pale, the furnishings minimal but elegant. A large window overlooked the city, its skyline glittering faintly against the encroaching dusk. The bed was neatly made, the linens crisp and pristine, as if waiting for someone more present, more alive.
The attendant helped him into a chair by the window, their hands briefly brushing against his as they adjusted his posture. “Your meal will be brought shortly, Your Grace,” they said before retreating to the door. Alden didn’t watch them leave. His gaze remained fixed on the window, though he didn’t truly see the view.
He sat there, motionless, as the light outside shifted from gold to gray, then faded entirely. The emptiness within him stretched endlessly, a void that consumed everything it touched. Time passed in uneven fragments, marked only by the distant hum of the city and the faint ticking of a clock he couldn’t see.
The ceremony passed like a half-remembered dream. The room was stifling, filled with people he didn’t recognize, their faces blurring together under the golden light of the chandeliers. Voices rose and fell in solemn tones, the cadence of their words too measured, too formal.
He barely registered the weight of the medallion until it was draped around his neck, its cold edge pressing against his collarbone. It was heavier than he expected, the metal biting into his skin with every breath. His gaze remained fixed on the polished floor, where distorted reflections of the gathered crowd wavered like ghosts.
Applause rippled faintly through the room, though it felt distant, muffled. Alden’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the title that now hung over him, heavier even than the medallion itself. Duke Alden Fairwood. The words meant nothing.
The words of the ceremony—the oaths, the formalities—drifted over him like wind through hollow trees. It should have mattered, shouldn’t it? The title, the future, the promises of duty? But as he stared at the faces surrounding him, each expectant, each distant, he realized the truth: without them—his parents, the voices that guided him—nothing else mattered.
Food. Questions. Examinations. Time dissolved around Alden into an unbroken fog. Days passed—or maybe it was weeks—and his world narrowed to the walls of his private room. He floated through it all, tethered only by the weight of loss pressing against his chest like a stone. It didn’t matter that the meals became more refined or that the examinations grew less frequent. Nothing touched him. He drifted, suspended in the vast emptiness that grief had carved inside him.
He didn’t notice the whispers between the attendants, or the subtle change in the air around him. He didn’t notice her absence—not at first. But when the room stilled completely, no shadow near the chair by his bedside, something faint stirred in the hollow space within him.
She was gone.
And Alden, cocooned in his grief, couldn’t bring himself to care—or to stop it.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the palace, the day began with muted ceremony.