Book 1: Chapter 32 - The Engagement [Part 1]
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“Whatever you vividly imagine, ardently desire, sincerely believe, and enthusiastically act upon... must inevitably come to pass!”
- Paul J. Meyer.
The Crown Prince's face was etched with worry as he gazed back at his Royal Guard, the shattered remains of his once-grand carriage, and the grim statement of lifeless bodies strewn across the field. Above them, a murder of crows gathered on the branches, their beady eyes gleaming with anticipation, waiting to see what the humans below would do next.
“Sir Donahan, what say you to the Sarien's offer?” the Crown Prince inquired, his voice tight with unease. Though he addressed his guard, his eyes remained fixed on Seraphina, scrutinizing her every move for any hint of treachery.
“Would the hare accept an invitation into the wolf's den?” retorted Sir Donahan, a portly man with a stuffy demeanor and a round face flushed with indignation. He tugged off his gloves with deliberate disdain. “Who knows what other perils we might encounter along the way?”
Seraphina's lips parted, a sharp retort poised on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, Milly stepped forward, her eyes blazing.
“How dare you insult the Sariens! Donahan, is it? Were I a man, I'd challenge you this instant,” Milly snapped, her voice dripping with contempt. Her eyes blazed like embers, her cheeks flushed with anger, and she seemed on the verge of an apoplexy. Beside her, Miriam's hand drifted menacingly toward the cudgel at her hip.
“Ha! Will someone restrain this rabid dog?” Sir Donahan scoffed, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “This is what happens when you give common filth too long a leash!”
Sir Gallant, the tall knight, remained silent, his eyes sweeping over the tense gathering, though his gaze lingered on Eloise more often than not. He appeared relaxed, his hand resting casually away from his weapon, simply observing the unfolding drama. Seraphina appreciated a man like that—a strong, silent type. She now noticed a faint scar tracing his left jawline; rather than marring his features, it added to his rugged allure, lending him an aspect of martial fierceness. Beside him stood his squire, a young man whose eyes burned with barely concealed hatred as he glared at Sir Donahan for his disdainful remark about the common people.
Seraphina also noticed that Vellens's hand was trembling—was it fear, anger, or perhaps a blend of both? she wondered. With a fixed, polite smile, she gripped Milly's arm firmly in a grip of iron, restraining her fiery maid. “Ah, Milly, let us not give the dear Prince any further cause for worry,” she said sweetly. “After all this fighting, they must be unsteady, still reeling from the shock of battle. My father always said that even the bravest hearts can grow cowardly, seeing enemies lurking in every shadow after such bloodshed. Some have the stomach for it... others cannot even lift a sword afterwards... or before.”
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To underscore her point, Seraphina strode over to a bandit's corpse, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light. With a swift, brutal kick, she sent the severed head hurtling through the air. It crashed into a tree trunk with a sickening splat, a gruesome explosion of blood and bone fragments. It felt good to finally be able to vent.
The Royal Guards immediately tensed, their hands dropping to the hilts of their swords. They all looked comically worried to Seraphina who just working off a little stress.
“I see now why the so-called finest in the kingdom struggle against mere bandits,” Seraphina remarked with feigned innocence, speaking to nobody in particular. She spoke as if discussing the weather. “Needing a mere girl to rescue them. Quite shameful, really. Standards have certainly fallen.”
At this casual insult, the Royal Guard tensed, their confusion evident. By treating Seraphina as a legitimate threat, they were inadvertently validating the girl's point.
She knew she was playing a dangerous game. Earlier, she had let slip that it was her mother's power that brought her here. A lie of course. Still, perhaps it was better to let Vellens think she was unaware of future events. The sight was not something that always passed from generation to generation.
As for the future in general, a few details might change, but surely the broad strokes of fate would remain the same? It intrigued her to consider how much the butterfly effect could alter the world she found herself in.
Besides, letting them leave now would only postpone her engagement—a union she might have found repugnant if not for several reasons. First, it was the customary practice of the times. Second, mentally, she was at least in her mid-twenties. And finally, Vellens was much like her in many ways, making the arrangement vaguely palatable. Not to mention that he was undoubtedly handsome, indeed almost custom-built to suit her physical preferences.
However, for now, it suited her purposes; it gave her options. Yet she intended to extract as much advantage from the situation as possible.
Even if that meant nothing more than simple satisfaction. After all, she had already achieved her primary objective and it would take a good long while for the witch to sink her claws in him.
“Who am I to command the great Crown Prince of the realm, Vellens the Bold?” she laughed haughtily, bestowing upon him the moniker by which he would be known as in the game’s story in front of all of his men—but now under very, very different circumstance. She truly relished the thought of poisoning his glorious future with her words, savoring the echo of her own voice as it rang clearly for all to hear.
Seraphina strode up to the Prince, ignoring the guards whose hands still hovered over their weapons. She slowly removed her gloves, her fingers pale and delicate against the backdrop of the blood-stained scene. Gazing deeply into his eyes, she momentarily lost herself in their stormy depths. She was close enough that Vellens could inhale the clean, earthy scent of her chypre perfume, mingled with the metallic tang of old blood. Gently, she traced the line of his jaw, watching as desire flickered across his features and his breath hitched. Even clad in armor, Seraphina radiated raw femininity and mastered womanly allure—from the tilt of her head to the subtle curve of her lips. Her own body betrayed her with a familiar warmth, but she refused to fight it. She acknowledged it for what it was—he was an attractive boy, but nothing more. A boy.
With an enigmatic smile, she turned her back on the Crown Prince and his entourage, dismissing them entirely. “You may go now. When next you pay court to me, you will do so properly. Do not think that because our fathers have arranged this union, it is set in stone, my dear Prince.”