𝐏𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

.ೃ࿐ᵀʰᵉ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ˡᵘʳᵉ ʷⁱˡˡ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵉᵃᵏ ᵖʳᵃʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃᵗ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵉᵉᵗ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᵃ ᴳᵒᵈ.

Even the most valid planets are built on lies. The navy and twilight that inclines a beauty into their distant flares are nothing more than a charming delicacy allotted to the miserable souls that have nothing better to do than pursue the darkness of the universe.—A Palace of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.

|Early Orcus-July 6th, 7210|

A YOUNG FIGURE settled near a frigid stone window, compound hazel and emerald gaze flickering with thousands of flashing sentiments as they obsessively glued to the holy tandem of wife and husband that twirled about the marble floor, vast snowy ballroom accentuating their love as they promenaded with bizarre grins like the many other pairs around them.

At that moment, it seemed the humming voices of the wealthy around him no longer existed as his young stare rested on their silhouettes. A King and Queen were nothing without the attention of the majority, eyeing them with expressions of awe and admiration that only smothered their young prince with dismay.

The room was extensive, priceless and way too excessive for a young boy to be lost in on his own. The ceilings and walls were painted with resonant portraits of a nation in a time long rested. For the many sauntering people enclosing him, these images were the intentions of equilibrium, triumph and superiority as a whole.

Oh, how gold crawled.

Gold twisted everywhere-the tall walls, the never-ending floors and on the self-consumed gulls. The immoderation for him didn't represent the success of his family, only the slavery of the laughingstock. Snaking tears burned the greens of his irises, the pink of his cheeks blistering with neglect as he followed their gaze scrape past him.

Just like another one of their blindless followers, his parents excluded him like a chasm of nothing but worn air.

It was apparent that the powerful little family of Ulric was never meant for the path of wonders from the beginning. It was absurd to believe such a disaster would toil any other way.

His eyes would roll to the jewelled clock dangling elegantly off the earthy coloured wall, chiming so soft that none of the conversing people would appreciate its existence. The prince had looked forward to his 13th birthday, it was said the 13th was a milestone in one's life. All his enthusiasm had rightfully decayed throughout the day when it became obvious that the party his mother and father had set up for him, truly wasn't for him—it was for their beloved package of burden, his younger brother, Kek.

How derisive was it that the boy that once adopted pride in his name of past, his parentage of blood and his title of birth was now the one consumed by its darkness? A traitor to his identity. An identity that was a guilty catalyst for his self-destruction.

He used to brush off their imprudence, their lack of affection and passion, hoping it was just another nightmare-he was to be the king of their planet one day, his family's archaic name glued to the palms of his hands...the universe must have kept him for a reason. That's what he believed as he gathered himself in bed at nights, peering to the rusting bedroom door in hopes that his mother would appear just to kiss him well, maybe even comfort him on the days he sat tirelessly by his window, counting the many flinching stars of the sky.

He would've razed every stream of light in the cosmos just to tell his younger self how much of a fool he'd been.

The prince learned to not cry out for his parents when he'd hurt himself. When he was frightened of the things he'd see in his dreams. And eventually, when he realised he was losing himself to his torturous life. Although that wasn't enough to stop him from craving the improbable.

Was love still as invaluable as it was deemed if one was to beg for it first?

A boy considered to be a symbol of generational greater goods, a remembrance of his ancestors' victories, was now scarred as the forgotten unforgettable. The once innocuous chuckles that used to engulf him in overcast culmination now cowered from him. The free-spirited butterflies that once surged about his stomach with his sweet grace were now replaced with a wave of dead ones, rotting into foul fumes that ate at the discarded chips of his heart.

A forever finger slicing reminder that he was never enough to be saved or loved. It could be the rise of a sun or the setting of another a trillion miles away. It didn't matter if his shudder was secondary to the cold or if his harmed nature was incomparable to the many other unhappy beings around the system, it would always ravage him and the coming of their ends. Occasionally, the suffering of one dejected individual oversaw the crippling trauma of a billion others.— A Palace of Ulric labyrinths, Elvira Crest.

The young boy manoeuvred past the crowd of intoxicated adults, their laughter torrid in the drums of his ears. If someone had paid attention to the young boy that night, they would've noted how the sleek colours of his irises dimmed, how their pigment succumbed in momentum with the scathing child within him.

His true person had finally started to shed.

He felt a flexing hole in the centre of his torso, weeping in chagrin as his legs towed him down the slender corridors, each indistinguishable and ecru door discrediting him for his uncatered vulnerability.

As his arms raised, subconsciously trying to placate the morsels left of him, the prince dropped them. Love. Oh, love, love, love. How he hated that thing they called love.

A confiding breeze plucked on the paper crown that once slumped snug on his head, ripping it to his feet with enmity. It growled past the tips of his ears, tormenting him with its tungsten current. The junior prince took frozen in the lonesome corridor, gaze not raising off his ruined crown.

"What do you think he's doing?" A voice that failed to be discreet hissed through the drags of wind outside. The prince twisted back, vision embracing the figures of two children that were around his age. A boy and girl stood side by side-their eyes kept a collection of opinions that only made the boy more nauseated. Their gazes bounced from the fluttering crown on the floor and then to the mirthless royal who stood atop of it with a carnivorous glow that was now directed at them.

The girl watched him with sharp eyes, gold peeking with litotes from under the strands of maroon tides that grounded across her caramel face. The boy had black hair that flattered the onyx gaze that stabbed intensely into the young royal. As Corentin scanned them, he didn't neglect to take in the shining crests of their kingdoms laced finely into the silk of their robes. Cursed royals like himself.

The Diamond of Sevgi and the Scepter of Hezkeil.

"Go away," He spurned them, admitting a coarse grace to fold into his words to sport threat. The green-eyed prince's demand was as harsh as hoar, twisting and branding its way through his youthful spirit. I want to be alone, his atoms snarled at the two children, I want to rectify my misery alone.

A huff acknowledged his indignant trance as the other boy lent him a refusing shrug."We're royal guests and as far as I can tell, we're allowed to go as we please," The Hezkeil boy bit back with a great amount of novelty to his words. "Besides, Princess, I don't really feel like leaving. My legs don't want to."

"Shut up, Echo," The girl hissed lowly as her elbow found the side of her friend. She cast him a scolding look before turning back to the unfamiliar boy in front of her with an apologetic smile."Sorry."

Unfamiliar was the wrong word. She had recognised the Ulric prince the second he turned to acknowledge their presence with a blood staining wrath. Nonetheless, up close the prince was very conflicting from what she'd admired from afar—far more strange than his two brothers of gallantry. What she felt from him now was far more distinct applied to what she grazed from afar. He looked harsh and bitter compared to the usual bubbly persona his family's papers headlined him to be. His pissed off form didn't seem to help better shape her vague impression of him.

Corentin ignored her apology, his face twitching back to the other boy in fury. Princess? Did the ignoramus know who he was speaking to? He was a finger away from the jewel adorned crown his ancestors once honoured. Corentin would one day be the king of all 13 worlds.

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What part of a king-to-be could these children not comprehend or respect?

He scowled at their unmoving figures. "Don't you two have someone else to bother? Some senile butler you could toy around with?"

"Maybe that's a question we should be asking you, princess," The Hezkeil royal spoke back, his voice holding muted contempt. A tight force crumpled the stiff air as the boy's amusement insulted the Orcus prince in the orifices of his bold grace.

Harpy had expected the prince to snap or be enraged by her friend's express of magic like most royals would do with discourtesy, but the prince did quite the contrary. Corentin’s lips lifted into an infectious smile, untrained smile lines cutting into his cheeks as he eyed Maulin Echo with a simmering rage that her friend smugly ousted. If the world were mute, there was no doubt that the frantic beats of her heart would embezzle shameful fame.

Harpy Alerian believed the eyes were a window to the soul. The soul was supposed to be a luminous purity but when she gazed at the boy before her, she saw nothing but a recently blown-out candle. Shady smoke and fume marked darkness inside his eyes, suffocating whatever was left of a child. A window? The boy with rings of Cazar for eyes was in more of a cage. An indestructible cage that carried something she was tempted to disentangle. The eyes were a window to the soul, yes? What kind of window shatters so effortlessly at such a young age?

Corentin scoffed lightly, shadows pulling on the delicate structure of his face. His previous blaze of grace seemed to have muffled within him as the boy twisted away and began to stride off, not paying a single mind to their interaction as he ignored the two like the trio had not just shared the same smouldering flush of air that Harpy was now itching the return of.

"You know, I quite like him," Maulin mused from her left, his eyes still trained on the parading prince with mischief. "I think I could get the ropes of infuriating him." His eccentric grace still rolled against the halls in ample gluttony. I want control, it buzzed, I want to control everything.

"Because that's all your good for," Harpy added with a mocking brow raise which her opaque-eyed friend refunded. "Right?"

"Oh?" Maulin smiled deviously as he inspected Harpy pick up the flattened paper crown Corentin had ruined with his departure. "I invariably thought I was decent at being nothing but amazing."

"Very big words for someone with not much up here," she joked, flicking a cold-tipped finger at Maulin's head. He pouted bitterly at her action.

"Hilarious."

Her stare drove back to the dissolving paper in her hands as her fingers traced the smudged words that made up its layer of the crown. Happy 13th?

"Maybe we should go find him—apologise for what you said?" Harpy hesitantly suggested.

Maulin immediately sneered at her proposal. Him, apologising? He might as well have stuck his foot in a blender and called it a day. "Don't tell me he's managed to woo one of the great Alerians," He scoffed disbelievingly while side-eyeing the Sevgi royal.

Harpy's face curled into a grimace. "I think my own reflection is doing a fine enough job at wooing me, thank you very much."

"Oh dear, Harpy, our dreamy little Lyr would be so crushed at your words," The boy exclaimed with an unnatural grin. "No future husband of yours would ever appreciate what's theirs being whipped for another."

"I am not 'whipped', Echo, nor am I an object to be claimed," Harpy hissed becoming agitated by his crooked words. He was doing it again. He was riling her up on purpose. "Honestly, do you not have a switch-off button?" Her world tracked after her as she began to start in the same direction as the Ulric prince.

As she went on with her path, the stretching arrogance of her friend caught her ears with gaiety as he called out, "Sorry to disappoint, Harp, but nobody likes silencing a pretty melody."

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࿐CORENTIN࿐

|Ulric palace, Witching hour|

CORENTIN LOOKED up towards the river of stars that laid out a setting for the night. Tonight was a younger night. His elbows were propped up on the balcony frame, the cold wisp of winter numbing the uncomfortable pressure he felt in his arms as he continued to stare up into the sky. Although the night was boisterous, it wasn't as audible as the small feet that shuffled behind him, doing their best to keep quiet and be disjunct.

Harpy eyed the unmoving prince with air clogging in her throat. Did he know she was here? Was she intruding? She shifted awkwardly on her feet, sweat sticking the paper crown to her fingers. Corentin didn't turn to her as he held his head to the sky, acid-greens glowing ghostly under the vast glimmers of the universe. How pretty, she thought to herself as she watched his eyes explore the free constellations.

"Can I help you?" The velvet tone of his sudden question hallowed the room.

"I'm sorry," Harpy blurted out quickly, catching the boy's attention from the twinkles. He raised a vague brow, refusing to rip his gaze from the uneasy girl. She was stiff, almost uncomfortable as her mouth opened and closed at a loss of words.

"Why are you apologizing?" He questioned, but the underlying demand could've easily robbed excuse from her drying lips.

"I-My friend and I didn't mean to offend or upset you in any way." Corentin’s eyes were as bright as they were dark; in their odd medley they made anyone recoil away, they laboured just that kind of jinx as they bore into her.

Catching her breath she continued, "Maulin doesn't know how to make friends without being arrogant or annoying…he didn't mean anything by it." Corentin didn't turn from her as she stammered the rest of her words. "You seemed upset, so I thought maybe it was best to see if you were alright."

He watched her unchangingly. "The feast is about to end, you should find your family before they leave without you," He announced coldly, driving his eyes back to the dozens of shaped glares up above.

"But-" Harpy cut herself off with a speechless bob of her head.

Thousands of uncertain and ridiculing thoughts scrambled her mind as Harpy started away to find Maulin, but a frigid whisper halted her, caressing her cheek in a form of sympathy. Wish him what your world refuses to spare, it pleaded like she was its loose lifeline. Wish it.

Corentin leaned closer to the rails, soaking up the flaps the balcony curtains let out against the harsh night winds. The prince stood waiting for the presence behind him to fade away like most did with his frigid shroud, but the girl refused to budge from behind the bricks of his back. Did he have to bite out a nasty remark to get her to leave him alone? Turning back to the Sevgi royal, Corentin stilled for a second as he noted the estranged gleam the girl's eyes held. Honeyed stars seemed to stir and melt with the hues of his emeralds; even though Corentin couldn't detect the aftermath of her deciphering stare, he knew he wasn't going to appreciate their stirring tint for the future.

She was talking with glitters of aureate.

Harpy fumbled over the two words. Happy birthday. Happy birthday. What if he didn't want her to wish for him? Shadows veiled the surges of viridescent that left specks of the sea in the prince's eyes. He had a tropical gaze. Exotic. Happy birthday. Happy birthday.

Corentin lagged his insult as Harpy lowered the paper crown he had discarded earlier beside him with a gentle smile. "Happy birthday." Her declaration was hesitant but the tug of her lips and the summer life in her eyes told him she meant truth to her honeyed midnight wish. Happy birthday? Happy birthday. Maybe Corentin didn't want to drive her off anymore.

His nominal zeal of conclusion soon dissipated as he beat back to where the girl stood only to find the moonlight's streaks against the pallid walls of the billiard room belittling his disappointment. Happy birthday. His eyes drifted back to the torn crown where the dark imprints of ink pulled his attention to the corner of the damaged paper.

Fɾσɱ ყσυɾ ϝɾιҽɳԃʂ σϝ Sҽʋɠι αɳԃ Hҽȥƙҽιʅ

His brows furrowed at the neat writing that he knew was left by the Sevgi girl. Friends? They had hardly had spoken until today—Still, those few minutes of introductions were ruined by the resentment he gripped for his family. His lips quirked as he skimmed the next paragraph scribbled in a new priding handwriting that matched the arrogant smirk of the boy that had deliberately irritated Corentin in the hallway.

𝘞𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 14𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

A muscle in Corentin jaw feathered at the taunting title that the Hezkeilien used-the Echo prince even took the pleasure in outlining the name with a poorly drawn tiara webbed in roses. Corentin’s gaze shifted to the last sentence where both their peculiar handwritings cut a goodbye into twined halves.

𝘏𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺, αɳԃ ҽxρҽƈƚ ƚσ ʂҽҽ ყσυ ʋҽɾყ ʋҽɾყ ʂσσɳ, Oԃαʅɾιƈ ƙιɳɠ.

Odalric King. They called him Odalric king...like his grandfather. It was the title his grandfather had died for and a title Corentin would throw everything away to get back. He was a Odalric first. His mother took a variation of his father's name while the prince fought to keep his deceased grandfather's. He would always and forever be an Odalric. A rush of anger sowed him thick in violent emotions. He carried hate towards his mother and father for leaving him neglected just so they could maintain each other's artificial scents of affection. He suffocated in disdain because of how his brothers, Kek and Lyr, all easily gained his mother's unlimited devotion although their destiny tied with the throne as if the latter were oil and water. He also flexed a tiny and immoral resentment towards his grandfather, the man who left him all alone to internally die in his father's and mother's voracious mess of a family.

Odalric King.

His rightful title.

That was when the Orcus prince made a promise to himself in the twilight where his stars would only brandish the labyrinth power. It was a puzzle that had now made itself transparent.

A crown was not going to be carved on one-time flaws. It would not be a crown that was to restrain him, he was the one going to oversee it. It would be him that stands on the very top with that glistening crown. He didn't care if it had to be covered in misplaced lives for it to shine as bright as it would. It was a medal that represented him, his blood. The Odalric crown would be his and he would be at the top off all 13 worlds to flaunt it.

His rightful crown to claim.

The rabid gusts yanked the marked paper crown out of grip in a taunting gauge. Once again, the upon heavens ogled him with a bullying bliss. His demise was their medicine. His pain was their cure. He took in what he could of the ascending crown—the rushed scribbles, the terrible drawings, the charming words until Corentin paused his squint on the waving signatures at the bottom.

Tσ ƚԋҽ ϝσɾҽʋҽɾ Oԃαʅɾιƈ Hσυʂҽ σϝ Oɾƈυʂ,

Yσυɾʂ ʂιɳƈҽɾҽʅყ,

Hαɾρყ Pσʅισ Aʅҽɾιαɳ, Hσυʂҽ σϝ Sҽʋɠι 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘹 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰, 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘦𝘻𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘭.

A timid knock scratched from a loosely hanging portrait of dust on the other end of the moonlit room. Its thin frame quivered along with the ghostly setting, calling for his interest as Corentin rolled to take in a familiar pair in a garden of submerged greens. The man in the picture shined out a jagged smile as he gazed lovingly down to Corentin’s childish figure beside him in the picture, his just as uneven grin guided up to the man's storied smile.

Embedded into the obsolete timber of the frame were the uninviting dates Corentin struggled to smother even in the most vulgar depths of his mind: 7162 - 7205

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙊𝙛 𝙊𝙙𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙞𝙘.