Later in the night, still beneath the full moon of Luminara, Arion and Elara stepped out of the canoe and onto the moonlit shore. The gentle lap of water against the dock was a soothing backdrop to their laughter and light-hearted banter. The night had been a rare magical escape from the constraints.

  Arion guided the boat back into its resting place, his eyes occasionally glancing at Elara with a mixture of affection and anticipation. He quickly tied the canoe and turned to say something, but when he turned, he looked at a large figure standing behind Elara.

  Elara gauged the changing expressions on Arion’s face, she quickly turned as her gaze followed Arion's, and her heart sank as she spotted Akeem standing at the edge of the dock. The royal guard's imposing figure was silhouetted against the faint glow of the festival lights. His stern face and rigid posture made it clear that he was not there to join in the festivities.

  Akeem’s gaze locked onto Arion, and with a swift, practiced motion, he drew his sword. The large blade gleamed menacingly in the moonlight, as he pointed it directly at Arion, “Step away from the Princess,” he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.

  Elara's breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening. The enchanting evening they had shared now felt like a distant dream. As she stood between Arion and Akeem, she knew that their secret was exposed. Akeem's presence here meant their clandestine meeting was over, and their every action was now under scrutiny.

  “Arion!” she began, her voice trembling as she tried to find the right words as she saw Arion slowly putting the gauntlet on his wrist as he matched Akeem’s gaze that not once wavered.

  “Princess, step aside. Did he cause you any harm?” Akeem said as he moved a few steps closer with a sword in his hand. Looking for a reason to swing it.

  Elara felt a lump forming in her throat but she knew she had to act quickly to maintain control over the situation. “No! Akeem” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just… please lower your sword.”

  Akeem hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. The tension in the air was palpable. Elara could feel Arion’s eyes on her, a mix of concern and resignation in his expression.

  “Akeem!” Elara continued, her voice gaining a bit of strength as she attempted to maintain her composure, “Escort me back to the palace. I need to return now!”

  For a moment it seemed like Akeem wanted to ignore Princess’ order but then he nodded, sheathing his sword with a precise motion. His demeanor softened slightly, though the sternness remained in his eyes. “As you wish, your Highness.”

  Elara turned to Arion, her heart aching with the sudden shift in their evening. Her eyes met his, and in that brief moment, she tried to convey her fear and all the love she felt. “Arion,” she said softly, her voice laden with unspoken emotions, “I… have to go right now.”

  Arion took a step closer, his face etched with defiance, “Elara, speak to your father.”

  But Akeem’s presence was a stark reminder of reality. Elara nodded slightly as she took a deep breath, forcing herself to turn away. She walked towards Akeem, who offered a steadying hand to guide her back through the festival grounds.

  As they walked away from the dock, Elara glanced over her shoulder one last time. The sight of Arion standing alone, at the edge of the dock.

  The water rippled slightly, shimmering with reflection of golden particles floating above in silence. Beautiful, fleeting, untouchable. Much like this night.

  ***

  Theron’s mind churned like a storm as he led his horse outside the gates of the graveyard, the old man’s cryptic words still echoing in his thoughts. He replayed the conversation again and again, searching, hoping for a confirmation in the man’s riddles. He mounted his horse, gripping the reins tightly as he moved forward. The desolate graveyard faded behind him, an empty place far removed from the vibrant streets of Aetheria.

  As he urged his horse into a slow gallop, the eerie quiet of the graveyard gave way to the distant sounds of life, the laughter, music, and the last stretch of the celebration of Luminara. Luminous green sand particles dotted the sky like stars. It was a festival of light, a time when even the poorest found a reason to smile.

  But not Theron. Not tonight.

  His mind kept circling back to the graveyard. "But now and then, it pulls them back," the old man had said.

  He didn’t know if the vial held salvation or something far worse. Can I trust this man?

  As he rode, the sounds of the festival grew louder, the joyful revelry clashing against the dark thoughts clouding his mind. Then, cutting through the noise, a sound pierced the night: a single bell toll.

  Theron’s breath caught in his throat. His grip on the reins tightened.

  Another toll followed.

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  And another.

  His heart raced, thudding in his chest with every heavy strike of the bell. The festival's jubilant sounds seemed to fade, swallowed by the ominous tolls. Four. Five. Six. His pulse quickened with dread as he counted each one.

  Six tolls. His mind recoiled from the thought of a seventh. For generations, Aetheria’s tradition had been clear, the palace bell tolled seven times to mark the passing of a royal. One toll for each day it took the soul to reach the afterlife, the seventh marking the final passage, the ultimate farewell.

  Please, not seven.

  He closed his eyes, silently willing the bell to stop. He didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not ever.

  But then, it came, the seventh toll.

  A cold shiver ran down his spine, slicing through him like a blade. The final toll lingered in the air, a sound filled with the weight of death. A heavy silence followed, and Theron knew what it meant. Mother…

  “No!” he gasped, spurring his horse into a gallop. The horse responded to his urgency, speeding forward with a thunderous rhythm against the cobblestones. He raced through the streets, past the stunned faces of revelers as the grim truth settled over the festival like a dark cloud. His heart hammered in his chest, matching the frantic pace of the horse’s hooves.

  As he reached the market square, he spotted the palace herald, a man in a dark robe, a black sash tied across his chest. Standing on a platform, the herald's voice rang out, solemn and loud above the now-silent crowd.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! The Queen is dead! Our beloved Queen has departed from this world to the next! The light of Luminara dims with her passing!”

  The words struck Theron like a physical blow. He pushed his horse harder, barely hearing the gasps and cries of disbelief from the crowd. Faces blurred together, some pale with shock, others streaked with tears. The festive lanterns dimmed as if the light itself mourned, swallowed by the creeping darkness that gnawed at his heart.

  I should have been there.

  I should have stayed by her side.

  His thoughts were a storm of regret and anguish. He cared nothing for the crowd, for the people diving out of his way as he sped past. All that mattered was his mother, cold and lifeless, her hand slipping from his grasp.

  The palace gates loomed ahead, and the guards stepped aside at the sight of the prince, recognizing the raw desperation in his eyes. Theron leapt from the horse before it had even fully stopped, stumbling onto the stone path. His legs felt weak, his body unsteady, but he pushed forward, breath ragged, lungs burning.

  He rushed through the grand hall, past stunned courtiers and servants, all donning black sashes in mourning, their faces etched with grief. But Theron didn’t stop, didn’t acknowledge their sorrow. He only had one thought, he needed to see her. He needed to say goodbye.

  At the door to the queen’s chamber, he paused, his hand trembling on the handle. Fear gripped him. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face what awaited him on the other side. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, every step toward his mother’s bedside breaking his heart anew.

  Theron stood frozen; his eyes locked on his mother’s lifeless body. She lay there, draped in her finest robes, her once-vibrant auburn hair neatly arranged. Yet, she seemed so much smaller now, a shrunken version of the queen he had known his entire life. The regal strength, the warmth that had made her his mother, was gone, leaving behind only a hollow shell. For a moment, she didn’t even look like her, just an empty object abandoned by its soul.

  He barely noticed the room around him, medics and healers hovered, maids stood clutching handkerchiefs, all wearing the weight of sorrow on their faces. But none of them mattered. All he could see was her.

  Nima approached him cautiously, “She drew her last breath an hour ago your highness, we looked for you but couldn't find you.”

  She extended a hand toward him, but he stepped back, his chest tightening. He didn’t want comfort, didn’t want anyone near him. He needed space, space to breathe, to think, to feel. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. His throat was dry, parched like the desert that stretched beyond their walls.

  “Nima...” he croaked, barely more than a whisper. She stepped closer, her face softened with sympathy.

  Something snapped inside him. “Everyone, Get out! Now!” The words exploded from him, raw and jagged, startling everyone into silence. Nima retreated slightly, her eyes wide in shock. The maids, healers and medics exchanged nervous glances before quickly shuffling out, their robes brushing past him as they hurried for the door. The soft thud of it closing left him alone in the suffocating quiet.

  Theron’s fists clenched, nails biting into his palms, anchoring him to the moment. The cool glass of the vial in his left hand was a forgotten weight—until now. The stranger’s words echoed in his mind, “A few drops… But now and then, it pulls them back.”

  Hope flared, reckless and desperate. Could it be?... Now there’s nothing left to lose. He thought to himself.

  His heart pounded as he rushed to his mother’s side. His trembling fingers fumbled with the cork, the dark red liquid swirling ominously. He hesitated, just for a breath, then tipped the vial. A few drops fell onto her lips, shimmering like beads of blood in the candlelight.

  He held his breath. Waited. Seconds stretched into an eternity. Her eyes remained closed. Her chest, still. Nothing.

  His legs buckled, and he sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Grief twisted into rage. Why her? Why now? He would have given anything or anyone in exchange to bring her back… even his father— The thought surprised himself, but he didn’t shy away from what he felt. Pressing his palm to his eyes, he tried to shut it all out; the guilt, the agony.

  Suddenly, he stood, snatching vial from the floor with a frustrated growl. The room felt too small, too stifling. He needed air, needed to escape. He yanked the door open where only Nima stood, her face pale and tear-streaked.

  Before he could say anything, a loud gasp from behind him sliced through the silence, followed by a fit of a familiar cough. He spun around, heart racing. Nima stepped past him, her hands covering her mouth in disbelief at what she saw. Theron followed her gaze to the bed and felt his blood freeze.

  She was moving.

  Her chest rose with a ragged breath, her eyes fluttering open, bloodshot red, searching the room in confusion. She looked at him, her gaze unfocused but undeniably alive. Theron’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step forward, hardly daring to believe it.

  “Mother...” he whispered, his voice trembling.

  For a fleeting moment, her eyes found his but then, just as quickly as it had come, the light faded. Her eyes closed again; her body went limp.

  Fear clamped down on him. He turned to Nima, his voice desperate. “Is… Is she...?”

  Nima rushed to the bed, pressing her fingers to the queen’s neck, then an ear to her chest. She paused, her face white with shock before she finally whispered, “She’s breathing... She’s alive!”

  A chill crept down his spine. Relief and dread warred within him. His mother was breathing again, but for how long? And what had he done to bring her back?

  ***