In his eyes, the same man who had extracted blood from Seraphiel. In a moment, without time to even breathe, all but one of the attackers disappear. Ryo remains standing there; he does not look confused—rather, he looks irritated.
The magician is now present and tangible, standing in front of Seraphiel, who remains on the ground. Neither Ryo nor the magician exchange a word; all that is heard is an inconvenienced kissing of teeth as Ryo hops down from the building and retreats into the night.
“Are you alright?” the magician kneels toward Seraphiel, wearing the same covert attire as previously.
“What are you?” is all Seraphiel could muster in response, before they are briefly interrupted by the sound of an explosion right above the castle.
The magician grabs Seraphiel by the back of his shirt, and they appear right on top of a roof in front of the castle.
Thousands of people are present, standing in awe. A man’s head, strangely serene, has been impaled through the castle’s gate, and a representative appears on the balcony.
“Your king has a message for you all here, and for those who aren’t present in Cairnreach.”
“This man you see before you was sent by a foreign force in order to assassinate your beloved king, who only just recently brought in one thousand prospective medical students, giving them a lifetime opportunity.”
“I hope you have not forgotten this kindness.”
The man pauses as if waiting for the people to absorb this preliminary information.
“This force has warranted the wrath of the king, and as the people, it should invoke your rage. For centuries, we have lived in peace with the crown as our guidance and protection, and now it has been disrupted.”
“This—this is why your king chooses to not reveal himself to the world. Not due to timidness or laziness, but because your king today is like no other king before.”
The people appear to be engrossed in this speech, waiting for what makes this king so special that an assassin would be sent so soon after his initiation.
“Your king is going to bring Cairnreach out of its class divisions and create, using the crown and his will, the strongest nation in the realm.”
The people cheer affirmations and praise; this is exactly what they have all been waiting for.
“Would you betray your king so soon? Would you question him when he brought prosperity to one thousand families in an instant?”
The crowd ignites even louder.
“Stand with him and love this land. War is coming, and tragedy will follow—but do not waver. War and tragedy are the crucible of every chosen nation. Look to the Verez in their golden age: besieged by demons and ghouls, they rose to the moment and endured. They exist now only as memory, undone not by enemies, but by comfort that bred complacency. Would you rather suffer the pain of war or the humiliation of inaction? We will not make that same mistake.”
The representative places the note from which he read back in his pocket and shouts with his fist in the air, screaming out, “Thus we remain,” as the crowd follows.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Ryo, Noro, the Envoy, the magician, and Seraphiel all watch this scene from different positions.
Ryo calls a carriage and leaves with haste, fearful they would murder a foreigner in the passion of the moment.
“Look at that,” the magician says as if impressed. “This is going terribly! I can presume the stupid bird over in Rea was the one who sent the assassin, but what did she expect? To prod him and give him an excuse for war and anonymity?”
“Anyway, would you mind coming with me?”
The magician doesn’t give Seraphiel time to answer before they appear in that same dry and scalding land, but in a well-kept, slightly austere room. He pre-emptively removes his disguise this time, and Seraphiel looks upon him for the first time.
He had vivid light brown hair that never quite lay flat, as though it resisted being claimed by any single shape. It was pushed back and twisted around the back of his neck and ears. His skin held the warm tone of honeyed bronze, incongruous with Cairnreach’s bitter boreal climate, and made him stand out even when he wished not to. His ears tapered subtly to a point—an inheritance that invited scrutiny without offering explanation. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, and in certain light they carried a faint red tinge, not enough to be called unnatural, but enough to make prolonged eye contact feel like a mistake.
He puts forward his right hand, bows slightly, and shakes Seraphiel’s hand.
“Please forgive this series of strange events to which you have been subjected in recent times, but something even more disconcerting is happening.”
“It—it’s fine,” Seraphiel says. He is tired of being a confused passenger to his fate, and he retorts quickly. “What the hell are you? What do you want? Just tell me, for the love of God.”
The man sits down opposite him, a vase filled with flowers in front of him. He reaches for a black rose, picks it up, and sniffs it.
“Smells dead,” he muses.
“Firstly, I am Sol, and I am from… Seriol. That is where we are now.”
He twiddles the rose’s stem, pricking himself on the thorns as if it were some recreational high.
“And you are Seraphiel, so you will stay with me for your own safety,” he adds randomly, as if just his name sufficed for an introduction.
“To be brief, this king who is now living in your home is no king at all—hardly a thing at all—but that’s too much for you. What you need to know is that as a young royal wandering the streets, especially in the forthcoming conflicts, you’re a great pawn.”
“So, I thought I’d take you first,” he says plainly.
The rose in his hand withers in an instant. He fiddles with it still.
“A pawn? Why a pawn? What strategic use do I have? It’s not like I can claim some inheritance or know something special.”
“You don’t indeed,” Sol says plainly. “You will see. Have patience.”
He pricks his finger with the wilted thorns.
“You can stay here. Don’t worry. I am accommodating, though I don’t have any friends or family, so pardon my lack of social awareness,” he says plainly.
All Seraphiel could think of were two pressing questions: what the hell is that poor old lady thinking, and the guilt she would feel if something happened to him—she wouldn’t be able to bear it anymore; she would feel as if she failed another.
The most pressing question was far more sinister.
“What is going to happen to me?”
He dreaded the idea of being tossed about like a pawn on a chessboard, but all he could do was put his faith in this man who saved him with this devilish power.
He tried to remain calm and lead the situation to a degree.
“Why would you keep these flowers, just to kill them and pierce yourself?”
The man looks down toward the floor, as if disappointed.
“I find the transient nature of things is what makes it beautiful. Seeing the flower’s beauty wither away in my hand, at my command—there is nothing more beautiful than something that lives a short life, only able to be appreciated for a moment. Don’t you think?”
“I agree, I suppose,” Seraphiel says, careful not to upset the man.
“Do you find, now you are no longer royal, your brief time to be all the more enjoyable and meaningful?”
Sol remains looking down at the flower.
“After hearing about this lady who briefly took me in and her story, I realised that no matter how short, I suppose it did amount to something pleasant.”
Seraphiel tries to sound suave and sophisticated; he would much rather have stayed a royal.
“And do you think if you were immortal and rich, you would find that fulfilling, if you knew your existence was perpetually the same thing over and over?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Sol gets up, places the flower into his mouth, swallows it, and leaves.
