Solvane sprinted through the palace corridors, his breath ragged, his vision swimming. The torches along the walls blurred into streaks of orange, shadows twisting and stretching like claws reaching for him. He didn't dare look back. Every nerve in his body screamed danger, every heartbeat thundered like war drums.
His right hand burned as though fire had been poured into his veins. He clutched it tight against his chest, but the pain only worsened—sharp, searing, alive. Normally, his blood carried the blessing of ancient kings; his wounds sealed in seconds, his body a fortress against death. But this wound… this was different.
It was not healing.
The skin around the injury was blackening, veins swelling like snakes beneath his flesh. With every pulse of blood, a sickly light shimmered beneath the surface, faint and unnatural. It wasn't just pain anymore. It was spreading.
He staggered, crashing against the walls, leaving a trail of bloody smears in his wake. The palace, normally alive with the steps of servants and the clatter of armor, seemed suffocatingly silent. Every step he took echoed back to him, as if the palace itself was listening to his suffering.
By the time he stumbled into his chamber, his strength was gone. His body gave way, and he collapsed past the threshold, hitting the polished floor with a thud. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling like a dying bellows. Blood followed him in thin ribbons, staining the marble in grotesque patterns.
And then came the trembling. His entire frame shook violently, his limbs refusing his commands. The wound throbbed, black veins crawling further up his arm like an infection that had no end.
That was when Sunny entered.
The maid carried a tray balanced delicately in her hands, the smell of warm broth rising from the bowl. She pushed the door open with her hip, humming softly to herself—only to freeze mid-step.
Her heart skipped.
The tray slipped from her hands, shattering on the ground. Porcelain shards scattered, soup spreading like a second pool of blood.
Her prince lay before her, curled and shaking like a dying animal. His golden skin—once the mark of his Asper bloodline—was pale and ashen. His arm was grotesque, the veins black and throbbing like worms beneath his skin.
For a long moment, she couldn't move. Fear rooted her to the floor, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.
Then another fear surged forward, greater than the horror before her: responsibility.
If Solvane died under her watch, it wouldn't just be her head that rolled. Her entire family—her father, her brothers, her grandmother—would be executed. That was the law of the Aspers. The Yellow Aspers tolerated no weakness, no failure. She had been placed in the palace not just as a maid, but as collateral.
If the prince died, her house would die with him.
That thought broke her paralysis. She turned on her heel and ran, her footsteps slamming against the polished floor as she raced down the hallways.
Her lungs burned, but she didn't stop. She had only one destination in mind.
The King.
---
The King of the Yellow Aspers.
The name alone was enough to silence taverns and send soldiers into nervous whispers. He was said to be the only one who could rival the strength of ten Golden Aspers combined. To the common people, he was a myth, a storm given flesh. To those who had seen him fight, he was something worse.
Sunny remembered the first time she had witnessed him. She had been much younger then, a servant girl hiding in the rafters of the training courtyard, peeking where she wasn't supposed to.
That day, he faced another Golden Asper. But it hadn't been a duel. It had been a slaughter.
The king's sword moved like lightning, yet carried the weight of thunder. He didn't fight to win. He fought to ruin. Every strike was savage, deliberate, meant to prolong his opponent's despair.
His face had been composed, almost elegant, but his grin had betrayed him. It wasn't the grin of a man. It was the grin of a beast savoring the kill. His eyes had glowed then, not with the brilliance of power, but with the abyss of something ancient, something monstrous.
That day, Sunny had learned what true fear was. Not the fear of death, not the fear of beasts or war, but the fear of something that should not exist.
King Aubrean.
Even now, years later, the memory of that grin made her legs weak.
And yet, here she was, standing before his chamber door. Her hand hovered in the air, trembling, about to knock.
She never got the chance.
The door swung open before her touch, creaking as the shadows within seemed to spill out like smoke. And there he was.
King Aubrean.
He filled the doorway, towering, his presence suffocating. His eyes were not simply looking at her—they pinned her, as though he were deciding whether she deserved to keep breathing.
Sunny swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat.
"The… the prince," she stammered, barely able to form the words. "He's dying. There's blood and—"
"Where is he?"
The king's voice was iron. Flat. Cold. No rise, no fall—just absolute command.
"In his… in his chamber. I didn't know he—"
She never finished.
The king was gone.