Solvane's mind churned with possibilities, each more desperate than the last. His body still ached from the brutal thrashing he'd endured in the bathhouse, but the pain was secondary now. Survival was all that mattered. He'd hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that his words, his title, or even his golden fur would sway Roxanne and her guards. But the cold glint in her eyes and the lifeless artifact in his hands had shattered that hope. Talking his way out was no longer an option. If he was going to make it out of this alive, he'd have to fight—or at least hold them off long enough for help to arrive.
His eyes darted around the bathhouse, taking in the damp stone walls, the rippling pools of water, and the circle of women closing in, their swords gleaming with malicious intent. Roxanne stood at their center, her posture relaxed but her grip on her blade unyielding. For a fleeting moment, her gaze seemed to drift, her focus wavering as if lost in thought. It was a split-second lapse, but it was all Solvane needed.
Seizing the opportunity, he lunged forward, his fingers wrapping around her wrist with surprising strength. He twisted hard, breaking free from her grasp, and stumbled backward, his bare feet slipping slightly on the slick tiles. His chest heaved as he scanned the room, calculating his odds of survival. The numbers weren't good—dozens of trained female guards, all armed, all glaring at him with a mix of fury and disdain. His golden fur shimmered faintly in the lantern light, but it offered no protection against sharpened steel.
High above, Filin crouched in the shadows of the rafters, his heart pounding as he watched the scene unfold. His fingers gripped the edge of a beam, ready to leap down and intervene, though he had no idea how he'd fare against a room full of elite warriors. "Just hold on, lad," he muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking between Solvane and the guards. "I'm coming."
But before Filin could make his move, a voice cut through the tense silence like a bell in the fog. It was clear, commanding, and unmistakably feminine. "On one knee."
The words seemed to ripple through the chamber, carrying an authority that froze everyone in place. To Solvane's utter shock, Lady Roxanne dropped to one knee, her head bowed low, her fist pressed firmly against her chest. "Subject greets the crown prince," she intoned, her voice steady but devoid of its earlier venom.
Solvane, mid-step in his retreat, froze. His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. The rest of the guards hesitated, their swords still raised, their faces etched with confusion. Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, they followed suit, dropping to their knees in unison, their weapons clattering against the stone floor. The chamber, moments ago a cauldron of hostility, was now eerily still, filled only with the sound of dripping water and the faint hum of the lanterns.
Solvane's mind raced. "This is a trap," he thought, his instincts screaming at him not to trust the sudden shift. His heart pounded in his chest, urging him to move, to escape while he had the chance. He didn't wait to question it further. With a burst of adrenaline, he bolted toward the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the bathhouse, his golden fur glinting as he moved.
To his surprise, no one pursued him. Not a single guard rose from their kneeling position. Not a single eye followed his frantic dash. They remained as they were, heads bowed, fists to chests, as if bound by some unspoken command. The weight of their submission was unnerving, almost as unsettling as their earlier aggression.
Solvane shoved the doors open with a grunt, the hinges groaning under the force. He stumbled out into the cool night air, his lungs burning as he sprinted across the cobblestone courtyard. He didn't stop until he was a considerable distance away, his legs finally giving out beneath a gnarled oak tree on the outskirts of the palace grounds. He collapsed against its trunk, panting heavily, his chest aching with every shallow breath. His ribs still throbbed from Roxanne's earlier assault, but the pain was duller now, fading faster than it should have.
He stretched cautiously, testing his limbs, marveling at how quickly his body was recovering. Ever since that incident—a hazy, fragmented memory he still couldn't fully piece together—his body had been different. Wounds that should have left him bedridden for weeks now healed in days, sometimes hours. The gash on his cheek from Roxanne's slap was already little more than a faint sting, and the bruising on his ribs felt more like a bad bruise than the fractured bones he'd suspected. He flexed his fingers, frowning. "What's happening to me?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves in the night breeze.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him, and Solvane tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon he didn't have. But it was only Filin, hobbling toward him, his face flushed and his breath ragged from exertion. "Your Majesty!" Filin wheezed, leaning heavily on a low stone wall for support. "I finally found you—"
"FILIN!" Solvane roared, his earlier fear and frustration boiling over. He lunged at the old man, who yelped and darted away with a nimbleness that belied his age. Despite his injuries, Solvane gave chase, his bare feet pounding against the earth, a wild grin spreading across his face. For a moment, the thrill of the pursuit drowned out the danger he'd just escaped, replacing it with a boyish urge to catch his slippery companion.
They ran through the moonlit gardens, Solvane hot on Filin's heels, the old man weaving between hedges and flowerbeds with surprising agility. "Wait, wait!" Filin gasped, his voice high-pitched with panic. "You Golden Aspers never tire, do you? We've been running for thirty minutes—I'm gonna puke!"
Solvane laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "You're not getting away that easily, old man!" he called, his grin widening. The chase was absurd, a fleeting reprieve from the chaos of the bathhouse, and for a moment, he almost forgot the swords, the artifact, and Roxanne's chilling threats.
Finally, Filin stumbled to a stop, clutching his side and gasping for air. Solvane slowed, still chuckling, and leaned against a nearby tree to catch his own breath. The pain in his ribs was now little more than a dull ache, another reminder of his unnatural resilience. He wiped sweat from his brow, his golden fur gleaming faintly under the moonlight.
"Hey, old man," Solvane said, his tone shifting to one of curiosity as he regained his composure.
"Unnn?" Filin grunted, still panting, his hands on his knees.
"What the hell was that back there?" Solvane asked, his eyes narrowing. "Lady Roxanne acted all… weird after I used that stone. One minute she's ready to gut me, the next she's kneeling like I'm the king himself. What aren't you telling me?"
Filin straightened slowly, his breathing evening out as he wiped his brow with a tattered sleeve. He looked at Solvane, his expression a mix of uncertainty and awe. "I'm not too sure myself, lad," he admitted, his voice low. "I've only ever heard whispers of it—old tales, half-forgotten legends. That was my first time seeing it in action."
He paused, his eyes drifting to the stars above as if searching for answers in their light. "I believe it's called… the Timepiece."
Solvane's brow furrowed, the word unfamiliar yet heavy with significance. "The Timepiece?" he echoed, stepping closer. "What does that mean? What is it?"
Filin shook his head, his weathered face creased with worry. "I don't know much, Your Majesty. Only that it's an ancient relic, tied to the royal bloodline of Asperion. They say it responds only to those of true royal blood, and when it does…" He trailed off, glancing back toward the palace, where the bathhouse loomed in the distance like a shadowed sentinel. "It commands respect. Submission, even. But why it worked now, after failing in there…" He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe it needed time. Maybe it needed you to speak the right words."
Solvane's mind raced, piecing the fragments together. The artifact—the Timepiece—had been cold and lifeless in his hands, its runes silent despite his incantation. Yet moments later, Roxanne and her guards had knelt, their hostility replaced by an almost reverent obedience. It didn't add up. And then there was his body—his unnatural healing, his newfound strength. Was it all connected? The incident he couldn't remember, the Timepiece, his golden fur… what was he missing?
He looked at Filin, his voice firm but laced with unease. "If that thing's tied to my bloodline, why didn't it work right away? And why do I feel like there's more you're not saying?"
Filin met his gaze, his eyes glinting with a mix of guilt and caution. "Because there is more, lad," he said quietly. "But some truths are too dangerous to speak until you're ready to hear them. For now, let's just be glad you're alive—and keep moving before those guards change their minds."
Solvane frowned but nodded, his instincts telling him to trust Filin, at least for now. The night was still young, and the palace grounds were far from safe. Whatever the Timepiece was, whatever secrets it held, he'd have to unravel them later. For now, survival was enough.