Chapter 3: The First Spark
Morning light crept slowly into the Astellia Palace training hall, illuminating the dust dancing in the air, as if each particle carried a whisper of destiny. An order had come down from King Astellia, a decree William received with a faint trace of annoyance tightening his jaw. He now stood in the center of this vast hall, before Shapira, whose gaze reflected a mixture of confusion and unwavering resolve.
"Does His Majesty the King truly think this is a good idea?" William asked, his voice more a resigned groan than a real question, echoing between the stone pillars. He looked at Shapira, his eyes wandering from her loose, dark brown hair to the simple servant's dress that clothed her.
Shapira raised an eyebrow, meeting the prince's stare without flinching. "Am I supposed to refuse the King's command? Wouldn't that just prove your suspicion that I'm a dangerous spy?" she asked, her tone holding a thin veil of challenge, though her heart was pounding. The girl knew full well that her every move was being watched, every word she spoke analyzed.
William snorted, stepping forward. "You know that's not what I mean. This is a waste of time. You're a servant, not a princess who needs to mingle with nobles," he continued, his voice cold, but there was something weary beneath the tone.
"And you're a prince who's been ordered to teach me," Shapira retorted, a small smile playing on her lips, a reflection of a strange courage. "So, let's get this over with. Are you going to waste time complaining, or are we going to start the dance lesson?" She held out her hand, palm open.
The Prince of Astellia stared at her outstretched hand for a moment, as if hesitant to touch it. But he had no choice. Slowly, his long, strong fingers took Shapira's small palm. At the first touch, a strange tremor ran up her arm, like a thousand icy needles piercing her skin, followed by an unexpected warmth. He felt the same jolt, his eyes widening for a moment before quickly returning to his neutral expression.
"The first step is the foundation of the Astellian dance," William began, his voice slightly stiffer than before. He pulled Shapira closer, their bodies nearly touching. "One, two, three. Slide your foot to the left. Now to the right."
Shapira followed, but her movements were a bit clumsy, and she stumbled over her own feet. A small laugh escaped her lips. "My apologies, Your Highness. In my world, we don't dance like this," she explained, trying to picture a London ballroom, so different from this medieval luxury.
William sighed, but this time he didn't sound annoyed. "This world is different, Shapira. You must learn to adapt," he said, and as he corrected her posture, his fingers brushed her back. The tremor returned, stronger this time, vibrating through to her core. William's face seemed a little softer now.
"Maybe if you weren't so stiff, you'd get the hang of it," Shapira teased, growing bolder. "You dance like a soldier practicing with his sword, not a prince leading his partner."
Shapira's words seemed to hit their mark. A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed William's lips. It was the first smile Shapira had seen from him, and it transformed his stern features into something far more handsome.
"Be careful, Shapira," he warned, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "I could just let you fall."
"I doubt you would," Shapira replied, her eyes sparkling. "You seem like the type who's too responsible to let a servant fall in his own royal hall."
He snorted again, and this time, it was accompanied by a small laugh. A rare, surprising sound. "You're too bold," he commented, but his grip on her hand tightened, as if unwilling to let go. The dance lesson continued, and with every touch, every step he guided, an invisible thread was woven between them in the middle of the magnificent hall.
***
The whispers were like an autumn wind carrying dry leaves, swirling through the palace corridors, gathering momentum and spreading their venom. Lady Isabelle, with her sweetly venomous smile, was the primary source. She moved from one servant to another, making sure every ear heard her tale.
"Have you heard?" one servant asked, her gaze sweeping over Shapira, who was carrying a laundry basket. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. "The new servant... Shapira. I hear she's a spy from the Varkhiel Kingdom. Isolde's own child!"
"Good heavens, really?" another servant chimed in, covering her mouth with her hand. "No wonder William keeps an eye on her. Who knows what dark magic she's using?"
Shapira heard every word. Her throat tightened, but she refused to show any reaction. She lowered her head slightly and kept walking, as if she hadn't heard the slander. Her legs felt heavy, as if each step carried the weight of a mountain. She could feel the scornful and disgusted looks thrown her way from all directions. But she wouldn't let them see her break. Not now.
The girl arrived in the kitchen, where several servants were gathered. The warm scent of spices and freshly baked bread was usually comforting, but now it felt hollow. In the corner, a young servant, Lila, was coughing violently, her face deathly pale. She clutched her stomach, cold sweat occasionally beading on her forehead.
"Lila, what's wrong with you?" Shapira asked, her voice soft, pushing aside her own heartache. She set down her laundry basket and knelt beside her. Her hand instinctively went to the girl's forehead, feeling a burning heat.
"A fever ... my stomach hurts," Lila moaned, her eyes squeezed shut. The other servants backed away, as if afraid of catching it.
"Aren't you going to help her?" Shapira asked, staring sharply at the others.
One of the servants who had been whispering replied, "It's not our business. Let the court physician handle it." Her tone was cold, reflecting the animosity Lady Isabelle had sown.
Shapira shook her head. She knew the court physician was too busy with the nobility. She remembered some simple remedies her mother had once taught her. "Can I get some warm water and a few dried mint leaves? Quickly!" she requested, her voice now holding an unexpected authority.
The servants looked surprised, but one of them, perhaps a little more kind-hearted, hurried to fetch them. Shapira deftly made a warm mint tea, holding Lila's head as the girl drank it slowly. She wiped the sweat from the girl's brow, speaking in a soothing tone.
A short while later, Lila opened her eyes. "I ... I feel a little better," she whispered, her coughing subsiding. Her eyes were filled with gratitude.
"Rest in your room. I'll bring you some porridge later," Shapira said, smiling warmly at Lila. She helped Lila stand and led her out of the kitchen. The other servants watched in silence, some of them beginning to look a little ashamed.
Unbeknownst to Shapira, William was standing in the kitchen doorway, observing the entire scene. His normally cold eyes now reflected a hint of warmth, a flicker of recognition. He saw Shapira not just as a defiant servant, not as a spy, but as a woman with a sincere heart. He saw an unexpected kindness, a stark contrast to the whispers circulating through the palace.
***
Shapira's mind felt like a buzzing beehive, filled with Lady Isabelle's vicious whispers and the sting of the servants' disdainful glares. She needed a place to breathe, a place where she could escape the palace's magnificent but suffocating walls. Her feet carried her instinctively to the royal library, a room she hadn't frequented, but one she knew would offer her peace.
The scent of old paper, ink, and wax greeted her as she stepped inside. Towering teak shelves were filled with centuries-old scrolls and books, hiding countless secrets and stories. She walked through the narrow aisles between the shelves, searching for something, anything, to distract her. Her eyes fell on an old volume with a worn leather cover. The title was written in elegant script. "The Tale of Princess Astellia: Anya the Flower."
A strange impulse drew her to the book. Her fingers trembled as she turned its fragile pages. She found a beautiful illustration of a young girl, with golden-blonde hair, dancing in a flower garden with a young prince. Shapira's heart pounded. The girl was Anya, and the prince ... was William. A strange ache gripped her chest, a pain she didn't understand. She kept reading, tracing the romantic story of Anya and William, of their love that bloomed amidst the beauty of Astellia.
"You're reading about her?" A deep voice, now sounding a little softer than usual, broke the silence. William stood behind her, his shadow falling across the open pages of the book. His face was serious, his gaze fixed on the book in Shapira's hands.
Shapira jumped, the book nearly falling from her hands. "Your Highness!" she exclaimed, her heart racing. "I ... I was just curious about the history of this place." It was a partial lie. Her interest in Anya went far deeper than mere history.
William stepped closer, his eyes following the lines of text in the book. "Anya was ... she was the light of this kingdom. Before the darkness fell," he said, his voice a little hoarse. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes, a sadness Shapira recognized from her dreams.
"I know," Shapira whispered, closing the book slowly. "I ... I dream of her often. The dreams feel so real. Like memories." She looked up at William, searching for a reaction.
William stared at her sharply. "Don't speak of it. They're just ... dreams," he replied, his tone hardening again as if building a wall.
"But they don't feel like just dreams!" Shapira retorted, her voice trembling slightly with frustration. "Isolde's face in my dream is identical to my mother's. And the song I often sing ... that song is in my dreams, too, a song Anya sang." She paused for a moment. "I feel ... I feel like I know her, even though I've never met her."
William turned away, walking toward the library window to look out at the sunlit garden. "It's all a coincidence, Shapira. Don't think too much of it," he said, but his shoulders were tense.
"How can I not think about it?" Shapira asked, approaching him. "I never believed in things like this, but every time I see her in my dreams, every time I hear that song ... I feel her love. And her pain." She paused, gathering her courage. "In my world, London, none of this exists. No magic, no you, and no Princess Anya. Just tall buildings, loud music, and a very different life. I was a singer there. I performed in small cafes."
William turned, his gaze softening slightly. "London? What is that?" he asked, genuine curiosity replacing his suspicion.
"It's a big city, far from here. Thousands of miles away, maybe more. A place where people don't believe in magic, don't believe in prophecies," Shapira explained, a melancholy smile on her lips as she thought of her home. "There are no Orcs or dragons. Just black cabs and rain."
William stepped closer, his gray eyes searching her face. "Do ... do you miss that place?" he asked, his voice now incredibly soft, almost a whisper.
Shapira looked at him. She felt a strange warmth flow between them. A small crack had opened in the wall William always kept built around himself. "I ... I don't know," she admitted, her voice softening. "My world feels so far away now. I don't understand how I got here. Or why."
William reached out, his hand hesitating in the air before finally brushing his thumb against Shapira's cheek. The touch was light, but Shapira felt an electric jolt shoot through her. "I don't understand either," he whispered, his eyes on hers with an intensity he rarely showed. He still kept his distance, but that touch... that touch said everything. Amidst the ancient books, in the shadows of the past, a vulnerable conversation had opened something between them, something William never expected to feel again.
***
Crisp laughter drifted from the palace garden, floating on the warm air, breaking the afternoon silence. William had just finished a meeting with the king's advisors, his mind still filled with strategies and defense logistics, when the sound caught his attention. He stepped onto a balcony overlooking the garden and saw her: Shapira.
She was talking to a young soldier. The soldier, a youth with brown hair and a friendly smile, was holding a bucket of water for the flowers, and Shapira was pointing at the pots, apparently giving instructions or just making small talk. The laughter belonged to Shapira, who now turned to the young soldier, and he smiled back at her. A smile Shapira rarely gave him.
An unusual pang gripped William's chest. It wasn't anger, at least not the kind he was used to. It was a strange sensation, an invisible grip that made his jaw tighten. He shook his head. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself. "She's just ... a servant. And a spy, perhaps. There's nothing to be jealous of." Yet, his eyes remained fixed on the scene below.
He took a deep breath, trying to master his feelings. He stepped down from the balcony and strode toward the garden, his steps heavier than usual. When he approached them, Shapira and the young soldier turned, the laughter on Shapira's face instantly fading into a wary expression.
"What are you doing here, Shapira?" William asked, his voice sharper than he intended. He saw Shapira's confused look, and the young soldier seemed to shrink a little.
Shapira straightened her back. "I was making sure these flowers were watered properly, Your Highness. Is there a problem?" she asked, her tone now cold, a reflection of his own.
William saw the young soldier hand the water bucket to Shapira, and she accepted it with a smile. A small thorn pricked William's heart. "Soldier! Do you have no other duties besides helping a servant water flowers?" he snapped, his voice now full of baseless irritation.
The soldier bowed. "My apologies, Your Highness. I was just ... passing by."
"Then pass by to the barracks. Now," William commanded, his eyes locked on the soldier, forcing him away. The soldier quickly departed, leaving the two of them alone.
Shapira set the bucket down hard, splashing water on her feet. "What is wrong with you, William?" she asked, her voice low but simmering with pent-up anger. "Why are you always so unfair to me?"
William recoiled. "Unfair? I'm unfair? You're interacting with my soldiers as if you're one of them. You forget your place!" he retorted, the unspoken jealousy crawling up his throat, making him defensive.
"My place?" Shapira replied, a cynical laugh escaping her lips. "Does my position mean I'm not allowed to speak to anyone but you? Does my position mean I have to live in silence and fear, obeying your every whim, even when you're being unreasonable?" she challenged. "That's not fair! I don't know what's made you so angry, but you have no right to treat me like this!" Her eyes flashed with fury.
Her words struck him like a blow. He saw the anger in her eyes, and he knew he had crossed a line. But he didn't know how to take back his words. A frustrated sigh escaped him. "I ... I didn't mean ...."
"No, you did!" Shapira cut him off, turning her face away as tears began to well in the corners of her eyes. She didn't want him to see her cry. "I can't keep doing this. I don't understand why you hate me so much," she said, her voice barely a whisper, full of pain. Without waiting for a reply, Shapira turned and ran, leaving William standing alone in the middle of the garden.
William watched her retreating back, his heart heavy. He had hurt her. And he didn't know why he'd done it. A sharp pang of regret stabbed him, deeper than the foolish jealousy had. He clenched his fists. What had he done? What was wrong with him? He just wanted... he just wanted Shapira to stay close to him. But why had he done that? William looked at the flowers, still wet from the water Shapira had spilled, and he felt as though he had tarnished the beauty of the garden.
***
Darkness had swallowed the palace, leaving only the flicker of candles in the hallways and the faint snores of the guards on duty. Shapira lay in her bed, but sleep wouldn't come. William's angry face and his hurtful words kept replaying in her mind. The pain was nothing compared to the confusion she felt. Why did William hate her so much?
She closed her eyes, hoping to escape into dreams, but this time, the dream was far more real, more vivid. She found herself no longer in her cramped servant's quarters but in a lush flower garden, illuminated by golden sunlight. The intoxicating scent of jasmine and roses filled the air. She wore a simple white dress that fluttered gently in the breeze.
"Anya ...." A familiar voice called to her, so soft, so full of love. She turned and saw William. But this was not the William of now, the hard and cold prince. This was a younger William, about fifteen years old, his eyes shining with a pure, boundless love. A genuine smile was etched on his lips.
"William," Shapira murmured, though she knew the name wasn't hers to say, at least not the her of the present. Yet, the feeling that surged in her chest felt so familiar, so real.
William stepped closer, his hand outstretched. "You came. I knew you would," he whispered, his voice filled with happiness. He took her hand, and this time, there was no strange jolt, only a deep warmth, like coming home.
"I ... I always come to you," Shapira replied, the words leaving her lips without her bidding. She watched the young William dance with her in the garden, among the blooming flowers. They spun and laughed, and every touch, every glance, was a reminder of a love so strong, so pure. William leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.
"I love you, Anya. Forever," the young William whispered, his eyes glistening with happiness.
"I love you too, William. More than words can say," Shapira answered, feeling tears of joy stream down her cheeks. She hugged William tightly, feeling his rhythmic heartbeat, as if they were one.
Suddenly, the scene faded. The flowers wilted, the golden light replaced by darkness. The sound of laughter turned into screams. The intoxicating love twisted into chilling horror. Shapira jolted awake, gasping for air. She was back in her bed, her blanket scattered on the floor. Her heart was pounding, and tears stained her cheeks.
She raised a hand to her wet face. These weren't tears from the pain William had just caused her. They were tears of grief, of longing, of a love so foreign yet so deeply felt. The pain and joy from the dream blended into one, creating an emotional storm in her chest.
"Anya ...," she whispered to herself, the name feeling so right on her tongue. "Am I ... am I really her?" The question hung in the night air, a terrifying whisper, a truth that was beginning to frighten her. If she was Anya, if her love for William was so strong, would her fate be just as tragic? A cold fear crept into her heart, a new threat far more terrifying than Lady Isabelle's slander or William's anger. She felt the whisper of the curse haunting her, as if from the same darkness that had swallowed her dream. And she knew the stakes of her life had just been raised. She was trapped between two worlds, two fates, two loves. A terrible choice awaited on the threshold of her consciousness.