Define confusion?
Maybe it was the look on Ovidia's face, a mix of fear and shock, her eyes wide and her body tense. Or maybe it was the look on Prince Jarl's face, frozen in disbelief, trying to understand how he had developed the power of a mage without ever training in his life.
"Please… I don't even know who you are, and I don't even know where I am." Ovidia pleaded.
Prince Jarl didn't respond. He ignored her words, keeping his gaze locked on his fingers, still tingling with the residual heat of the fire he had just unleashed. Confusion and awe battled inside him, as his mind spined.
He should have felt excitement, because it's every mage dreams of awakening powe, but this wasn't ordinary power. This fire didn't belong to him, it belonged to the Solkara, the sworn enemies of the Aerinthal.
Every thought collided in his mind. How was this possible? Why now? How could an Aerinthal like him wield magic that shouldn't exist in his blood? He couldn't make sense of it. Nothing made sense. And the presence of Ovidia, only made it harder to think clearly.
He paced around his bedroom, his mind racing with questions and the endless possibilities of the situation. Then he stopped. His gaze landed on Ovidia intensely, and Ovidia felt as if his eyes could burn her alive.
He began moving toward her slowly, deliberate steps that made her heart pound in her ears. She backed up slightly, unsure where to go.
His hand lifted mid-air, as if to grab or warn, but he froze and lowered it. The memory of fire shooting from his fingers moments ago made him cautious, even wary of himself.
"You…" His voice came out in a icy tone demanding. "I asked you a question. Who the hell are you?"
How could she explain any of this? One minute she was hiding under her own bed, shaking as thieves invaded her house. The next, she crawled out into a stranger's bedroom, he didn't know how it happened. She needed answers just as much as he did.
Ovidia swallowed hard and pointed at his hands with her fingers trembling.
"How… how did you bring out the flames with your fingers?" She stepped back.
Prince Jarl's jaw tightened, he didn't like her tone, neither did he like the question. His shoulders squared, and he took a slow step toward her. She raised her hands instinctively, ready to bolt.
"Don't you dare speak of this to anyone," he snapped. The words shot out of him harshly cold. His eyes narrowed, locked on her like she was some threat he couldn't understand. This made Ovidia to flinch at his voice.
"If you do," he continued, lowering his voice and sounding dangerously calm, "I'll burn you alive." His stare didn't move, and that threat alone made her knees weaken with fear.
Of course, he was going to keep this a secret. If his father, the king, found out he carried the power of the Solkara, the sworn enemy, there was no telling what would happen. Jarl already imagined the punishment, the anger, the disappointment that would rain down on him.
Prince Jarl, son of King Dunrik, was a son nobody knew about. He lived hidden in one of the palace quarters, always under watch. He ate alone at a small table, waited on by maids, and guarded by his own bodyguard.
King Dunrik had made it clear: he was never to leave his quarters. Everything he could ever need was there, the king said. Yet, Jarl never understood why.
He had always known his father hated him, though the reason remained a mystery. Why was he locked away here, while his brother roamed freely through the palace and beyond? Why was he hidden, a son in shadow, while the world saw only the heir?
Questions gnawed at him, but he never found answers. He remained the secret son, trapped in the quiet prison of luxury, his life measured in footsteps between his room, the small garden, and the servants' whispers.
Prince Jarl sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers still tingling from the fire, as his eyes fixed on them. Ovidia froze, noticing the shock in his face. He looked more stunned than she felt.
"I… I swear, I was just in my room," she stammered.
Jarl's gaze swept the room, then he scoffed. "But this is my room."
"That's the problem," she said, sliding onto the bed beside him, careful to keep her distance.
"I was in my room when thieves broke in," she continued. "I hid under my bed. The next moment, I… I crawled out and found myself here, in your room. How do you want me to explain this? It feels like a dream, but it's not. It's… real."
Jarl rubbed his temples, and disbelief etched in every line of his face. She could see he thought she was insane.
"Where are you from?" he finally asked, his eyes darting to the simple nightwear she wore, puzzled by the unfamiliar fabric.
Ovidia hesitated. How could she explain everything? Words failed her, and Jarl's stare made her doubt if she even wanted to try.
Ovidia was sure this was a dream. She prayed silently to wake up, to open her eyes and find herself back in her own room.
How could she explain that she wasn't from here? And why was Prince Jarl dressed in clothes that looked centuries old, like some costume from a story she'd only read about?
"I… I'm from the year 2023," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Prince Jarl blinked at her, his eyes narrowing as if she had lost her mind.
"2023?" he repeated, disbelief in every syllable. "This is the year 1591," he added, his tone laced with incredulity.
Ovidia stared at him, her mouth opening and closing. "Are you… telling me I am in the past?" she asked, shock spreading through her chest.
Jarl didn't speak, only studied her as if trying to find a crack in her story.
"I don't understand what's happening. I wish there was someone, or anything that could explain to me what the hell is going on here."
His gaze stayed fixed on his fingers. Ovidia watched him, noticing the way his hands twitched as if still remembering the heat of the fire.
"You look confused," she said softly.
He didn't answer, only frowned as his lips pressed tight.
The southern and northern kingdoms had been at loggerheads for a thousand years. The southern kingdom, the Solkaras, controlled fire and air. The northern kingdom, the Aerinthal, controlled water and earth. Two forces, locked in endless conflict, each wary of the other.
Prince Jarl had spent his entire life locked away in a palace quarter, cut off from the world, cut off from magic. No training, no guidance, nothing. To become a mage, one needed discipline, effort, hours of study and practice, pushing the body and mind until every fiber burned. That was the path to power.
He had begged his father, King Dunrik, for a master, someone to teach him, to unlock his potential. Each plea had been met with refusal, and his request had been shut down.
The king had warned him, making it clear that Jarl would never be a mage, not under his watch. Magic, power, the legacy of the Aerinthal… it was forbidden for him.
Maybe there was a reason King Dunrik had shut down every request, and refused every attempt to train him. And now, faced with the undeniable truth that he possessed the forbidden power of the Solkara, Prince Jarl made a decision. This discovery was too dangerous to slip out, so he'll keep it a secret.
"Let's come to a deal then," he said finally. "I'll keep your identity, and you'll keep my secret."
Ovidia blinked at him, confused. "How do you intend to do that? What if someone asks who I am?"
He studied her carefully, before speaking. "Then I'll keep you as my servant," he said simply. "From the moment you arrived, the powers I never had awakened. We both stayed safe. Deal, or not?"
Ovidia hesitated, weighing the impossible situation. Her mind raced, bu
t she saw no other choice. He wasn't asking but he was deciding.
"Deal," she said quietly.