The hush that followed Lindina's words felt physical — a thick, humid thing that settled over the room and made each breath a small, measured theft. Nathaniel's jaw worked as if to grind the silence into pieces; the ticking of a distant clock seemed to speed up, each tick a little needle against his nerves. Lightning flashed beyond the tall windows, stroking the curtains with cold silver light, and somewhere outside the storm rolled like a far-off drum.
"I didn't summon you here to spew nonsense, Lindina." He spat the words at last, turning on her with a motion as clean and sharp as a drawn blade. Irritation had carved itself into his face: the line of his mouth, the hard set of his brow, the narrow flare of nostrils that made his whole profile look like something about to snap.
Lindina's wide eyes softened. A warm, private smile ghosted across her mouth as echoes of the past slipped quietly into the present. Glad to see he hasn't changed one bit, she thought, and a soft chuckle escaped her before she could stop it. She remembered the academy — the small, awkward prince who read when everyone else was shouting and the way she had gravitated toward him with the thoughtless curiosity of a rabbit approaching a potential threat. Nathaniel had always been distant, head forever bowed over a book; there was never much hope of friendship then. So, she had tried to force the universe's hand once, in a way only Lindina would: with a prank.
"I thought you were just an annoying brat who can't keep her mouth shut. But this… is crossing the line, Lindina." Nathaniel's voice dropped to a growl; with one angry sweep he flung the silver cup. It hit the floor and shattered, the ringing crash a bright, cruel punctuation to the memory.
That had been the first time he'd ever used her name. The moment should have warmed her, but instead a cold dread sank into her chest. She could still see the tiny fake lizard sliding toward his lips, the milk thrown across the cream of his uniform, the way his face went white as the prank startled him into humiliation. "Your Highness, I—I just thought it would be fun to—" she stammered, and he cut her off with a warning that lodged like an icy splinter: "Don't ever approach me again." The memory still made her throat tighten to this day.
Now, standing beside the bed, the present returned with a different urgency. Her mouth betrayed her with a jolt: "Your highness, the lizard…" The words slipped out before she could catch them; her hand flew to her lips as if to snatch them back. She caught Nathaniel with wide, helpless eyes, and then righted herself.
"I—I meant to say that I've done all I could for her, but I'm afraid we are too late. I dressed her wounds and gave her some sedatives and antibiotics, but that is all. The rest is entirely up to her, but I highly doubt she'll make it past the night." Her voice steadied as she spoke the clinical facts, the sharp medicinal tang of alcohol and herbs still clinging faintly to her fingers. She straightened, retreating a step from Fatima.
Nathaniel buried his face in his hands. For the first time in a long stretch of frozen evenings and unreadable expressions, something unfamiliar unfurled inside him. Anger and confusion braided with a new, raw fear — a small, hot terror at the thought of losing her. The world shifted on its axis; his ears throbbed with a sudden, high-pitched ring and the room narrowed to the steady rise and fall of Fatima's chest. The storm outside seemed to lean closer, wind pressing rain against the panes like a hand seeking entry. The prince's normally still features trembled; the light in his eyes darkened and then brightened in quick flashes as he stared down at the girl.
Lindina watched him with the clinical curiosity of a researcher suddenly presented with an anomaly. Who in the world is this girl? she wondered. She felt her own pulse quicken — not from academic interest alone but from something more electric and immediate. Then a faint light skittered across Fatima's exposed forearm, a soft golden shimmer that caught Nathaniel's attention and dragged Lindina forward as well.
For a moment Lindina thought the flash was a trick of the storm. But then, it happened again: the sacred carvings — a crescent moon ringed by tiny stars — glowed faintly, catching and holding the light like a secret lantern. The air in the room changed; it tasted coppery and sweet, as if charged with some far-off, impossible fruit. "Hold on a moment — could she be…a Sant?" Lindina breathed, the possibility like a small bell in her chest. Realization spread up her spine until she felt the hairs on her arms stand at attention.
Everything Lindina had become leaned forward on her discoveries. She had risen from humble beginnings to be a royal researcher and mage, her fingers steeped in the laws of nature and divinity. Enigmas were her currency: Nathaniel had been one, and now Fatima was another — an irresistible puzzle. "I knew it! There was no other way to explain the mark on her arm." Her voice brimmed with excitement; her eyes gleamed with the reddish-pink flush of someone who had found a rare specimen.
"Keep your voice down, Lindina." Nathaniel said sharply, rubbing a hand over his forehead as if to sweep the storm and her chatter out at once. The movement betrayed no irritation this time so much as exhaustion edged with a fragile hope. "Right." She answered quickly, trying to tuck her delighted energy into a smaller box. Her head dipped, eyes scouring the girl's exposed skin for any more carvings as if the marks themselves might confess more truths.
"Your highness, I have an idea." She moved with the practiced grace of someone who lived half in labs and half in libraries — crawling down from the bed and crossing to the leather mahogany chair with a speed that belied her slender frame. She hauled the chair into place as if it weighed nothing at all; the wood squealed faintly across the floor. Nathaniel followed each movement with a gaze that was almost reverent now.
"As the most powerful mage in all of Alkaraz, and your friend who is not just an acquaintance, I am delighted to tell you that—" she began, the official flourish tumbling from her lips. "Get to the point!" Nathaniel cut her off, his voice flat and sharp. Even his impatience had become urgent, a raw edge that sent a small shiver through her. Lindina straightened, accepting the scolding as she always did — he could be brusque, but he had never once harmed her.
"Take a seat, Your Highness." She said, chirpy as a sudden sunburst, gesturing to the chair. He hesitated only a beat before collapsing into it with the bored grace of someone who trusted that his presence would be obeyed. Lindina's fingers found his index finger and guided it forward. "Now, take your index finger like so, and lightly tap the glowing mark on her arm." Her explanation flowed quick and sharp. "And what will that achieve?" he asked, distrust coiling in his tone as he drew his hand back. "If my theory is correct, you will fall into a trance and enter her consciousness. Once there, you two can have a long conversation in which you can convince her to return. This can only be done between Sants like yourselves." Lindina's shoulders rose in a hopeful, almost childlike shrug; her eyes counted the seconds with bright, impatient expectation.
She had felt something while dressing Fatima's wounds — an unbearable grief, a void so deep it leaked from the girl like water from a wound. The feeling had pulled at Lindina's own throat until saliva dried there. Whoever Fatima had been, whatever she had lost, the despair was still raw. Lindina forced herself to imagine Nathaniel there, steadier than she might be, and hoped he could anchor the girl back. "How about it, Your Highness? Will you be able to save her life?" she asked, softer now, pleading with a scientist's calm and a friend's fear. "If this hurts her in any way, I will make you pay, Lindina." He warned, the old fierceness flaring. She met his glare without flinching; it steadied rather than deterred her. He set his jaw and, with a breath that sounded like someone closing a heavy book, tapped his finger to the warm skin of Fatima's arm.
At the point of contact there was no thunderous magic, only a small, intimate sensation — a slow, luminous warmth like sunlight poured through glass. Nathaniel's shoulders slumped as if a weight had eased from them and then, with the gentlest of exhalations, he drifted forward into a trance. His eyelids fluttered like a curtain in a breeze, and the room seemed to fall three measures quieter.
"Now, we wait." Lindina's whisper carried equal parts scientific glee and tremulous hope as she dropped onto the edge of the bed. Rain tapped the windows in a steady Morse, the storm's breath moving through the hotel, and the golden glow on Fatima's arm pulsed once, twice — patient and small as a heartbeat — as if the world itself held its breath with them.
**
Somewhere deep within the verdant wilderness of Ipera, a small village nestled in a cradle of emerald hills stood quietly apart from the bustle of the main city. The midday sun hung high and unrelenting, pouring molten gold through breaks in the forest canopy. Shafts of light danced over moss-covered trunks and glimmered off the lazy current of a nearby river, whose gentle gurgle mingled with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of leaves. The air smelled of wild mint, damp soil, and sun-warmed pine—a paradise of tranquil routine, until the rhythmic peace was shattered by the sound of frantic footsteps pounding over the undergrowth.
"Papa! Papa! Over there, by the riverbank!" a young boy's breathless voice rang out, slicing through the calm. "Come quickly! A corpse is floating downstream. Hurry, papa!" The child burst from between the trees, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, his brown curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. He tugged at his father's coarse linen tunic with both hands, his small face pale with urgency.
The middle-aged man—Carlo, his shirt damp from foraging in the humid air—blinked in confusion before handing the straw basket of herbs to his son. "Munoh! Take those to your mother right this instant!" he said firmly. "I'll go see for myself what's gotten you so worked up that you'd almost rip my favorite tunic."
Munoh froze, his round eyes dimming as guilt washed over his face. His lips trembled into a small pout. "Sorry, papa." Carlo's sternness melted into a fond chuckle. "Papa's not upset with you, son. Now go." He tousled the boy's hair, releasing the earthy scent of crushed herbs from his palm. Munoh nodded quickly and sprinted back toward the village, his little legs kicking up bursts of dust along the path.
Carlo turned toward the riverbank, his sandals crunching softly over the damp ground. The buzz of cicadas filled the silence, and somewhere upstream, the river murmured like a whispering crowd. At first, he only saw a dark mass of fabric tangled among river stones. "Munoh must have pulled them aside," he muttered, stepping closer. But as he crouched, his eyes widened. Beneath the dripping folds of black cloth lay the still body of a young man. His burgundy hair, matted and slick with water, clung to a face pale as river clay. Beneath the tattered tunic, a deep gash split across his chest, the wound angry and raw. For an instant, the young man looked lifeless—but then, a faint flutter of breath stirred his lips.
Carlo's heart kicked against his ribs. Years of tending wounds had sharpened his instincts—this one was on the knife's edge of life and death. "Judging by the wound, he must've been fighting before he fell into the river." Carlo's brow furrowed as he pressed two fingers to the man's neck. "He's not dead yet, but if I don't treat him soon, he may not survive the night."
The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of damp leather and iron. A shadow fell across the riverbank, followed by a familiar, low voice. "I'll carry him." Carlo didn't flinch. He didn't even turn around. "Oh, hey Micksen, what brings you here?"
Behind him stood Micksen, a towering figure whose frame filled the light. His broad shoulders bore a rope from which hung freshly hunted game, and his black shirt clung to muscles honed by years of labor. His wild raven hair danced with the breeze, and his gray eyes, sharp and alert, softened only when they landed on Carlo. "I was on my way home from my last hunt," Micksen said, stepping closer, the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his clothes. "And I saw you staring at a corpse. So, I decided to offer my help. Was he… a friend of yours?" He tilted his head, curiosity laced in his tone.
Carlo shook his head, straightening. "He's just unconscious for now, but he's badly hurt." He exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was debating whether to take him home or to my clinic—but my wife…" His voice faltered as a memory flashed—his wife's furious face the last time a stranger he'd helped had stolen from their stores. 'From now on, no more helping strangers!' "You can take him to my house," Micksen offered, kneeling beside the body to inspect the wound.
Carlo hesitated. Micksen lived alone now—his parents recently taken by a mysterious illness. "It's alright, Mick. I don't want to trouble you with my problems." Carlo gave a weary smile, patting the younger man's shoulder. But Micksen's expression was unwavering. "I want to help. Think of it as me returning the favor. I'll never forget what you did for my parents—how you worked day and night to ease their pain." His voice lowered. "That's why I'll always be at your service, sir Carlo."
A pang of guilt squeezed Carlo's chest. The forest fell silent around them, save for the slow bubbling of the river and the soft rasp of wind through reeds. "Oh, alright—you've convinced me, kiddo." Carlo finally sighed. "Let's take him." Together, they lifted the unconscious stranger, his wet clothes dripping trails of crimson and river water into the earth as the two men began the slow walk toward the village—the forest watching in still silence, as though holding its breath.
**
Meanwhile, Nathaniel found himself drifting through the labyrinth of Fatima's consciousness—a vast and hollow place that stretched endlessly into shadow. The ground beneath his feet was neither solid nor air, but something in between, soft and cold like mist-soaked earth. Around him, faint rustling filled the silence—the whisper of unseen leaves brushing against one another, the groaning creak of ancient bark twisting in the wind.
"Is this truly Fatima's mind?" His voice trembled as it escaped his lips, echoing through the emptiness and returning to him distorted, as though whispered by ghosts. A chill coursed through his veins, crawling up his arms and tightening his chest. Every step forward felt involuntary, as though an unseen force tugged gently at his core, drawing him deeper into the gloom. Yet despite the darkness, he did not feel fear—only an aching melancholy that pressed down on him like the weight of sorrow itself.
The air was heavy with loneliness, thick and stale, carrying the scent of damp soil and wilted flowers. "Is this… what sadness feels like?" he murmured.
Without warning, a drop of warmth slid down his cheek. Then another. His vision blurred. It took him a moment to realize—he was crying. His chest heaved, his throat tightening as sobs clawed their way out of him. Nathaniel, who had not shed a tear since childhood, now wept uncontrollably, choking on grief that wasn't even his own. The tears came faster than he could wipe them away, spilling down his face in trembling streams.
Then, somewhere in that void, another cry joined his—raw, broken, and echoing through the air like the toll of a mournful bell. His head jerked upward. A faint shimmer glowed in the distance—a sliver of light that pulsed gently like a heartbeat. Guided by instinct, his feet moved toward it. The darkness peeled away with every step until he found himself standing on a vast emerald valley beneath a silver sky.
At the crest of a hill stood Fatima, her slender frame swaying near the edge. Her long silver hair whipped violently in the wind, catching the light like spun moonlight. She was barefoot, her toes curling into the grass, her shoulders shaking with sobs that tore through the still air.
"Fati! Wait!" Nathaniel shouted, his voice cracking as he reached toward her. A sudden gust surged between them, pushing him back, nearly knocking him off his feet.
Fatima flinched. Slowly, she turned her head. Her eyes—once bright as rubies—were dull and hollow, ringed with red. The wind caught the tears streaming down her cheeks, scattering them like shattered crystals. When she smiled, it was a fragile, broken thing. Then, with agonizing calm, she turned back toward the edge, raising one bare foot as if to step into the void.
Nathaniel's heart lurched. If I don't do something, she'll fall. His mind spun in panic, thoughts colliding uselessly until instinct took over. She can hear me… I can reach her.
"Turn around and come to me, Fatima." His voice softened, trembling with emotion—but his amber eyes ignited with a golden glow, the power within him stirring the very air. The atmosphere pulsed. The grass swayed in unison with his words, as if responding to the force woven through them. With Command, Nathaniel could bend living will to his own—a gift that had always felt like a curse. It was a power that made the world move with or without his utterance.
Fatima froze mid-step. "Your highness…" she whispered shakily, her body turning toward him as if pulled by invisible strings. "Please let me go." Her gaze trembled as she took a hesitant step forward. But before he could reach her, the world fractured like glass.
The blinding light shattered into fragments of green and gold, and when the pieces settled, Nathaniel found himself standing in a forest drenched in twilight. Dew clung to the leaves, and the air smelled of moss and rain. Before him stood a small cave draped in ivy, its entrance glowing faintly with pale light.
Inside, Fatima sat curled up on the forest floor, her chin resting on her folded knees. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders like silk, her body trembling with quiet sobs. "Princess…" Nathaniel's voice came out softer than a whisper, reverent, as he crouched down before her. "Don't call me that!" she snapped through her tears, her voice cracking under the strain of anguish. "Please go away. I wish to be alone."
He hesitated. He could already sense her walls rising, the same stubbornness that had both charmed and exasperated him countless times before. Taking a deep breath, Nathaniel steadied himself and tried to speak calmly—only for the words to escape differently than he intended. "How shameless of you to push me away after deceiving me all this time. The least you could do now is apologize, and I will decide whether to forgive or punish you."
The moment the words left his mouth, he winced inwardly. Idiot. He pursed his lips and muttered under his breath, "Let's try that again…" "I'm sorry, your highness." Her soft voice cut through the silence like a blade. His eyes widened. "Wait! I didn't mean—" But she continued, her tone trembling, raw with self-loathing. "You have every right to scorn me. I lied to you. I deceived you. I am… a terrible person. It's no wonder my own sister sought to destroy me. I deserve to die… it's the only way to blot out this pain."
She buried her face in her knees, her sobs rising again—heart-wrenching, unrestrained. The sound of her despair filled the forest, echoing through the hollow spaces between the trees. Nathaniel's shoulders sagged. He felt utterly powerless against her sorrow. Everything he said seemed only to make it worse. Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled shakily.
"Fati, listen to me." His voice cracked with desperation. But she only wept harder, her small frame quivering with every gasp and hiccup. Nathaniel's thoughts scrambled for words, for comfort, for anything that might reach her. Finally, he swallowed hard and said softly, "May I come in?" Fatima's head lifted slightly, her tear-streaked face peeking out from behind her arms. Her brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" she whispered, her voice small and trembling.