27
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Warm blood trickled down the silvery blade, saturating the fine navy blue carpet beneath. Vasilias cast an unrelenting gaze upon the lifeless body before him. His eyes held the glint of a predator, capable of consuming its prey with a mere blink.
"Take away this filth," he ordered with a voice as cold as steel. Turning away, he retrieved a handkerchief from the gleaming golden tray nearby. Tokens of affection from his potential marriage candidates lay neatly arranged there, delivered that morning. Draping the handkerchief over the top of his sword, he deftly slid it along the blade's edge, wiping away the blood. The once-white silk was now stained crimson. With an effortless flick, he tossed the now-soiled cloth onto the corpse, just as the guards entered to carry the body out. The blood's pungent aroma lingered, tingeing the room with a metallic scent. Vasilias resheathed his sword and directed his attention back to the collection of handkerchiefs.
His gaze swept over the intricately embroidered fabrics, each one a testament to the opulence surrounding him. Yet, his scrutiny halted as he fixated on a simple piece adorned with a flock of birds. As his fingers reached for it, a sudden gust of wind lifted his gaze from the tray. He placed his hand on the table, his senses alert to the presence behind him.
Vasilas discerned the intruder's identity even before a word was spoken. With a practiced inhalation, he recognized the distinct tang of the individual who dared to enter his chambers uninvited. Without turning around, he addressed the newcomer. "What brings the esteemed Imperial Mage to my sanctum?" His words held a subtle edge, underlined by the rustle of his garments as he settled into his seat.
Symon bowed with deference, acknowledging the breach of protocol. Vasilias' icy gaze remained fixed, challenging Symon to explain his audacity.
"Forgive my intrusion," Symon began, his tone respectful. Vasilias gestured for him to continue, his fingers loosely interlocked in a display of quiet authority. The evidence of recent events had not escaped Symon's notice, evidenced by the crimson smears on the floor.
"The Princess of Ridavell," Symon warned, his voice laden with gravity, "she contemplates escape."
Vasilias' bored tone belied the urgency of the news. "And why should her escape concern me?"
Symon raised a hand, and in its wake, the blood that once stained the floor disintegrated into dust that dispersed through the open window. The scent of blood dissipated, leaving the room cleansed of its macabre aura. Vasilias' attention, however, remained fixed on the tray of handkerchiefs. He leaned back indifferently in his chair, displaying an air of nonchalance.
"Your Highness, the repercussions of her flight could be dire," Symon implored, his voice urgent.
Vasilias' fingers danced idly along the table's edge, his focus unwavering. "Do you possess tangible evidence? Or might your motivations be clouded by a personal vendetta against Ridavell?" The tap-tap of his finger reverberated softly through the room, the sound a counterpoint to Symon's warning.
"Your Grace," Symon countered, a blend of earnestness and concern in his tone, "While my sentiments toward Ridavell's royalty may be colored, my foremost concern is Ohearia's welfare. Should the Princess flee, it could ignite a conflagration between our nations, the prelude to a war."
Vasilias' fingers closed around the handkerchief embroidered with a flock of birds. The name carved at the bottom caught his attention – 'Arcane Lachtara.'
"I will manage this matter personally. The Imperial Mage's involvement in state affairs is neither necessary nor welcomed," Vasilias stated, a stern warning threaded into his words.
Symon bowed with a hand pressed over his heart, acknowledging the boundary he had overstepped. Vasilias deftly folded the handkerchief, tucking it into his pocket. As he lifted his gaze, Symon had vanished from the room.
Exhaling softly, Vasilias muttered, "Why did he erase the crimson?" His disappointment was palpable, his gaze fixed on the floor as he reminisced about the stain that had once been there. Closing his eyes, he rested his palms over them, seeking a moment of respite. The rusted scent had faded, leaving him disconcerted. Rising from his chair, he gravitated toward the garden beyond his office.
Though vibrant flowers adorned the surroundings and their fragrance filled the air, Vasilias' gaze held an emptiness. His personal guard, Ryan, trailed behind him, anticipating his needs.
"Ryan," Vasilias addressed.
"Your Grace," Ryan responded, his tone deferential as he approached.
Crouching, Vasilias plucked a rose from the earth. "What hue is this?" he inquired, his voice deceptively gentle.
"Yellow, Your Grace," Ryan replied.
The elegance of the garden contrasted with Vasilias' lifeless gaze. Though the scene was serene, the turmoil within him remained.
"Hmm... Yellow, what might that be like?" he mused aloud. "What does it smell like?" His curiosity piqued, his desire for understanding pushing him forward.
"It's sweet and soothing," Ryan, his loyal attendant, answered.
"Tsk... I wonder how that would feel," Vasilias muttered, his contemplative tone carrying an air of longing. With a dismissive flick of his hand, he discarded the rose and began to retrace his steps back to his office.
"Your Highness, will you be gracing the banquet tonight?" Ryan inquired, a hint of hesitancy in his voice.
"No! If yet another invitation finds its way to my desk, I'll ensure the sender and its bearer share a grim fate," Vasilias retorted, his words laced with a chilling promise. A shudder rippled through Ryan as he nodded and retreated, leaving Vasilias to his thoughts.
Seated once more, Vasilias leaned back, his eyes fluttering shut. His mind began to wander as he succumbed to fatigue. Growing up, Vasilias gradually realized his differences from those around him. Others spoke of myriad colors and enchanting scents, but to Vasilias, everything was uniform... except for red. He saw only red, and the scent that permeated his senses was the unmistakable odor of blood. A grim reality that he had accepted early in life.
Amidst his meandering thoughts, sleep found him, luring him into its embrace. Yet, an unfamiliar fragrance penetrated his senses, rousing him from his slumber. He was disoriented, realizing it was already past sunset. What caught him off guard, however, was the new and refreshing scent that enveloped him.
Driven by an unexplainable urgency, Vasilias set out to trace the fragrance's origin. The scent led him to the Imperial Palace, where soft melodies emanated from the Banquet Hall. He understood that the source of the captivating fragrance lay within, yet he hesitated, fully aware that his presence was unwelcome to many. Instead, he wandered the Palace gardens, drawing in the peace that had eluded him.
Stepping into the garden, he found himself among impeccably nurtured flowers. It was a strange sensation, inhaling something other than the acrid tang of blood. Lost in thought, he was suddenly jarred by a voice – a voice wrought with pain.
"I thought it wouldn't hurt... I believed I could go along with the flow, but... but."
"Why does it hurt so much in here?"
He approached the source of the lament and discovered a girl on her knees, tears streaming down her face. An odd sensation overcame him; he didn't recognize her, yet there was an inexplicable familiarity, as if he had known her for ages.
"I know I'm not the main character, but why am I treated like a punching bag?" she choked out, her words punctuated by sobs. "It hurts! I'm hurt! Why doesn't anyone care?"
Her anguish tore at Vasilias' heartstrings, awakening a desire to understand her pain. Who was she? Why was she so sorrowful?
"I don't even feel human anymore! I'm like an object – they use me as they please! They're worse than villains!"
She pounded her chest as if to release the torrent of grief bottled within.
"I want to go back! I don't want to be here anymore!" Her voice cracked, resonating with pain. "If only I were a commoner! If only I were a worthless maid, I could live freely! If only I could be free!" Her words echoed in the night, laced with bitterness and desperation.
Unconsciously, Vasilias found himself moving toward her, drawn by her distress. The sound of his footsteps alerted her, and her tear-stained gaze met his. Vasilias felt a profound connection, a vivid shade of red – so distinct, sparkling like a ruby in the moonlight – entered his vision.
Frozen in his tracks, he watched as the girl tensed, and with every step he took toward her, the fragrance grew stronger. The once-dull garden seemed to come alive, awash with colors he had never experienced before.
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