But the sturdy and the unlucky never died early.
It was an absurd combination, the sort that seemed exclusive to people who had been tested by time far too often and somehow survived every trial just long enough to be tested again. At that very moment, Prince Elior felt like the living embodiment of such a curse.
Especially when a completely ordinary nosebleed became the spark that set everything on fire.
"BLOOD!"
Someone screamed it first.
Then another voice followed, higher-pitched and far more alarmed. "He's bleeding! He's bleeding a lot!"
"Is he dying?!"
"He looks pale!"
"He needs rescuing!"
He was not, in fact, bleeding a lot. But if they kept it up, he was likely going to die a different kind of death.
Prince Elior stood there, frozen, one hand hovering uselessly near his face as warm liquid continued to drip with impeccable timing. It wasn't dramatic, shouldn't have been dangerous, and something that hadn't even been new.
And yet.
