(Ariana)
It felt wrong—the air in his room, the atmosphere. All wrong.
The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a thin ribbon of moonlight that cut across the room and draped itself over him. Dust motes floated lazily in the beam, drifting like ash suspended in time.
This ridiculous boy went and got himself into mortal danger again.
Three days ago, he was almost killed in an assassination attempt, and now he lay limp, tucked in his very own bed as if someone had tried to make him appear to be in a peaceful slumber. But it was futile.
His eyes were wide, unfocused, locked on the arched ceiling above him. But they saw nothing; there was nothing to see. There was no light in his eyes. No spark. That arrogant scoundrel had no misplaced confidence or childish energy within his eyes anymore, not even within his body. He radiated nothing, absolute nothing.
He was merely an empty shell now. A cold, shell of a once pathetic prince.
Sora De Astra Knight, with seemingly the ability to heal his own wounds beyond that of what even the most skilled healers in the world were capable of, lay flat on his back with eyes that saw too much and yet now see nothing.
What happened to him?
The great Pierro Knight—not a person in the world doesn't know that name. He was and still is the strongest, most powerful individual on the planet with the ability to rival entire countries all on his very own. Probably the strongest person in history behind the Witch of End and the ten Servants of Chaos.
A very, very, powerful individual. And yet his son. My fiancé was... pathetic.
Exactly a week ago, Father told me I was to marry him. I was completely against it, but I had no choice in the matter.
I was completely against it; however, at first, it wasn't because I thought of him as arrogant and pathetic; in fact, I had assumed great things about him, for he was the son of a great man. It's just that love... After that night. Love was never for me. Never my path. But for the country, for the Aredhel line, I had no choice. And so I agreed.
Not even forty-eight hours ago, he walked into that meeting room, and from the moment he set foot into that room, I hated him, I despised him. Not for his looks—he has the looks. Not for his skill, though quite overrated, the arcane I sensed off him was still powerful. But the nerve to walk into a meeting to discuss your future. To discuss your engagement. To meet me. And you walk in with all the arrogance in the world, shirtless and barefoot, without even a tinge of respect.
I understood that he awoke from a fatal injury, but he didn't even dress, like at all. Let alone decently.
But maybe, maybe you just didn't know. I gave you, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. But every single word—every sound that exited from between his lips in that room was filled with pride and disrespect, I hated it, I hated him.
I loathed him.
I despised him.
Pathetic. He was pathetic.
He entered that room a stranger and exited as my fiancé. But now I wasn't against the marriage for personal reasons. I was against it because he was an idiot beyond idiots, egotistical beyond egoists, pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
Pathetic in every way.
Pathetic.
And pathetic.
I can't say it enough.
So why, why was it that I still agreed to marry him? I could've fought, but I didn't. I simply surrendered to the predicament; I didn't even try.
Why, why was it that in this very moment, I was standing in his room with a concerned look on my face?
Why, why did my heart beat louder than it should've?
Why, why did I want to be by his bedside?
His mother, Nemi, was seated on a cushioned chair to his right, holding his pale hand with both of hers and shaking while muttering something under her breath, dressed in her night robe.
His sister, Katarina, dressed similarly, leaned against his windowsill, arms crossed, and lips pressed tight. The world behind her eyes, a mystery to me.
This fool. This idiot would worry his family. Almost dying, just to wake up two days later, then do it all over again the next night. This, this scoundrel. You imbecile.
But tonight... tonight I couldn't explain why I stood in his room, with a sense of worry crawling up my spine, numbing my legs, and twisting some knot in my stomach.
Not even two days, I didn't know him two days, and yet it felt like I knew him an eternity. I didn't get it.
Sora... who are you?
Two hours ago, Iliam had staggered through the palace gates with the prince hanging off him like a corpse that refused to fall. Sora's arm had been slung over Iliam's shoulders, his legs dragging limply against the marble floor, his boots scraping with that dull, sickening rhythm that still echoed in my ears.
I remember the state he was in when Iliam placed him on the floor: Fingertips drenched with so much blood, blood that seeped into the half-moons of his nails—painting them crimson.
But it couldn't have been his blood, impossible, for there was no wound to show for it. There were no scratches, no torn skin, no injury at all to explain why his hands looked as though he had clawed at something until his nails split. The healers wiped them clean, confused by the complete lack of wounds.
That wasn't all, Iliam swore that he saw Sora get stabbed—the blade pierced through his chest. Evident with the piercing through his uniform. But there was nothing, no scar. Not even redness. Not even a raised welt.
That same uniform of his was charred around the right shoulder plate. And yet, his skin remained pale as snow, not even the slightest proof of a burn mark.
Divine Ability. That was the only explanation. So Father's intuition was right?
If so.
Then why?
Why, even after being checked upon by the finest healers in the capital and bathed, did he remain rigid? Not even blinking with mismatched eyes that remained hollow and held no light—both the blue and amber dimmed to an almost faint color, almost graying out entirely, inked with dark circles beneath them like paint on a blank canvas. Pulse, barely there. Breaths, only taken through slightly parted lips, barely taken as if his body almost forgot.
I wanted to be at his bedside, I didn't know why, but I wanted to... It couldn't be out of affection. Impossible. Duty? But that wouldn't... wouldn't feel this way.
So what was it?
Some quiet part of me refused to leave him alone like this, hollowed out and broken, staring at nothing with the expression of someone who had seen death far too closely… and far too many times. And the longer I watched him breathe like a ghost, the more the unfamiliar heaviness settled in my stomach. Tying the knot even tighter.
This shouldn't have affected me. This boy was nothing but trouble, arrogance, and misplaced bravado. Pathetic, really. Pathetic and infuriating and utterly beneath the expectations placed upon him.
He was not worthy of me.
And yet…
Here he was. Limp. Broken. Hollow.
I remained where I was at the foot of his bed, arms crossed with my finger curling tightly at my elbows, and brows knitted as I studied my surroundings, trying to compose myself and hide my inexplicable concern.
I was his fiancée, heir apparent to the Demon Continent, and therefore someone with the right, no. The obligation to know what had happened to him. To know what danger he had stumbled into.
My gaze shifted towards Iliam, who stood stiffly near the door, dust clinging to his uniform, streaks of dried blood across his sleeves, and disheveled jet-black hair. He looked as though he'd aged ten years in an hour.
I turned away from the bed and walked toward him.
"Follow me."
And he did, exhaling quietly as he followed me out the door.