"Luxion."
"Yes, partner?"
"When you said you'd arrange for me to meet them beautifully..." Arthur stared at the scene before him with the hollow expression of a man who had made a terrible mistake by trusting an ancient genocidal AI with anything resembling social grace.
"What exactly did you think 'beautifully' meant?"
The twin princesses of Fanoss—Hetrude and Hertrauda—were tied to their own ornate chairs.
Back to back.
Ropes cutting into their delicate wrists.
Gags—actual gags, like something out of a bandit raid—stuffed into their mouths.
Their eyes blazed with a fury so pure, so incandescent, that if looks could kill, Arthur would have been incinerated on the spot.
Luxion hovered beside him, his red eye gleaming with unmistakable pride.
"This is beautiful, partner. Look at them. Secured. Contained. The lost item—" A compartment in Luxion's chassis slid open, revealing two ornate flutes pulsing with faint, malevolent energy. "—successfully confiscated. The operation was flawless."
"Luxion."
"Yes, partner?"
"They're tied up."
"For efficiency."
"They're gagged."
"To prevent screaming. Princesses scream, partner. It's in all the historical records. I did my research."
"Your research was on hostage situations."
"That is the most efficient method of securing royal assets."
Arthur closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
This was his fault.
Not Luxion's.
Luxion was what he was—a genocidal AI from a forgotten war who viewed most organic life as somewhere between "obstacle" and "resource."
Expecting Luxion to understand romance, or proper human meetings, or the basic concept of not tying up royalty like captured prisoners was like expecting a fish to understand astrophysics.
He had only himself to blame.
"Give me the flutes."
Luxion deposited them into Arthur's palm without hesitation.
The moment his fingers closed around the ancient artifacts, he felt it—the hunger.
The drain. The way they pulled at something deeper than flesh, something vital.
These weren't just weapons. They were parasites. Beautiful, elegant parasites that would consume their wielders from the inside out and call it a fair trade.
He crouched down in front of the princesses.
"I'm going to remove the gags now. Please don't scream. We're not here to hurt you. I swear it."
Hetrude's eyes promised murder.
Hertrauda's, behind her older sister, were wide and terrified.
Arthur reached out and gently pulled the cloth from their mouths.
Hetrude's hand shot up instantly—a slap aimed with the precision of pure, righteous fury.
Arthur caught her wrist before it connected. Her palm stopped an inch from his cheek.
"Alright, Princess. I know we came uninvited. I know this looks terrible. I know you have every right to be furious." He released her wrist gently, not throwing it back, not restraining her further.
Just letting go.
"We apologize. Sincerely."
Hetrude yanked her hand back, her chest heaving, her eyes still blazing. "Brute! Barbarian! Do you have any idea what the penalty is for laying hands on the royal family?!"
"Probably something involving execution."
"PUBLIC execution!"
"That does sound worse."
"Don't you dare make jokes right now!"
Arthur didn't laugh. Didn't smirk. He just waited. Let her vent. Let her burn through the first wave of fury without interruption.
When she finally fell silent—still glaring, still trembling with rage—he spoke again.
"You have every right to be angry. I won't defend what just happened. If you want to curse at me more, go ahead. I'm listening."
Hetrude opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
She'd been prepared for cruelty. For demands. For the cold, calculating negotiation that came with being a political hostage.
She had not been prepared for a blonde-haired boy with gentle eyes who apologized and meant it and told her she had every right to curse him.
It was deeply, profoundly disorienting.
Hertrauda, the younger sister, watched the exchange with cautious, calculating eyes.
She was quieter than her sister—always had been—but that quiet hid a sharp mind. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but steady.
"What do you want from us? The flutes? Are you here to steal them?"
Arthur looked down at the flutes in his hand. "Maybe."
Hetrude's composure cracked. "What do you mean 'maybe'?!"
"I mean if I take these, both of your fates fall into the hands of the nobles who've been using you as puppets. You'll be defenseless. Expendable. The military faction will have no reason to keep you around."
His voice was calm, measured, utterly without condescension. "If I don't take them, you'll keep using them. And the flutes will kill you."
He held them up.
The twins stared at the ancient artifacts—the source of their power, their leverage, their only real weapon against the kingdom that had wronged them.
"They drain your life force every time you use them. The stronger the monster you summon, the more they take. And if you ever summon something truly powerful—something capable of winning your war—"
He looked at them with something that was almost pity. "—the cost will be your lives. Both of you. The flutes won't stop until there's nothing left."
Silence.
Hetrude's fierce expression flickered.
Just for a moment.
Just enough to show the fear underneath.
"That's none of your business," she said, but her voice had lost its edge.
"Maybe you're right." Arthur sighed.
Then—without warning—he tossed both flutes back to them.
They caught them on reflex.
Stared at them.
Stared at him.
"What—" Hetrude looked at the flutes in her hands, then back at the boy who had just returned them. "—what are you doing? You broke into our palace. Tied us up. Stole our most powerful weapons. And now you're just... giving them back?"
Arthur shrugged. "I told you. We came in good faith. I don't want to steal what's yours. I don't want to interfere with your war. I just wanted to warn you. The flutes are killing you. Slowly. Invisibly. Every time you use them, you're trading years of your life for temporary power. And neither of you knew that."
He stood up.
Brushed off his knees.
"Now you know. Whatever you do with that information is your choice."
Hertrauda whispered something to her sister.
Hetrude's expression tightened.
She didn't respond, but her fingers curled protectively around her flute.
"He seems... nice, sister," Hertrauda said, a little louder.
Hetrude's jaw clenched. "Don't expect us to forgive you, rude boy. You tied us up. In our own chambers."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness." Arthur turned toward the door, then paused.
Looked back over his shoulder. "But if you ever want to talk—about the flutes, about the war, about anything—you know where to find me. Our party is Camelot. See you later, Princesses."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The ropes fell away—Luxion's doing, a final gesture of goodwill, or perhaps just efficiency.
The twins stood in their chamber, clutching their flutes, staring at the empty doorway.
Hertrauda spoke first. "Sister? Was that... a dream?"
"It must have been." Hetrude's voice was distant and hollow.
"A very strange dream. A handsome boy breaks into our room, ties us up, lectures us about the dangers of our own weapons, and then leaves without taking anything."
"That makes no sense."
"No. It doesn't."
They stood in silence for a long moment.
Then, without speaking, they both walked to Hetrude's bed—the larger one, the one they'd shared during thunderstorms as children—and climbed in together.
The flutes were still clutched tight against their chests.
The ropes were gone.
The boy was gone.
But his words remained.
The flutes will kill you. Slowly. Invisibly. Every time you use them, you're trading years of your life for temporary power.
Hertrauda pressed her face into her sister's shoulder. "Do you think it was real?"
Hetrude didn't answer for a long time.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"If it was a dream... it was a prophetic one. A warning. The kind the old stories talk about."
"Then the boy..."
"An angel, maybe. Or a messenger. Something sent to warn us before it's too late."
It was easier to believe that.
Easier than accepting that a stranger had broken into their palace, tied them up, and then left without demanding anything in return.
That made no sense.
That defied everything they understood about how the world worked.
A prophetic dream, though? A divine warning delivered through a handsome, green-eyed messenger? That was strange, yes. Unsettling, certainly. But it fit the shape of the old stories. It had logic. It had precedent.
They fell asleep like that—curled together, flutes in hand, the image of the boy burned into their memories.
They would not forget him.
Even if they desperately wanted to.
And the warning echoed in their minds.
And neither princess would ever use the flutes the same way again.