Ballad of the Morning Star

The first thing Arian knew was the cold. It was a deep, biting chill that came not from the winter air but from the stone beneath him--or rather, from the stone that now passed through him. He opened his eyes to a world washed in grey, with the vibrant colors of life leached away into a monochrome tapestry of sorrow.

He was in the Prince's private chapel.

High, vaulted ceilings soared into darkness, and the only light came from a single, stoic candle burning on the altar. Its flame cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the stillness of the room. And in the centre of the room knelt Crown Caelian Augustus, motionless before the cold stone altar.

Arian's heart--a phantom organ that no longer beat but could still clench with terrible force--twisted in his chest. Caelian's back was ramrod straight, like a pillar of regal fortitude. His head was bowed, but it was the posture of a king surveying his realm, not a man in prayer. There was no tremor in his shoulders, no sign of the grief that should have been tearing him apart.

It's only been three days--Arian's soul screamed into the silence, a sound no one could hear. Three days since I died in his arms, and he looks as if he's merely contemplating a difficult treaty.

The memory cut through him, sharp and unbidden. The ambush in the Wolfwood Pass. The sudden, chaotic crash of steel. The whistle of a bolt slicing through the air-- aimed squarely at the silver stag embroidered on Caelian's chest. Arian hadn't thought, only moved. He still felt the sickening impact of the enchanted quarrel, the fire that erupted in his chest, and the disbelieving frozen on Caelian's face.

The Prince, who never showed a flicker of emotion, had stared at him, with his carefully constructed mask of indifference shattering into a million pieces. His face had gone white, the blood draining from it as if siphoned by a ghost. His hands, always so steady, had trembled as they tried to staunch a wound that was already fatal. Arian had wanted to say something clever, something roguishly charming to ease the horror in Caelian's eyes. But all that had come out was a choked gasp, with his lifeblood painting the forest floor a garish crimson.

Now, that same Prince knelt, as still and unmoving as the statues of bygone kings that lined the chapel walls. Arian drifted closer, with his spectral form passing through a heavy oak pew. He longed to reach out, to shake that rigid form, and to demand the tears that were his due. He had been Arian de Valois, the Scourge of the Northern Court, the Jester Knight, and the only man who dared to treat the Crown Prince like a human being. He had given his life for him. And this was his reward? A silent vigil in an empty room?

Caelian finally moved. He rose to his feet with a fluid grace that was mesmerizing and infuriating in equal measure. He turned, and his eyes, the color of a stormy winter sea, swept across the chapel. For a breathtaking moment, his gaze seemed to land directly on Arian. Hope, fragile and foolish, flared in Arian's non-existent chest.

He saw me.

But his gaze moved on, unfocused, sweeping past where Arian hovered to settle on the heavy, iron-bound door. Caelian's face was a mask of control: jaw clenched sharp, skin taut over his high cheekbones. He looked weary, certainly--but not heartbroken. He looked like a king who had lost a valuable asset, not a man who had lost… whatever Arian had been to him.

Arian had spent ten years trying to puzzle out that very question. From the moment they had met as boys in the royal training yard, he had made it his life's mission to crack the Prince's icy façade. He'd pestered him, teased him, challenged him to duels he always lost, and even serenaded him with rowdy tavern songs--passed off as ancient poetry.

Every overture had been met with the same cold admonishment.

“Arian, your conduct is unbecoming of a Marquis's son.”

“That was a dishonourable display.”

“Must you always be so… frivolous?”

And yet, Caelian had never truly pushed him away. He had endured the infuriating jests, listened to the off-key serenades, and always, always, had Arian's back in the viper's nest of the royal court. It was a confusing, intoxicating dance that had defined Arian's life.

A life that was now over.

As Caelian walked towards the door, with his steps echoing in the profound silence, Arian felt a strange, invisible tether pull taut. He couldn't leave the chapel. It felt as though his very essence were bound to this cold, sacred space--a prisoner trapped in the heart of his beloved's grief. Or, more cruelly, in its absence.

The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Arian alone in the encroaching darkness. The single candle on the altar flickered, and for the first time since he had opened his spectral eyes, Arian felt a new emotion, colder and sharper than the stone around him.

Despair.