Prince Fernando
I slept on the floor so I wouldn’t touch her, rose at dawn, ensured a sentry guarded the door, and informed my father that he was right. I promised to return once I found a proper wife.
Rocco and a half-dozen men traveled north with me before Stella woke.
If I stayed, I’d fail.
What I felt couldn’t be love. Infatuation, maybe.
My mind played tricks on me between imagining scenarios and hearing nonexistent voices. If she remembered running or not, I realized that if I hoped to be the King of Astralind; I had to marry a royal. Unfortunately, my only prospects lived hundreds of miles away in the Northern Clans.
I always thought Princess Isabella of Lisaire would wed me, as she was the closest geographically. She was nine years younger. By the time I came to propose last year, the crown prince of Damai already had her. She was only eighteen.
A love match. The young prince was only nineteen.
Lucky them.
Now I plodded north, hoping to avoid assassins and fetch a wife old enough to return home with me.
Stella
Eric escaped that night. Dario and Rocco returned empty-handed.
Prince Fernando attempted nothing more, then slept on the floor. A guard waited outside, perhaps to make sure I stayed inside the villa.
Fernando left before I woke the next morning. Bolin later told revealed that he traveled north in search of a wife. It took all my resolve to hide how much that news stabbed my heart.
Sentries found the hole in the barrier and filled it with stone and mortar. I stuck to the falsehood that I remembered nothing. The king’s anger melted away once his son departed. Had I not known our ruler better, I’d have thought he forgot about me. The guards watching me every hour of the day reminded me otherwise. He ensured I was close in case he needed me to save his royal life.
Two months passed. I studied with Bolin every day and became nearly fluent in Astralini. Patrick visited once or twice a week, as often as allowed. My favorite days included both of them and the ancient Celestia texts. Apparently, Bolin was writing a book about how the language evolved. Fascinating.
A servant interrupted one such pleasant afternoon with harsh knocking.
“The king orders the healer to the sparring yard!” she called through the door.
I jumped up, scattering papers on the table. Bolin scrambled to keep them from falling to the floor.
“Sorry!”
“Go,” he said. “It’s fine. I’ll be right there.”
I entered the practice yard, situated between the gardens and stables, where several half-dressed sentries observed the situation. King Sartorius stood on a balcony, watching everything transpire.
A man sat in the middle, the reddish dust from the packed dirt clinging to his back and hair. His ruddy skin leapt out from the more common tawny and deeper toned Astralini men.
“What happened?” I asked, stepping past two bare chested guards.
The pale man twisted to face me, and I lost my breath. Eric! I snapped my jaw closed in a millisecond, and hoped everyone assumed my reaction had more to do with the bloody gash on his upper arm than anything else.
“I failed to block Niccolo’s attack,” Eric said. His features betrayed no emotion.
Questions ran through my mind.
Why are you here?
Are you a guard now?
How did you join and how long have you been here?
I pursed my lips and nodded.
“The idiots fought with actual weapons instead of the practice ones. What were you thinking?” The head guard shouted.
Eric clutched his bleeding wound and lowered his head. “Sorry, sir.”
“Me too,” a young guard added. I assumed he was Niccolo.
“I swear I’ll add lashes to your wounds if you’re foolish a second time.”
“It won’t happen again,” Niccolo said.
I sank to my knees so I could view the injury. The cut started at his shoulder and ran down to his elbow. It looked like sliced meat, though I saw no exposed bone. Streams of red painted the ground beneath him.
“Heal him, Stella, before he bleeds out,” the king commanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
Couldn’t he wait a few seconds for me to examine the wound? I doubted he’d care why I did something.
“This is going to hurt,” I whispered as I placed my palms over the gaping cut.
“It’s alright,” he responded. “I trust you.”
Green and gold swirled around my wrists and palms as I pulled it up. The light pierced Eric’s flesh, and he grit his teeth as the muscles joined, split skin sewed itself back together, and fresh blood filled his veins. His chest heaved as he struggled to maintain his composure. I finished within a moment or two. My hands collapsed to my lap while he examined the long pink scar beneath the still drying blood.
“Incredible,” he breathed.
“Let us see the result,” King Sartorius called out.
Eric stood and bowed with a flourish, revealing his functional arm.
“Ah. Good,” the king muttered. He exited the platform and returned inside the villa.
A grunt of approval was better than displeasure. Right?
Eric turned to me and helped me stand. “Thank you,” he said, then added almost silently in Celestia, “I promised I’d come back.”
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