[Imperial Palace]
Alden strode out of the hall, his cape snapping with the speed of his exit. Limon scrambled to fall into step behind him.
"Prepare for the East," Alden said, his gaze fixed forward. "We leave at first light."
Limon faltered. "The East? Tomorrow morning?" He hurried to catch up. "But... why, Your Highness? Why the sudden—"
"We are going to subdue the rebels," Alden cut in. His tone was detached, the same icy armor he had worn before the Emperor.
"What? Your Highness... why would you need to do that personally?"
Alden didn't answer. The question was naive. The rebellion wasn't just a nuisance; it was a rotting limb. Soon it would cause the collapse of Ashvale, the East would become a lawless void. The remnants of Vaelthorne would fill it with thoughts of restoration. If he didn't crush them now, they would sever the sole connection routes to Aethelgard. He needed the elves. He couldn't let a band of ghosts from a dead kingdom stand in his way this time.
"Don't answer me if you don't want to..." Limon’s whisper cut through the noise of his thoughts. "Is it finally time for a break, Your Highness?"
Alden gave a faint, humorless smile. "No. Not now."
They reached the courtyard. The carriage waited, the horses stamping against the cobblestones.
"To Arabella Castle," Alden ordered the coachman.
He climbed inside, the velvet seat offering no comfort to his rigid spine. Limon followed, settling opposite him with a heavy sigh. Alden didn't look at him, but he heard the breath—heavy with misguided worry.
As the door clicked shut, sealing them in, Alden spoke. "The task I gave you? Regarding Aethelgard."
Limon straightened instantly. "Done. I dispatched the riders under the highest seal. They should receive it soon."
"Good. Ensure it remains buried." Alden leaned his head against the cold glass of the window, closing his eyes.
"Understood," Limon said softly. A pause. Then, the inevitable question. "But... Your Highness, why the elves? Is there a special reason..."
"There is," Alden said, cutting the air like a blade.
He offered no further explanation. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and the rapid, anxious thrum of Limon’s heart across the carriage.
[Arabella Castle]
When the carriage finally ground to a halt before the gates of Arabella Castle, the sun had dipped below the horizon. They stepped out into the gloom.
Limon remained a silent specter in the background, keeping his respectful three paces.
Alden drifted toward the garden, then stopped.
In the deepening twilight, the pale moonflowers glowed like fallen stars. The wind shifted, carrying a sweet, heavy, and suffocating scent.
"My mother loved these," Alden whispered. The words felt hollow, stripped of emotion, yet they hung heavy in the silent air.
Inhaling the perfume, he closed his eyes, and the chilly night air was replaced by a phantom warmth.
He had strained to recall these details for days. Now, standing before the garden, the veil finally lifted. To the world, it was just eight years ago. But to him, it felt like a gap of centuries.
The scene materialized. The moonflowers swayed in an afternoon breeze that no longer existed, their pale petals soft in the sunlight. And there he was.
A boy of eight. Small, unscarred hands. He sat beside his mother among the blossoms.
Mother reached out, brushing a flower’s delicate petals. Her voice was calm, exactly as it had been. "These flowers bloom only in the quiet of the night, patiently waiting for their moment to shine. That patience is a strength, Alden."
Alden watched the boy’s face scrunch up in a frown. "Why do they have to wait? Why can't they just bloom now?"
Mother smiled softly, squeezing the small hand. "Because some things are worth waiting for. You, my son, will grow strong if you learn to wait—to grow quietly, without rushing."
"I don't like waiting." The boy whimpered.
"I know. But sometimes, waiting is the only way to grow into the person you're meant to be."
The boy sighed, nestled closer to her, soaking in the warmth of her words and the comfort of the fading light.
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Alden opened his eyes to the present, touching his cheek. Dry. As expected, there were no tears. "You were wrong, Mother," he murmured, looking back at the swaying flowers, the gentle wind, and the image shifted. The boy dissolved.
Another memory rushed in—involuntary, uncalled, inevitable.
Someone else had waited here too. Holding his hand. Looking directly into his eyes with a smile that could melt the snow on the highest peaks of heaven.
Alden gritted his teeth. He didn't want this one. It invaded anyway, indifferent to his pain.
She stood, her movements vibrant and alive, as she gazed at the garden. Alden, the Memory-Alden, followed silently, his gaze fixed on the rhythm of her laughter as she curiously looked between the blooms and the sky.
"Do these flowers have girls and boys too?"
The memory-Alden smiled in quiet amusement. "No, not like people do."
But the answer didn't satisfy her. She furrowed her brows, innocent and dangerously curious, asking the question only a woman deeply loved could ask. "So, how do they make babies? New flowers?"
The memory-Alden froze. His chest had hammered so painfully that day. "They send tiny dust called pollen from one flower to another. That's how new flowers grow."
She blinked in surprise. "Ohh… What's pollen? Is that what you throw at each other to make babies?"
At that, the memory-Alden burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. He couldn't help it.
In the present, Alden smiled too, his gaze glued to the ghosts.
"Don't answer if you don't want to," she mumbled, feigning anger. "But stop laughing at me."
The memory-Alden wiped a tear from his eye, his laughter fading to gentle chuckles. "No, no… it's not like that. Humans don't… throw pollen. It's only for flowers, some tiny grains carried by the wind."
Her eyes brightened, warm as a candle flame in a cozy bedroom. "Then… how? How will you make it, Alden?"
The laughter softened into a warm, teasing smile. "You really want to know how? Maybe one day I'll show you."
She pouted. "You always say that… What's so secret? I told you everything about us, didn't I?"
The memory-Alden’s tone turned gentle, a lover's whisper. "One day, when the time is right."
She stopped pouting, growing suddenly serious. "Then you must let me see it... I am curious. About yours."
"You most definitely will be there, my angel," he promised with a gentle laugh.
Her eyes moved back to the pale moonflowers. "This place is beautiful, Alden. Thank you for bringing me here," she said softly. "I wish we could stay here… forever."
Alden’s heart throbbed. He watched himself lean closer, voice barely above a whisper, answering with all the hope his soul had once possessed.
"Shall we?"
Her gentle smile blossomed amidst the flowers, radiating an unguarded joy.
The image shattered.
The memory didn't fade; it broke. The woman, the laughter, the gentle light—all dissolved.
'Forever.'
The word echoed mockingly. Their promise had become his curse.
The garden of moonflowers vanished. In its place, a river of molten lava hissed and churned—a living wound tearing through the earth. The gentle silver light was smothered beneath thick smoke and choking ash. The scent of nectar was drowned by sulfur and fire.
An older Alden stepped into the inferno.
His legs melted to molten flesh with every agonizing step, only to knit themselves back together, cursed never to die. The pain was a constant, brutal companion—searing and relentless.
He heard her voice, warped by the heat and the screams of memory. "Let's stay here. Just us. Forever."
A bitter, broken laugh cracked from his throat—no gentle vow, but a twisted curse.
The blackened ruins of Arabella Castle lay around him, swallowed by flame. Nothing was left but ash and shadow.
He dropped to his knees. He pressed his hands against the molten earth, fingers scorched and bleeding, regenerating over and over.
"Yes, that's what it should be. I will drag you back. Back from wherever you fled… back to me."
"There was a promise between us—and I will see it kept."
"Your Highness! Your…"
Limon's voice yanked him out of the memory.
Alden's eyes flicked back from the past. The lava was gone. The boy was gone. Only the pale flowers remained. He turned away.
"Let's go back."
It was a quiet decision. He began walking toward the gates, and Limon fell into step behind him, exuding a heavy, suffocating sense of pity. Suddenly, he shouted, "Please stop."
Alden halted, turning to him with an inquisitive gaze.
Taking a deep breath, Limon replied, "Alden, I’ve been with you since childhood. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?"
He stepped forward, bowing before him, his voice soft and cautious. "Don't hold it all inside. Please, I beg you. Cry your heart out. I won't look."
Alden offered a faint smile, but said nothing.
He turned back and continued walking steadily. Feeling something on his palm, he glanced down. His glove was stained with green sap and the pulpy white remains of a moonflower. It was clear that he had crushed it while lost in the vision. Undeterred, he changed his glove without breaking his stride.
Alden could hear the quickening beat of his aide's heart, but he offered no explanation.
The carriage door shut with a soft thud.
The interior smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. Alden sat back, the velvet cushions sinking slightly under his weight. Opposite him, Limon sat stiff as a board, his eyes darting toward Alden every few seconds, as if checking to ensure the Prince had not shattered like glass.
Alden ignored him, placing his fingertips against the cold window. Moonlight slipped between the branches overhead, casting quick, flickering flashes of light across his reflection.
He remembered leaving her alone and entrusting her safety to the guards at Arabella Castle. Her hands trembled as she insisted on accompanying him, but he had firmly refused. Placing his faith in Limon and his half-brother, Aran, he had left, believing she would be safe while he was away fighting in war.
The carriage swayed.
"Your Highness." Limon's voice pulled him back to the present. The aide leaned forward, wringing his hands. "If you wish to rest, we can postpone our journey to the East by a few more days. I have acquaintances who can host us before we embark. It’s not as if the Emperor would question you for taking a moment to breathe."
'Why did he keep asking that?' Alden wondered, pressing his thumb against the glass and leaving a faint smudge. His breathing remained steady, but a small muscle at the corner of his mouth tightened.
His reflection in the window stared back at him—hollow, with eyes rimmed in red. He hadn’t realized until now that his eyes were bloodshot. No wonder Limon kept insisting on rest. The aide must have misunderstood, thinking he was heartbroken.
Limon let out another long, heavy breath, his shoulders sinking in defeat. Alden didn’t feel the need to offer any comfort.
The road gently curved, and a soft breeze wafted through the vent. Ahead, the Emerald Castle stood, its verdant roofs shimmering under the moon’s silvery light. She enjoyed the view, especially the moon.
Alden stared at the castle. For some reason, his chest tightened. Strange. It must be the confrontation in the hall that had stressed him. He pushed the thought away; he didn't need to worry.
He could hear Limon swallow again, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet carriage. 'Noisy.'
The horses continued their journey, but the rhythm felt off. It was unusually slow, as if time itself was stretching out aimlessly.
