Prince Callahan Ashbourne, the crown prince of the Kingdom of Valon, took another sip of his morning tea and leaned back in his chair, admiring the expanse of the palace gardens from the balcony of his private chambers. It was a beautiful morning.
The sun shone bright, its golden rays pouring over the vivid flower beds and trees, casting shadows in every direction. The sky was clear, untouched by clouds, punctuated only by the flock of birds chirping, soaring high.
Callahan admired the view as he relished the warm richness of winter rose infused in the tea — a rare, exquisite flower shipped all the way from the south-western Kingdom of Aetherlyn. He appeared to be at peace, at ease without a care of anything in the world. Gentle winds carried with it the fragrant calmness of blooming gardenias, giving a sense of deceptive serenity.
Behind this perfect facade, away from the fallacious tranquility of palace life, the capital city of Ilyndor was waking up to the aftereffects of the happenings of the previous night. The whispers of the incinerated brewery travelled through the streets, passing from ear to ear, as the shop owners lifted the shutters to welcome early customers and the workers hurried out of their homes — some on foot, others in wooden carriages — to head to their respective places of work.
Callahan could hear it all. He could see it all unfolding before his eyes.
Even as he idly traced the rim of his teacup with slow, deliberate movements, his shadow self — the cursed half of his consciousness — strolled the streets of Ilyndor. They didn't see him, didn't feel his presence as he brushed past them like a ghost tethered to the flesh.
However, despite being veiled in the shadows and lacking a concrete physical form, he wasn't lost to their mortal eyes completely. A keen observer standing at a distance could note the subtle, strange ways the shadows shifted as he moved through them. But Callahan had learned that people were often too preoccupied in their own joys and miseries to take notice of the anomalies around them. And some who did, often blamed it on the failing of their eyes or their minds, never willing to accept nor acknowledge a truth that defied their reasoning.
And so he walked, or rather drifted, from one silhouette to another. The shadow self didn't have a physical form — not in the real world, at least. But it was an inextricable part of his being. Like a fragment of his mind. Or a fragment of his soul.
It had taken a lot to get used to this arrangement. As a child, it terrified him to no extent. Learning to split his consciousness, lending a half of his mind to the shadow self with the wraiths threatening to drag him into madness, and accepting being present at two places at the same time — even if only one of the presence had a physical form, was a prowess that had taken a lot away from him.
Callahan understood well the cost of his abilities. Everything from The Nether required a price to pay. It was a curse disguised as a power he could not get rid of.
But he has always been someone who turned his chains into weapons and his curses into crowns.
And minor difficulties — like a prophesied death and a gradually rotting soul — was merely a stimulus to appreciate the things that actually mattered. The winter rose tea on a beautiful morning, for one. A clandestine stroll on the streets filled with people horror-stuck by your nightly adventures, for another.
Callahan heard the door to his chambers open even as his shadow half stopped by a baker screaming at top of his lungs to hang the bastard who dared to burn the royally accredited brewery. He sighed, moving ahead to the merchants speculating the motives of the arsonist. He let their words fray at the edges of his mind. There was nothing of consequence. Not yet.
Arthur, his second in command, walked in his chambers with obvious sound steps, revealing himself before he made his appearance at the balcony where Callahan leisured. He bowed — deep and respectful. Callahan didn't turn to look at him.
'The King requests your presence,' he said, raising his head and waiting for the command.
Callahan set his cup down the table with deliberate ease.
Of course, he does.
A breeze swept in, rustling the curtains behind him and making a few strands of his perfectly set dark hair fall over his forehead in a messy elegance. He took a deep breath and exhaled. His eyes, black as coal, roamed over the flowerbeds and settled at the palace gates — guarded and closed.
'I'm occupied.' He lifted the cup to his lips and took another sip, perfectly at ease.
If it was any other person, Arthur might have debated further the consequences by bringing it back to their attention that refusing the royal command was treason, but after spending a childhood being his master's only close friend and an adulthood fighting alongside him in battles, big and small, he knew the more wise thing was to bow his head in understanding and put the matter to rest.
Arthur detached the sheathed sword from his armour and left it to lean against the wall before joining the prince at the balcony. He followed his gaze to the palace gates — distant but visible — knowing he was looking at things way beyond and wondered, as he always has, about what was going on in the prince's mind this time.
Despite being his closest confidante, Arthur has hardly ever succeeded in figuring out his friend's elaborate schemes.
The entire Kingdom knew him to be the notorious prince who lacked empathy. A man who would rather indulge himself in a bottle of fine wine than listen to the peasants chatter about their miserable lives. A man who would rather spend his days idling around than assist his brother in court politics. A man who would cut off a tongue before it could utter a word against his will.
They weren't wrong.
He absolutely would.
But Arthur knew something they didn't: every action of his has a reason.
Prince Callahan Ashbourne has never, for once in his life, been unprepared, irrational, unreasonable.
He was a powerful man, the prince. His title made him invulnerable all throughout Valon and beyond. Adding in his exceptional swordsmanship, he was a power to be reckoned with. But what made him truly dangerous — and at times terrifying even to himself — was his meticulous calculation of every move, his ease of weaving plans within plans, ensuring every possibility and leaving just enough room for error — to keep the games interesting.
He had seen him turn complicated diplomatic contentions that were about to lead to war turn into friendly dialogue over a cup of tea.
At the same time, he had seen him reduce a rebellion to ash with a single command and a mansion full of enemies into a graveyard without a whisper or a thought.
'Are you waiting for something, Your Highness?' asked Arthur as he turned around to look at the prince. He noted that his eyes were black, stating his shadow self was somewhere out there. Waiting for something, indeed.
'What have I told you about the royal protocols when we're in private, Arthur?' Callahan raised to his feet, a few inches taller than his second in command. He walked to the balcony with his hands behind his back. Always poised, ever elegant.
Arthur hesitated. Callahan pinned him with his eyes.
'To hell with it,' quoted Arthur. Callahan looked away with a nod, pleased.
'Not many get to enjoy such shared-childhood privileges, Arthur. Embrace it.' He patted his shoulder in a friendly manner.
Arthur nodded like he understood, but Callahan knew better. Not even a sword to this man's throat would pull the deference out of the man.
'Did you get the needle checked?' he asked.
Arthur pulled out a cloth from his breast pocket and unfolded it to reveal a small needle, barely visible against the shiny white silk of the cloth. 'In the words of the palace's healer, it is exquisite work.'
Callahan picked up the delicate needle between his first finger and his thumb. Even against the blue sky it looked like an unnoticeable sliver of silver. 'Keep talking.'
'It's harmless to the touch, but it's filled with Hollowbane that releases the moment it sinks in the body. A kind of poison that disables the nerves depending where it's hit. Like many other poisons it takes time to work, but...' Arthur frowns, 'but it seems this one was altered chemically.'
Callahan raised a brow in interest remembering how it had made the soldier fall down instantly the previous night, 'how so?'
'The healer said it was altered so it would work immediately and would have a more enhanced effect if hitting a major nerve. Its fatality is zero, but it will take hours for the victim to come back to senses. Also there is no cure to reverse it. It needs to run its course and has no after effects.'
Arthur tried to study Callahan's face and failed. 'Where did you find it? The healer appeared to be very interested in knowing its source.'
'I stole it from an apothecary,' said Callahan, putting the needle back on the cloth in Arthur's hand.
'An apothecary?' Arthur let the cloth rest on the table, covering it properly so as to not let the wind blow away the refined craftsmanship of the poison needle. 'You advised me to sit out the events of last night as it would be more convenient for you to handle it alone. Did something happen out of the ordinary?'
Callahan took a deep breath, inhaling the flowery scents of the pollen in the air. 'I met someone I shouldn't have.'
Arthur stood up straighter. 'Do you wish me to eliminate it, Your Highness?'
Callahan laughed, a humorless and mocking laugh. 'What's the fun in that.'
'Then-'
Callahan raised a hand, hushing him to silence. His shadow half that had walked up to the minister's house — tired of waiting in the market district — heard the hooves knocking on the ground as the carriage wheels spun into motion. At last.
He turned away from the balcony with deliberate slow steps. All he had to do was blink to pull the shadow self back to him. His eyes changed to their original colour. Arthur noticed it and without question, stepped back to fetch his sword from the wall and fix it in the belt around his waist.
'It is time,' said Callahan even as Arthur stepped aside, clearing the way for the prince to walk ahead.
Callahan had his hands folded behind him as he walked with unhurried steps. 'After all, it is not polite to keep the King waiting.'