Silence enveloped the room as the butler gently closed the door behind him. The soft thud of the door resonated in the stillness, a fleeting echo that seemed to hang in the air.
Balmir blinked in disbelief, his mind struggling to process what he had just seen. For a brief moment, the crown prince's eyes flashed a sinister shade of yellow before they returned to their usual black, as if nothing had happened. Was he delirious because of the blood loss that is playing tricks on him, or had he truly witnessed it?
Arthur's smirk broke the tension, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Noticed, huh?" he said with a voice that was too calm. "You've always been sharp—just like when we were young."
Without waiting for a response, the prince removed his white shirt. Balmir's breath caught in his throat at the sight. A grotesque scar stretched across Arthur's back, marred by jagged, deep gashes—two brutal marks on his neck and five more spanning his back.
Balmir's eyes widened, horrified by the sight. Arthur glanced back at him, a twisted smile playing on his lips, his expression almost amused. "Disgusting, isn't it?" he murmured, his voice soft as he slid the shirt back on.
"How did you survive?" Balmir asked. Almost a whisper. His voice is shaky, the question heavy with disbelief.
His smile faded, and his gaze sharpened, "I didn't survive, my dear friend.", he replied, his voice low and chilling. "I am already dead. I am no longer human."
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Dear Amanda,
How is the weather in Marindu? I find myself longing for the warmth of your presence amidst the bitter cold of this northern winter. Every moment without you feels like a piece of my soul is being torn away—an ache that deepens with each passing hour.
I must tell you something, though I can hardly bear to. The crown prince survived the attack. I know you may have heard rumors, but rest assured, he is alive... or at least, he appears to be.
Until then, know that my thoughts are consumed by you, by the emptiness without you here beside me.
With all my love,
Balmir
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Amanda receives his letter, her fingers brushing lightly over the paper as she turned it over. Amanda held the letter up to her face, breathing in deeply, as though she could read the scent of it, not the words. Her fingertips gently explored the edges of the envelope, tracing its seal, lingering longer than necessary on the folds, the creases, as though she could tell something from the paper's texture alone.
She motioned for the servants to leave, her voice smooth but firm. "I'll call for you when I need you."
The servants exchanged glances but said nothing. They had grown accustomed to her ways, then stepped out, leaving her alone with the letter.
As the door closed softly behind them, she waited for their footsteps to fade away.
There was a pause. A long, quiet moment before she began to tear the letter open, slowly, carefully. The rip of the paper was soft but deliberate, and as she unfolded it, her expression remained still—unreadable.
But then, something caught her attention. She paused, brow furrowing slightly. This was... not Balmir's handwriting. Her gaze sharpened, her fingertips lingering on the ink, studying it with quiet intensity. She ran her fingers over the slanted strokes, the loops and curves of the letters. It wasn't quite right. The flow felt forced, almost strained, as though someone else had written it for him—or worse, as if his hand was injured. The letter didn't say anything about his well-being.
The silence of the room enveloped her, and after a moment, she took a slow, deliberate breath. She couldn't let on that she knew the letter. Not yet.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, delicate yet firm.
"Milady?" The butler's voice was polite, steady, yet there was an unmistakable note of anticipation. "May I read the letter to you?"
Amanda's lips curled into a practiced smile, though her heart quickened in her chest. She didn't respond immediately—just let the silence hang for a moment. The charade was about to begin.
"Yes, of course," she replied, her voice smooth, betraying none of the storm brewing beneath the surface. She heard the butler enter, footsteps measured and quiet as always, and the soft rustle of paper as he picked up the letter.
She tilted her head slightly, as if listening intently, her posture that of someone completely reliant on the words of another.
The butler began to read aloud, his voice gentle, yet somehow distant. He paused before reading, "The crown prince survived the attack. I know you may have heard rumors, but rest assured, he is alive... or at least, he appears to be."
"What's wrong?" Amanda asked.
The butler continued reading, his voice unwavering. Amanda's gaze remained fixed on nothing, the perfect picture of a blind woman listening carefully.
As the butler read, the maids, in their usual way, giggled amongst themselves, their whispers spilling over as if they couldn't contain their excitement. They clearly only cared about the romantic part of the letter, as their attention was fixed entirely on the emotional exchange within.
Without a word, they moved to present Amanda with a bouquet—a vibrant mix of sunflowers, white lilies, and winter jasmine. The flowers, full of life and color, filled the room with their sweet scent, delicate yet distinct. Amanda, pretending to be blind, brought the bouquet gently to her nose, inhaling deeply, as the sweet fragrance of jasmine and the fresh, subtle perfume of lilies mixed in the air. The scent was soft and comforting—a smell that had once been tied to happy memories. Her lips parted into a faint smile, almost imperceptible, yet enough to betray a glimmer of warmth. Balmir. It was a memory wrapped in fragrance, something personal—something he had remembered about her.
Then, the maids moved again, carefully placing another bouquet before her.
This one was different—dramatic. The deep red roses stood out against the brightness of the room, wrapped in a golden ribbon, tied in an elegant bow. The roses, proud and full of life, spoke of passion, desire, and intensity.
The butler, as if sensing her thoughts, broke the moment's silence. "The first bouquet is from your fiancé, Lord Balmir," he explained, "It contains sunflowers, white lilies, and winter jasmine."
Amanda's lips quirked upward in a shy smile, her fingers brushing over the flowers as she absorbed the words. Sunflowers, bright and bold, were symbols of happiness, always turning toward the light. They were a reminder of Balmir's warmth, even though he was far away in the North, where the air was biting and cold. The lilies and winter jasmine spoke to her fondness for subtle, gentle scents and a reminder where he is right now. She could almost hear him, soft-spoken and thoughtful, as he must have carefully chosen each flower for her.
The butler continued, the tone in his voice shifting, "The second bouquet is from Prince Napoleon of the Ajian Empire. Red roses."
Amanda's smile faltered, almost imperceptibly. She reached for the roses with delicate fingers, feeling their soft, velvety petals.
"I am pretending to be blind," she thought, the weight of the realization settling heavily in her chest. Roses have thorns. Though there are no thorns in the prince's gift. Giving roses to a blind person was a reflection of being inconsiderate though the intention is love. A symbol of love that didn't fully acknowledge her limitations, her blindness, her need for gentleness, not sharp edges.
The maids, still giggling, couldn't sense the deeper meaning beneath the flowers. But Amanda knew. This was not love. Not as it was meant to be.