Gasps echoed through the hall, a ripple of fear that made the air quiver. The Namesh soldiers froze, their hands hovering over their weapons, their eyes darting to the doors as if salvation might burst through. Orin, standing behind the throne, sneered, his single arm resting on the hilt of one of his twin daggers. "Tch, showoff," he muttered, his voice a low growl, his gray eyes glinting with disdain. His dark hair was cropped short, and his lean frame radiated a quiet, lethal energy, like a wolf waiting to pounce.
Nyxelene remained silent, her ethereal presence untouched by the rising tension. She sat like a goddess above mortal squabbles, her pale hands folded in her lap, her moonlit-ash eyes distant and unyielding. The chandeliers flickered, casting her face in shifting shadows, and the storm outside rumbled louder, as if echoing the violence brewing within.
Ramius's voice rang out again, steady and relentless. "One…" He took a step forward, the sword gleaming in his hand. "Two…" The Namesh soldiers shifted uneasily, their armor clanking, their faces pale as death. "Three…"
A sudden shout broke the tension, loud and commanding, like a crack of thunder. "Announcing the arrival of His Majesty, Jones the Third, King of Namesh!" The doors swung open with a groan, and a wave of relief washed over the Namesh delegation, their shoulders sagging as they exhaled. A man strode into the hall, his gray cloak embroidered with Namesh's eagle crest, his weathered face set with determination. His crown was simple, a band of iron, but his presence carried the weight of a king who'd fought to survive. His boots echoed on the marble floor, and the Namesh soldiers straightened, hope flickering in their eyes.
Ramius lowered his sword, his sapphire eyes narrowing, but he didn't step back. Nyxelene's lips curved in a faint, predatory smile, her gaze finally shifting to Jones, sharp and unyielding. Orin's hand twitched toward his dagger, his sneer deepening, as if disappointed the slaughter had been delayed.
Outside, Rya and the other children spilled into the castle gardens, a stark contrast to the hall's cold grandeur. The air was heavy with the scent of blooming roses and damp earth, but the storm clouds overhead cast the garden in a gloomy half-light. Twisted vines climbed the stone walls, their thorns glinting like tiny blades, and a marble fountain bubbled at the center, its water dark and still. The noble children of Namesh, their faces pale and uncertain, clung to their guardians, while Runevale's young heirs whispered and giggled, oblivious to the tension inside. Rya stood apart, her gray gown catching the wind, her green eyes distant.
A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned to see a boy approaching, his steps bold and impish, as if he owned the garden itself. His blonde hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, the sides of his head shaved, giving him a roguish air. His sapphire eyes sparkled with mischief, and a wide grin revealed a missing tooth, lending his face a lopsided charm. He stopped before her, rocking on his heels, his patched tunic flapping in the wind.
"Hey, I'm Michael," he said, his voice bright and clear, cutting through the garden's hum. He thrust out a grubby hand for a handshake, his grin widening. "Nice to meet you!"
Rya blinked, her thoughts swirling with suspicion. 'What's with him?' she wondered, eyeing his infectious smile and the glint in his eyes. She'd never had a friend before, her life in Runevale's cold stone walls a parade of scorn and solitude. Part of her yearned for connection, but another part bristled at his boldness. He seemed too cheerful, too carefree, like a spark in a world of shadows. Hesitant but curious, she decided to give him a chance.
She reached out, her small hand shaking his. But the moment their fingers touched, Michael yanked his hand back, leaving a fat, wriggling cockroach in her palm. Its shiny legs skittered against her skin, and Rya let out a horrified scream, sharp and piercing, that silenced the garden's chatter. She flung the insect away, her hands flailing wildly, and it landed in the grass with a faint thud. Her cheeks burned with fury, her green eyes blazing as she glared at Michael, who was doubled over, clutching his stomach as he roared with laughter.
"She fell for it!" he gasped between chuckles, his ponytail bouncing as he rocked back and forth. "Did you see her face? Priceless!" His laughter echoed, bright and reckless, drawing curious glances from the other children.
A taller boy with long black hair tied back in a neat braid strode over, his dark eyes narrowing with exasperation. He wore a simple brown tunic, but his posture was firm, like a young soldier. "Michael, you idiot," he said, his voice sharp but weary, as if he'd scolded him a hundred times before. He gave Michael a quick knock on the head, his knuckles rapping against the blonde boy's skull. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop scaring people with cockroaches?"
Michael ducked, still laughing, his sapphire eyes glinting with defiance. "Oh, come on, Javier!" he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Did you see that? She went 'Aaah!' and then wiggle-wiggle!" He mimicked Rya's flailing, his arms flopping dramatically, his laughter bubbling like a brook. Javier's furrowed brow deepened, his lips pressing into a thin line, but Michael ignored him, too caught up in his prank to care.
Rya's fury boiled over, her small hands clenching into fists. Her first impression of Michael? A complete, infuriating idiot. She spun on her heel, her braid whipping behind her, and stormed across the garden, her boots crunching against the gravel path. The roses seemed to leer at her, their thorns sharper in her anger, and the fountain's murmur mocked her humiliation. She didn't care where she was going—she just needed to escape Michael's laughter, the other children's stares, and the weight of her mother's throne hall.
Lost in her rage while not watching her step, she collided with a Namesh noble boy, his fine blue cloak embroidered with silver threads. He stumbled back, his round face twisting with annoyance as he brushed at his clothes. "Urgh, I'm sorry," Rya muttered, her cheeks flushing. "I didn't see you coming my way." She turned to leave, her heart pounding, but a rough push sent her crashing to the ground. Her knee slammed against the garden's stone path, and a sharp pain shot through her leg, hot and searing. Blood trickled down her shin, staining her gray gown, and she bit her lip to stifle a cry.
The Namesh boy loomed over her, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. "Look at her trying to make this my fault. You think 'sorry' is enough?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He pointed at a smudge of dirt on his cloak, his hands on his hips. "You ruined the clothes my mom got me for my eighth birthday. Kneel and apologize properly, you clumsy Runian." The other Namesh children behind him laughed, their voices sharp and mocking, their fine cloaks fluttering like vultures circling prey.
Rya's heart raced, her knee throbbing as she pushed herself to sit up, her hands scraping against the gravel. She could invoke her mother's name to scare them off—Nyxelene's wrath was a weapon sharper than any blade—but the thought twisted her stomach. Nyxelene would only make things worse, her cold scorn cutting deeper than any punishment. Rya clenched her fists, ready to stand, when a familiar voice cut through the taunts.
"Excuse me," Michael said, his tone light but edged with steel. He sauntered over, his ponytail swaying, his sapphire eyes glinting with mischief. Before the Namesh boy could react, Michael grabbed his collar, yanking it open, and dropped two fat cockroaches inside. The insects skittered down the boy's chest, their legs clawing at his skin. His face went ghostly pale, and he let out a high-pitched scream, flailing wildly as he ran in circles, his cloak flapping like a broken wing. "Get them off! Get them off!" he wailed, his voice echoing through the garden.
One of the Namesh children, a girl with braided hair, stepped forward, her face red with anger. "What's wrong with you, you Runian idiot?" she snapped, her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to do?"
Michael grinned, undaunted, his missing tooth flashing. "Just teaching you Namians a lesson for bullying my friend," he said, glancing at Rya with a wink. Without warning, he charged at the group, his small frame moving with surprising speed. What followed was less a fight and more a whirlwind of chaos—Michael darted between the Namesh children, dodging their clumsy swings with ease, his laughter ringing out like a taunt. He tripped a boy with a quick foot, shoved another into a rosebush, and sent a third sprawling with a playful push. In moments, they were all on the ground, groaning and clutching their bruises, their fine cloaks tangled in the dirt.
Michael dusted off his hands, his grin triumphant, and strode back to Rya. He crouched beside her, his sapphire eyes softening as he extended a hand. "Come on, up you go," he said, his voice warm despite his earlier antics.
Rya hesitated, her green eyes narrowed with suspicion. After the cockroach prank, she didn't trust him. But his gaze was steady, and something in his expression—genuine, almost protective—made her relent. She grasped his hand, her fingers small against his calloused palm, and stood, wincing as her injured knee throbbed. But as she steadied herself, Michael's hand slipped away, leaving another cockroach in her palm, its legs wriggling against her skin.
The horror on Rya's face was instantaneous. She screamed, a raw, piercing sound that startled the birds from the trees, and flung the insect away, her arms flailing. In her panic, she stumbled, scraping her already injured knee against the gravel path. A sharp, burning pain lanced through her leg, and she crumpled to the ground, tears welling in her eyes. "It hurts! It hurts!" she cried, her voice breaking into sobs as blood trickled from her wound, pooling in the dirt. "Waaa!"
Michael's laughter died in his throat, his sapphire eyes widening with sudden worry. He knelt beside her, his hands hovering uncertainly, as if he wanted to help but didn't know how. "Oh no, I didn't mean—uh, sorry!" he stammered, his ponytail bobbing as he leaned closer, his face pale. He noticed the blood on her knee, the gash deeper than he'd realized, and his usual bravado faltered. "I didn't know it'd hurt that bad," he muttered, his voice small.
A shadow fell over them as Javier approached, drawn by Rya's cries. His long, black hair swayed in the wind, and his dark eyes scanned the scene—Michael's guilty expression, the scattered Namesh children fleeing toward the trees, and Rya's tear-streaked face. He sighed, his shoulders slumping with exasperation, his hands on his hips. "You caused all this, didn't you, Michael?" he said, his voice low and tired, like a parent weary of a child's endless antics. "You absolute fool. Can't you just… behave for once?" He shook his head, his braid swinging, and knelt beside Rya, his gaze softening as he noticed her bloodied knee.
Rya's sobs quieted, but the pain lingered, sharp and relentless. She clutched her leg, her green eyes glistening with tears, her small frame trembling in the cold garden light. The fountain's luminous ripples mocked her, and the roses seemed to close in, their thorns glinting like accusations. Michael's prank had humiliated her, but his defense against the Namesh children had stirred something unfamiliar—a flicker of trust, fragile as a candle flame. She glanced at him, his worried face a stark contrast to his earlier mischief, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could be a friend.