Blood Heritage: Our Secrets

With every cycle, the cherry trees burst into pink blossoms and the bees were lost in the thicket of petals. Sunflowers, stubborn and eager, followed the sun’s path. Spring always dressed Wisteria in an splendor that seemed eternal: streets overflowing with perfumes, crowds celebrating, fabrics waving like flags in every corner.

From the ceremonial box, the prince barely registered it. The din scraped at his ears; the colors were a worn-out spectacle. He shifted his posture in his seat, with the tired gesture of someone burdened by an unwanted duty.

“The same thing, year after year,” he muttered, with a huff. “Monotonous and boring.”

His voice, heavy with contempt, cut through the festive air. He didn’t try to hide it: his low ponytail barely contained his straight, blond hair, from which a few rebellious strands slipped down to frame his face. His figure was more elegant than imposing, a regal bearing softened by androgynous features. In his slightly slanted blue eyes resided a coldness that stripped his countenance of any tenderness.

“I know you don’t enjoy this event, Andrew,” a soft voice replied to his left, “but the fabrics… they are beautiful. Our designers will work wonders with them.”

Lumi. Pale as ivory, hair white as frost, eyes of a serene green that seemed to know no disquiet. Her enthusiasm was so subtle it felt forbidden, contained behind her porcelain composure.

Andrew turned toward her. There was something in that contained spark that made him smile, barely. His tedium retreated just enough for him to look at the exhibition again.

“It’s charming how you try to hide your enthusiasm, dear Lumi,” he murmured, in a more intimate tone, reserved only for her.

She hid her smile behind a fan, a delicate gesture that only enhanced her charm. “I can’t help it,” she confessed. “Fashion is my deepest passion.”

Andrew sighed, and this time the smile came effortlessly. Perhaps, he thought, representing the king wasn’t so unbearable while Lumi was by his side.

The event was nearing its end; only his speech and the proclamation of the winner remained. Andrew straightened up, leaning on the armrests, when a dry tear interrupted the solemnity. Steel emerged from behind the throne, grazing his side.

A cutting heat forced him to bring his hand to his torso. Warm moisture seeped between his fingers, staining them red. The magenta of his suit absorbed the blood like an expanding dark flower.

Lumi’s stifled scream reached him from afar. Andrew could barely turn his head before two men disguised as servants seized him by the arms. The force of their hands wrenched a gasp from him; his own body became a burden as they dragged him out of the box.

The guards burst in too late. Andrew heard the clatter, the shrieks, and his sister’s broken voice calling out to him: “Andrew! Brother!”

They shoved him inside a cart. The impact against the wood jolted his wound, tearing a moan from him. They tied his ankles and wrists with ropes that bit into his skin. The foul cloth they pressed to his mouth gave back a metallic taste, and the coarse sack over his face threw him into a suffocating darkness.

He tried to resist, kicking, until a blow to the head left him reeling, barely conscious. The cart started, rattling violently.

Pain drummed in his ribs. Andrew clung to consciousness, to the vague hope that someone would look for him. But the blackness flooded him, and tears, inevitable, ran hot down his face.

Then, a brutal jolt shook the cart. Horses whinnied, metal clashed against metal, and voices rose among shouts. Andrew, his mouth gagged, let out a desperate whimper, the only sign that he was still alive.

Suddenly, silence. The horses calmed. The cart stopped. “He’s safe now, Your Highness,” a voice murmured nearby, firm, serene.

Quick hands cut the ropes from his ankles; the brush of steel freeing his bonds seemed the sweetest sound in the world.

“Take him to the doctors. Immediately!” the voice commanded.

The sack slid off his head. Andrew blinked against the light, and the first thing he saw were the bloodied bodies of his captors, inert on the wood. The sight churned his stomach. He looked away, trembling, unable to process that he had survived thanks to the death of others.

The news of the attack traveled faster than the cart; while Andrew still struggled against the drowsiness of the bandages and the pain, the king’s fury already burned in the royal hall. He immediately summoned his highest war counselors. The assassination attempt against the heir was no minor event: it was a message.

Just after the doctors bandaged his wounds, a messenger announced that the king required him in the council chamber. Andrew stepped into the hallway, his body still burning beneath the stained cloth, every movement a piercing reminder of the sword that had grazed him. The echo of his steps resonated against the stone walls, mixing with the icy whisper that filtered through the window cracks. The smell of melted wax and ancient dampness enveloped him, heavy as a slab. He straightened his back despite the pain that shot through his torso; his father would not see a weak heir, even though doubt and fear gripped him inside.

The heavy doors opened slowly. The wavering light of the candelabras barely illuminated the hall; the thick curtains maintained the gloom, and the persistent smell of tobacco permeated the air. Around a dark oak table, the kingdom’s most influential knights held solemn silence, their gazes as rigid as their postures. In the background, on the elevated throne, King Tristan Bouquet waited, his face partially hidden behind his clasped hands.

Andrew’s heart pounded fiercely, harder to control than the pain of his wounds. It was the first time he had been allowed into the war chamber, a place that had been forbidden to him until then.

“I am aware of the attack,” the king declared dryly, without lifting his gaze.

The monarch’s imposing presence cast a shadow over him. Andrew remained still, distant, barely distinguishing his father’s brown hair, showing threads of silver, in the dim light.

“It is truly disappointing to see how much you’ve been indulged,” the king continued, with a disdainful tone. He finally looked up, revealing amber eyes that seemed to pierce him. “You weren’t even capable of protecting your sister.”

The words, sharp as blades, plunged into his chest. Andrew clenched his jaw and swallowed, repressing the rage. He did not reply.

“The war with Huntkind is advancing implacably, but that they dared to attack the heir… that is inadmissible!” The king slammed his fist on the table, and the wood creaked under the impact. “I cannot allow them to suffer the same fate as my queen.”

The silence that followed was so heavy that neither the knights nor the prince dared to look up.

“We were only able to capture one man alive,” one of the soldiers reported, breaking the tension.

A murmur of voices immediately erupted, all demanding the prisoner’s fate. Andrew seized the confusion and took a step forward.

“I believe we could obtain useful information from that man.”

The comment drew glances, but the king did not give him credit.

“That option had already been contemplated,” he replied, addressing a general. “You handle that matter.”

The young prince did not hold back.

“In fact,” he spoke first before thinking it through, “I wish to do it myself.”

The king glared at him.

“You will not,” instantly dismissing the idea without even considering it.

Andrew clenched his fists. Suddenly, his father’s wall rose before him again, impenetrable. The monarch’s voice became distant, as if reaching him muffled from an inaccessible place, and Andrew’s own presence seemed to vanish among the looks that avoided him. The piercing pain of his wound and the rapid beat of his chest faded, replaced by a suffocating emptiness.

“How long will you forbid me from getting involved in the war?” his voice broke the silence, vibrant with contained rage. “When will you let me prove what I’m capable of?”

Attention returned to him. The dry thud on the table made him jump, and a sharp pain in his side reminded him that he was still wounded. His father’s reddened hand remained firm on the wood, a silent warning that he could not retreat.

“Silence!” the monarch roared, and the voice filled the room with all the contained exasperation.

His heart was pounding hard, but he took a deep breath. He puffed out his chest, and the burning pain in his torso traveled along his nerves. He frowned and held the king’s gaze, defying authority.

“I cannot stand on the sidelines, Father,” he said, his voice firm despite the heat in his throat. “The attack... made me a part of this war. I can no longer be ignored.”

A heavy silence followed his words. Andrew took a step forward, letting the firmness of his stance speak for him. The king’s eyes assessed him carefully; finally, a sigh of resignation softened his expression, and he felt the tension compressing his chest relax, if only slightly.

After a moment, the king gestured with his fingers to a servant and murmured words no one else could hear. The man withdrew without delay.

Finally, Tristan spoke:

“Since you took the initiative, I will let you do it.”

Andrew released the held breath in a sigh of relief; a shiver ran down his back and his shoulders relaxed slightly. A small, satisfied smile played on his lips, and for an instant, he felt the tension lighten in his chest.

“Though it will be under your responsibility. And you will not go alone.”

The prince’s eyebrow lifted almost instinctively. His body moved forward a step and his voice sprang out without permission:

“I can do it without an escort,” he said, firm, with a hint of defiance he hadn’t expected to admit.

Tristan raised his index finger, a silent warning that Andrew knew too well. The gesture made him clench his jaw, reminding him that the king’s authority still weighed on him.

“It will be under my conditions,” the monarch concluded.

The echo of the doors interrupted the discussion. Everyone turned their gaze to the entrance. The panels opened heavily, revealing the figure of a woman advancing with a firm stride.

The metallic sound of her armor accompanied each step. Andrew watched her with skepticism. Medium height, fair skin dotted with freckles, and light brown eyes that looked at him without hesitation. Her bearing overflowed with pride and determination, qualities he found difficult to associate with a woman. How could someone like that be his escort? he wondered, observing the reddish-brown braid that fell to her clavicle, and the sun-weathered face, serious and focused.

To his surprise, she did not offer the curtsy he expected as she walked past him. Andrew frowned. “Since when are women allowed to wear armor?” he thought, containing a mix of indignation and bewilderment.

He noticed that no one else in the room flinched; on the contrary, glances softened, some bowed their heads with respect. Andrew swallowed. Everything seemed to indicate that everyone knew something he didn’t. Who was this woman to earn such consideration? And, above all, why was his father entrusting her with such an important task?

The woman stopped in front of the king and bowed respectfully. Tristan responded with a half-smile, placing his hand on her left shoulder.

“This is Tessa Ficus, my most loyal and trusted shieldmaiden,” he announced in a calmer tone. “She will accompany you to Zarza to interrogate the mercenary.”

The prince tensed even more. The king’s deference was incomprehensible to him.

“Andrew!” the monarch reprimanded, bringing him back to reality. “At least thank her for saving you from today’s kidnapping.”

He clenched his fists until his knuckles were white, his arms trembled, and his teeth ground together. Even with the armor and his father’s decree, he could not accept that this woman had saved him. That a woman shorter than him was his companion was already humiliating; that she was the one who rescued him, directly wounded his pride. Simply impossible!