Return of the Prince

He looked like a madman.

He felt like it, too. Crazed, chaotic, disarrayed--inside and outside, in his mind and in his skin, In his soul, his uneasiness was blade; it twisted with every thought, plunged deeper with every day that passed.

It has been five months and five days, now. The days grew, passing like mere seconds, And still he could not find the boy.

It had been easier at first, he though, When the magic pulsating through the boy had been like beacon, bright and powerful and easy to find. When it was used, against his will--he felt it like every time.

But now the magic had been returned to the boy--of which he was yet unaware--and it was dormant. He could not locate it. He felt like he had suddenly gone blind.

Behind him, someone knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

“Sir.” It was his commander. She stood, waiting for permission.

“Speak.”

She looked up; her eyes were shining. Good news, then.

“Sir,” she said, excitement bleeding into her voice, “we have found the building.”

His heart pounded. “Where?”

“Cleverly hidden, it was, sir--right at the edge of the city. We apprehended everyone inside, they are waiting for you in the dungeons.”

He could barely his excitement; the ember inside him flared ever hotter. “Who? Was there a boy?”

Confusion broke over her her face. “A boy, sir?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, “a boy--of about fourteen, fifteen years old?” He watched her hungrily--he was so close, he could not lose him now! “Commander, was there a boy?”

She sensed his impending fury and focused her eyes onto the carpeted floor. “No, sir. The youngest was perhaps a man of twenty-five. Three in all, sir. A later, and his two lackeys.”

Panic flared. “The leader? Who is he? What is his name?”

“he refuses to talk, sir.” Her voice was lowered, ashamed.

He shouted in ager, slamming a fist into his desk. “The boy, Commander--I want the boy! Anyone else is utterly insignificant!” He turned away, making a sharp gesture with his hand. “Get out of my sight. And do not return until you have found him.”

“Who, sir? His name?”

He watched the clock as the second-hand moved, time trickling away. It was like water--cup your hands around, protect it, or it would spill through your fingers, away where you could never get ut back. It trickled away, drop by drop, until there was nothing left.

“Alex,” he said. “his name is Alex Jackson.”

At night he woke up with a start, wide-eyed and galvanized. he had--

He had felt the magic. Had felt it flare, as if suddenly being used.

Usually, during particularly violent and intense bursts of power, he could feel the boy’s emotions. It was always pain or potent terror, but this time it was something else. The boy was nervous, but not scared, and it was an emotion that felt alien.

But that was not why this off--it was the overwhelming sense of hope that pulsed in the boy. It caught him off-guard. What did he have to hope for? Never had he felt it since...since forever. But it was there, bright and aflame. Calming his breathing, he clenched his jaw.

There’s a reason for this.

Something was about to happen. Something big.