"Good evening, Your Highness. Where are you going? Do you need company?" asked a kitchen maid carrying a stack of dirty plates. She was seven years older than the prince, her tan skin resembling that of an Asian.
The western side was where Eliot's mother lived, and her schedule was easy to predict. At this hour, if she wasn't in her office or private pavilion, she would certainly be in her room.
"It's alright, I'm fine," Eliot replied softly, bowing his head as he walked past. His face faintly lit under the candlelight.
"That child may be of mixed blood, but he's kind. I hope nothing bad happens to him…" whispered one of the servants once Eliot's footsteps faded away.
"At first I thought the Queen Mother was just a seductress who managed to marry the king. Turns out I was wrong about her," another added.
In this country, marriages between castes were rare and often ended in tragedy. The eldest children from such unions were usually not considered noble blood and could even die of neglect and starvation.
But King Lukas broke all of that. He named his mixed-blood son as crown prince—even if not yet official. And he even made Thalia, a former commoner, his queen.
"Indai," Eliot murmured—the word for 'mother' in Thalia's native dialect.
His footsteps echoed as he walked through the empty corridor. The sound of a shutter breaking the night's silence.
Srikkk...
The boy's eyes darted around, scanning every corner without turning an inch. A flash of lightning stopped him in his tracks.
Eliot stopped humming. He stopped because, in that flash, he had seen a shadow behind him.
Stunned. His eyes moved nervously. He wanted to step forward but felt too afraid—hesitating. Was that…
Was that something? A person? Or just a palace pillar? Why was it leaning then—and—
Prakk!
Thunder cracked. Eliot froze on the spot, his feet stiff.
Something limping—something light—was approaching him, dragging itself closer.
Srrtt,
Srrtt,
The dragging grew louder. Sweat formed on his skin. If I stay here, I'll be dragged into another world! Into darkness—I'll never return!
The once spotless floor was now soaked with water, soaking his shoes.
This pounding heart! This feeling can't be wrong! Where had he felt this before?
"Neither living, nor dead," the words trembled from his lips. "Indai! Help!" Eliot screamed.
Five more meters. If he ran to his mother's room, everything would be fine. His mother would know what to do!
But his body started to go numb. The sound of that limping step came closer.
"Kini dik! Aku ba ditok—malik kito wai!" ("This way, child! I'm here—let's go home") a voice in a language he understood told him to turn left.
A face was pressed to the wall with outstretched arms, trying to pull the boy into its embrace. That face was burnt, blood dripping from its scalp, and it faintly whispered his name.
"Ahhh!!" Eliot stumbled down the stairs, collapsing on the balcony, crying out in pain.
He rose again, holding his aching right rib. Every movement was slow.
The pool of water he saw before was gone. This is clearly a dream! I want to get out! Out!
"If this is a dream, why does it hurt?" something whispered beside Eliot—right behind his neck. If this is a dream, then why does it hurt?
"Igat" ("My child")
The Crown Prince's ears rang as the thing spoke. Goosebumps rose—there was something behind him. Hugging him. But gently.
"Malik kitok igat. Mupuk tua" – ("Look at me, child. Let's go home")
the creature spoke again. Every word carefully spoken, and said so tenderly—it sounded just like the queen's voice.
Eliot's teeth chattered. He clenched his fists, trying to peel off the cold fingers one by one.
'Mother is in her room. This isn't her…'
"Come…" – ("Aram") the voice coaxed again.
Cold, wet fingers slipped into his grasp. The woman smiled, satisfied, as she succeeded in pulling Eliot away from the place of safety.
Eliot refused to nod, refused to move. He stood frozen, paralyzed in fear. The stench from the figure made him nauseous.
"Good boy…" The creature chuckled, mocking the Crown Prince, grinning like a hunter who had finally caught its prey.
Srrtt,
Srrtt,
Its feet dragged, and the once fleshy fingers—looking like those of a young girl—slowly turned into blackened bones.
His body refused to walk—he was dragged like a broken doll. Away from his mother's room in the west wing.