Remember.
It is expected that you bring any information you find to the Gilded Towers for proper categorization.
It is imperative that all of our information is available at a moment's notice.
If you find any documents, scrolls, or what-have-you and are unsure whether they belong in the Gilded Towers, bring them anyway.
Better safe than sorry.
Part of a faded, yet informative pamphlet given to young grade students on proper information preservation.
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Artero walked the halls of the Gilded Towers, hands in his pockets. He hadn't traversed this place often, unless it was absolutely necessary. This was a giant building for readers and scribes, but Artero was neither. He much preferred academia and the act of learning through a mentor.
After his embarrassing confrontation with Gwynevere and Elise, he needed some air. Unfortunately for the young prince, he was lost.
Not that he minded being lost, he needed time to calm his nerves. How a stupid fanfiction got him so aroused was beyond him, and unsightly, especially for a prince.
But, as he berated himself while wandering these perplexing halls, he noticed his environment seemed to do whatever it pleased rather than follow a regimented structural layout.
Walls where doors should be. Hallways petering off into stairs to nowhere.
He found the situation perplexing.
During this, his mind constantly drifted to Elise Sylvian, but how could it not? They were together for five years. Short in terms of the lifespan of a healthy elf, but still, the time they spent together meant a lot to him.
As Artero wondered about the finer details of their relationship, it was only obvious now that it was doomed to fail. Artero was an academic, but Elise attended school as infrequently as possible. She had the fantastical ability to be able to learn just by reading. Artero never had that same luxury. Trial and error were very familiar to him.
What he has read in the last hour is more than he's read in the last ten years, he assumed. It's not that reading wasn't enjoyable. It was just so fucking boring.
Actually, that means the same thing.
He chuckled to himself as he crouched under a wall that came halfway down the hallway, only partially blocking his path.
A memory of him and Elise practicing magic came to mind. He saw how she bled from her nose whenever she cast a spell. It was off-putting, initially. He'd heard of the Bloody Princess before, but seeing it in person was strange. It was like she was allergic to magic.
If Elise hadn't had that curse, he was positive she would have easily far surpassed most Dyads.
A turn down a corkscrewing hallway, up some stairs, then down some stairs, through a third or fourth narrow hallway led him into the daylight of the gardens. He had no idea why the layout of the Gilded Towers was the way it was, but it was nice to clear his mind and not worry about the women for once.
He didn't know if Gwyn was going to ask him to the Ela Lunaris festival, but he would follow Mr. Keeper's advice: Play hard to get.
Women love that, according to the green Lotmon.
Artero walked through an opening in the wall and stepped into the gardens. The pollen left a pleasant smell in the air. He walked the golden paths that seemed to shift about whenever you weren't looking at them.
He then thought of his first date with Elise almost out of habit.
He remembered how she held his hand as they walked through the streets of the Capital. She showed him a weird shop she frequents and the old woman who runs it. She had a bird who is just as obnoxious as the shop's owner.
Elise showed him every item she was interested in, and she hoped he found them interesting as well. He remembered buying a few of them, since Elise didn't really have the money.
You would think that coming from a wealthy family would leave someone with immense wealth, but not for Elise Sylvian. He remembered the day she told him about her condition as he approached a tall fire oak. He'd known about it, of course, but hearing it from her mouth felt vulnerable in a way he would never forget.
He stood under the fire oak's orange and red leaves as the heat radiated off its surface. It was a soft heat, not a harsh one, like a light blanket around your shoulders.
He recalled her looking up at him with her big, beautiful, lavender eyes and said.
"I will never be anything because of this curse."
Then he hadn't known how or what had possessed him to say this, but he responded.
"You will always mean something to me."
The perfect response in the moment. He said it was charisma, too. Artero was frequently uncool or missed a perfect opportunity.
But this time, he was possessed by the spirit of perfect responses. The hypothetical spirit didn't come around often, but when it did, it was exactly what he needed it to be.
Most of the time, however, he would respond in the worst possible way, or find the right words only after the situation had long passed.
He wondered now if he still meant those words he said to her.
It still greatly pained him to look at the Princess. It had come as a surprise to Artero that they were separating, but when he allowed himself to think about it, he realized they were spending less and less time together. He always seemed to be studying magic, improving his abilities, and helping in the war. She was always at the Gilded Towers, reading and collecting magical items.
Where had it all gone wrong? He wondered as he leaned up against the fire oak, staring up at the sky. Soon it would be alight with a scarlet radiance, like stars bursting into a deep red. Apparently, it terrified his people back then, but he always liked the festival—the hope it provided to those present.
Now everyone stares up at the sky, awaiting the night to turn red. A reminder of the Red Death.
Were his people happy now that Gwynevere was here? The war between the King of Terror had put most Chosen Ones in a negative light with the civilian population.
Although nearly every Chosen One had nothing to do with the civil war or the death of the Queen, the King of Terror's actions reflected negatively on all Chosen Ones.
It wasn't until the King of Terror that the elves realized the Chosen Ones were even capable of working against them.
Once that trust was broken, it may never be repaired.
"I'll do what I can for you, Gwynevere. I know you can make things right."
He mumbled to himself; he had no idea why. He was alone, or so he thought.
The sound of footsteps approaching caused him to look up. A hand was next to his face, slamming against the tree's surface. A body pinned up against his. He figured it may have been Gwyn or Elise trying to be romantic, maybe tease him again. But the scent in the air was what tipped him off that it was neither of those women.
A voice higher-pitched than Elise's or Gwyn's was present.
"Hey, Arty."
When his eyes met his assailants, he realized exactly who it was.
"Hello, Anastasia."