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He was 7-months-old when the seed on his palm bloomed.
“Love-in-a-mist! Our dear son has been blessed with an auspicious mark,” his mother gushed while peppering him with light kisses. “Oh, his partner is going to be a pure-hearted soul.”
He could no longer recall that memory; of what it felt like to be smothered by his mother’s affection. But he does remember perusing his flower after particularly grueling physical training and pondering what kind of person his soulmate might be.
He hoped they would be gentle.
And he hoped he would be strong enough to protect them.
Someone had scurried off into the empty hallways.
Curious, Berkut ignored the polite greetings and sighs as he made his way across the gleaming tiles. Reaching his destination, he saw a splash of sapphire floating amongst the somber castle interior and called out. “You there. What are you doing?”
The mystery guest jumped a little at his voice - she didn’t expect to be followed. Slowly, she turned around, hands clasped in front of her modest gown. Her gaze, originally fixated on the floor, timidly moved up to meet his.
The ocean, he thought. Deep gray-cerulean pools with speckles of starlight. Berkut had never seen the ocean, never had the need to. And now that he has met this young maiden with those fathomless orbs, he didn’t think he’d ever have to. Why visit the humble, coastal villages when there was an oasis, right here?
She lightly gasped then.
“Lord Berkut! Pray, forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to give offense.”
He waved off her apology. Her voice was as lovely as her soft-set features and Berkut wondered if she enjoyed singing. He was confident she’d serenade peasants and nobles alike, given that her soothing lilt spurred a peculiar feeling in his chest. The prince regarded her quietly.
“It seems a terrible waste that you would come to a ball just to be alone.”
“Perhaps. But mine is a lesser house, and I do not seem to find much favour here.”
He nodded in understanding, the Rigelian court was a harsh political climate. Military prowess and piety to the War Father Duma were the only qualities that mattered. Frankly, she didn’t fit either - her small frame implied a sheltered life away from violence, and her innocence seemed fundamentally different from even the most subdued, devout worshippers. Regardless of the fact, he thought it a pity that she would let the opinions of others drive her away from what was supposed to be a night of celebration. Too delicate for her own good.
“You were invited here - you have the right to carry yourself as anyone else,” he assured her. To be granted a summon for tonight meant that her house was at the very least, not an outcast of Rigelian nobility. She fidgeted in response, not agreeing with the sentiment.
He tried another approach, “do you not like dancing?”
“My lord?” She piqued curiously, until she finally registered his question and her timid demeanour was washed away with sparkling joy. Berkut found himself drawn to her eyes again, the precious pearls in them glimmering from the soft glow of the hallway lanterns. Charm or curse, incantation or prayer. He didn’t know what she had casted (didn’t think to consider he may be spellbound), but he was suddenly parched and starved, and the siren before him was the reprieve he needed. Her delight was a gentle shower of dimpled cheeks and twinkling giggles, coaxing him deeper into her cove of pretty blue things and even prettier stories. The prince was enamoured and his heart fluttered, stuttered , in its attempt to escape to shore.
“Ah! Forgive me. You must find this all so terrifically dull.”
Berkut frowned disapprovingly at her apology. Meekness fitted her like a glove, and it reeked of harsh lessons behind closed doors and silent tears shed under wool and linen. Berkut was no stranger to the former; pain begets strength, and strength meant everything - a necessity for those given the right to lead. Rigelian Emperors came with varied attributes. A weak constitution for cruelty had never been one of them.
But she wasn’t born to bear the weight of a kingdom.
And that made all the difference.
“On the contrary,” he assured her again. And like before, she wavered at his reply. Unsure and unknowing of why Rigel’s prince would show her any interest. It irked him.
Propriety and traditions be damned, he would teach her confidence; the kind his late mother was said to have. Quiet yet unyielding, the sort that made people turn heads because they couldn’t help but follow the eye of the storm. Charity and grace would be her flag, her promise to the people. If strength was Rigel’s anthem, then he wouldn’t mind kindness as their ballad, if it would be her captivating all of Valentia’s bounty by his side.
“Tell me your name.”
“It’s… Rinea, my lord,” she answered hesitantly.
“Rinea. A lovely name.” Dainty pink began to bloom across her cheeks and she gave him a shy smile. The storm looked like it would pass, and he dared to hope he would find hidden treasures of intertwined hands and crow’s feet.
His heart tripped once, twice, at the thought. He supposed this wasn’t normal, for him to be having palpitations to rival that of a keeling geriatric. And he didn’t think it was normal for his palms to feel like they’ve been burned by a Bolganone spell. How odd. These symptoms were uncanningly similar to what his father had when he met-
Oh.
He wondered if Rinea knew that the tips of her ears were quintessential coastlines when she blushed - glittering gold and dusty rouge decorated with waves of wispy blue.
He hummed. His dear mother never mentioned loss of breath.
“Rinea, may I have the next dance?” Hand extended, his palm pulsed in anticipation.
“Wh-what? You mean… with… me?” Her confusion came crashing down like a tidal wave, injecting his condition with its cold snap. Another followed in its wake, “oh, I couldn’t possibly! I mean, what would people think?”
He wondered (he seemed to be doing that a lot tonight, another affliction his mother didn’t list) how long it’d take for him to erode her shell of deprecation.
“Then we can dance here, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. That is, if you do not mind the absence of your garden and birds?”
The waves crashed against his unmoving seawall, splashing surprise and opportunity, before receding back towards vermillion skies. It occurred to him that Rinea hadn’t expected him to listen to, or to even remember, her beloved meadow. It stung to know that she had lumped him together with the ignorant fools that belittled her timidity and status. Berkut was many things; ambitious and arrogant, but he was not cruel. He wasn’t a patient man either, but with her, Berkut found himself thinking he could become one.
Her bubbling giggles confirmed that he would, popping away his doubts and leaving behind droplets of “you are too sweet.” She had blessed him with another quality, this time without his permission, and the young man didn’t have to wonder whether he liked it or not. He questioned, though, whether she knew who she was to him exactly.
“I would love to dance with you, my lord. Shall we?” Still blushing, her hand hovered over his open one, before landing softly against it. He accepted, and a cool ocean breeze finally relieved him of the burning in his palm.
In their quiet cove of lime and brick, they waltzed to lapping waves and trickling dewdrops until they heard footsteps, threatening to intrude on their sanctuary. Berkuet led her away towards the royal gardens, hands clasped together in their own intimate tango, as he asked for encores of her lullaby. She sang about flowers and finding happiness in simple things. Things that Berkut couldn’t quite yet appreciate. But for now, here, amongst the perennials, he was content to listen, and to learn.
When Berkut retired to his quarters that night, he was drunk on two things:
Love-in-a-mist was Rinea’s favourite flower.
And his soul mark’s petals, originally white, now matched her eyes.
Their next meeting was another happy occasion, but with much less frills and much more green.
Like the young lady, her manor was modest and quaint. Situated next to the fringes of a pine forest, it emanated the kind of warmth he had missed since his mother’s passing.
Berkut decided he liked Rinea’s home well enough (it couldn't compare to the palace, of course, but it was charming in its own right), until he saw her haven of swaying grass and scattered rainbows. Her meadow was decorated with hardy natives, their bright notes enduring through the lingering patches of frost.
It was beautiful, just like her.
He hadn’t realised he said that out loud until Rinea giggled and pulled him in for a dance, one without structure or finesse. Here, he noted, she was all twirling fabric, rosy cheeks and crinkled eyes. Here, she was free.
Their first kiss was at sunset; a gentle affair atop his cape, both pairs of feet sore and aching from their midafternoon dance. The day’s dimming glow dulled her blush, but his bare hands still ran hot from cupping her face. His right thumb felt a drip, a falling star, and when his eyes snapped open, they discovered a nebula of relief and mirth. Lost in her universe of forevers and promises, Berkut sat frozen, dark eyes following the trails of stardust.
(Berkut had cried too, but that was a secret privy only to Rinea).
“Rinea, I-”
Their second kiss was at sunset; an unexpected affair atop her meadow, both pairs of feet still sore and aching, but also playfully tangled after Rinea’s impromptu embrace.
A bad omen. An unwelcome change. Berkut studied the mark with furrowed brows, twisting his left hand to better scrutinise the flower in the setting sun. For seventeen winters, his love-in-a-mist brand had bloomed everlastingly in his palm. Its blue petals were a modest shade that contrasted with the rich, royal hues he normally adorns. It was a colour that would not normally befit a man of his station. But for seventeen winters the petals shone confidently, as if undying.
Berkut stared and worried his bottom lip.
A petal was missing.
His soul mark was disappearing .
He rubbed his thumb over the empty space, half hoping for a shimmery blue to appear on his pale, calloused canvas. The insistent gliding of his paintbrush did not reward the prince with blue. Instead, it punished him with red. Raw, uncovered skin. It then dawned on him that no, this wasn’t a trick of the light and yes, something was terribly amiss.
Berkut paused, eyes flitting in and out of focus as he gazed at his precious flower. He suddenly felt cold, and to his disgust, afraid. Having your soul mark change throughout the course of your life was not uncommon. It was expected. His flower was originally perfectly unmarred and pure like the frigid snow the Rigelians were so familiar with. He clearly remembered when the first fades of azure seeped into the dainty petals. It had been on the night of the ball.
The prince looked down at his flower, the gap left by the missing petal seemed to grow wider the longer he stared. It shouldn’t be happening. It was unnatural.
Unless .
It was a warning - a herald that Rinea was in danger.
Of course , he thought, convinced that it was no coincidence the change occurred after his shameful defeat at Rigel’s border. Tumultuous waves were invading the calm waters of their shore, disturbing them with uneven ripples. Alm, he is to blame .
Crushing the Zofian army became more than a prince’s duty to his country - it became a need, a frantic desperation to protect. For survival.
Determined, Berkut gave his palm a final glance before covering it with his riding gloves. He would slay those worms before they so much as wriggled their way into the castle.
Tragically, but unsurprisingly, the chasm on his palm grew.
His Rinea was too gentle for war.
When Nuibaba offered her mirror, he was quick to reject her help. But Rinea had been there, and she had been afraid. She feared for his life–had trembled at the possibility of him returning to her not as a victor, but as a corpse.
So, he accepted the accursed mirror, choosing to interpret Rinea’s stillness as a consequence of reassurance; that everything would be alright now that he had a safety net to fall back on.
(The prince would learn too late that his love’s silence was a byproduct of her upbringing; to remain subservient in the face of his temper. It was what one was supposed to do. The ‘right’ thing to do.)
He should’ve known better. There were fates worse than death; ones that would break Rinea’s heart a million times if she witnessed them. How could he have missed this detail?
But Berkut was arrogant and in love. The lonely boy many winters ago had wished for the strength to protect his soulmate. He gazed down at the mirror and was greeted with a pitch black oval surrounded by glaring silver. He couldn’t see his reflection.
For Rinea .
The mirror seemed to hum in approval. It promised him power, whispered torrential horrors and earth-shattering ruin.
Tightening his hold on the mirror, Berkut smiled.
And another petal fell.
Lies, lies, lies, lies, LIES!
Alm, the true heir to Rigel’s throne? The knowledge was bile in his throat, acrid and pitious. How could a lowly farmhand so unceremoniously rob him of his birthright? Was it Uncle’s ploy from the beginning? To humiliate Berkut and spit on the future he had toiled over?
It was betrayal.
And what of Rinea? What of the future he had promised to share with her? His ambitions, years of diligent training and politicking. Everything. All gone to waste because of the alleged royal blood that runs through a commoner! Impossible, it had to be.
So entrenched in his denial, the prince’s feet wandered down an unfamiliar corridor. His footsteps echoed in the space around him as he continued, blind to the unnatural glow of the lanterns that dotted the walls, and deaf to the growing whispers of old magic.
Finally, he reached an altar, or a rather crude imitation of one. Berkut was not a religious man, but he still fulfilled his pious obligations. Rigel worshipped one deity, so this altar would have only been intended for Duma. He could make out hundreds of candles, all of varying heights but there was no evidence of melted wax on the otherwise nondescript table.
A sacrificial pit waited before him. Even at the edge of the chamber, Berkut felt the lick of flames, a stark contrast to the cold corridor behind him. It was no ordinary fire.
A whiff of ozone and iron. Berkut’s ears rang–
“Heed me, you who thirst power.”
The voice sounded like it came from around and inside him all at once. Had he gone mad?
“Call to me. Accept me unto your soul.”
What? Does Duma know of his plight?
“Lord Berkut!”
Rinea’s entrance was like a splash of cold water. The tang of blood gave way to the scent of mold, and his head was devoid of that mysterious voice. But he couldn’t bring himself to smile at her presence.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said, stepping forward to take hold of his hands. She took note of the altar before facing him again, a curious eyebrow raised. “This is the last place I would have expected to find you. You always hated the Faithful, after all.”
Right. He did, didn’t he? But Berket was Crown Prince then. He was nothing now.
“This is true… But then I had the throne snatched from under me by some magical heir. Plying the gods’ mercies is what men do in hopeless situations, is it not?” Bitter. The horrid truth was all he could taste and he wanted nothing more than to throw it all into the flames before him.
Rinea’s eyes widened with sympathy. “I didn’t mean… Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Her hands moved to clutch his left, ghosting over his soul mark in an attempt to soothe him. Optimistic, she tried to reason. “Please don’t despair so. Alm seems like a kind and generous man. I’m certain he’ll treat you fair.”
Berkut tore his hand away as if scalded.
“And I’m to be content with that?! I would sooner an honourable death at the executioner’s blade!” He shouted, his anger no longer a simmer, but a boiling fury.
“Berkut! You mustn’t say such things. I never… The truth is, I never wanted to be empress.” Rinea said, meek and honest, doe-like eyes pleading. She was smiling, now, and her painted lips were forming words. But Berkut couldn’t hear a single syllable over the deafening tinnitus of his rage. The words he spat out in response were like acid, melting her soft features into fear.
“You too, Rinea? Were you laughing along with them? Was every kind word part of the act? Every smile an act of pity?!” He couldn’t–wouldn’t believe it. To think his soulmate didn’t care for the efforts he made to secure their future together? One that was to be decorated with glory and prestige? This was beyond betrayal. It was her nailing a stake through his heart.
“Duma! O ancient god! I call out to you now! Grant me the power to set this land to ruin for good and all! Take of me what price you will! I care not anymore!”
Heat. So intense it overpowered the stench of burnt hair and flesh. Rinea’s scream was an ear-piercing screech that consumed the chamber. It was heartbreak and pain, pain, pain. His soulmark burned , hotter than the first time, and almost enough to render his hand useless. A glance, and his treasured flower was a wilted, charred little thing.
Berkut felt like he was being split apart. His ears roared and his vision was a haze of firecracker red. Was this what they meant by baptism by fire? How fitting it was for their god to present him with a final trial before he was granted his gift. If he could withstand this; endure the thrumming crescendo in his head, and the feeling of magma in his veins, power would be his!
And for his determination, he was finally rewarded. Berkut’s veins were alight molten, renewed vigor flowing like a scorching river within his body. The haze that clouded his eyes was more pronounced, now. Delirium was also setting in, and Berkut welcomed it.
Not soon after, he heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see Fernand’s questioning gaze. Then, Berkut felt a pulse and oh, Duma was a generous god indeed–his beloved Rinea had been granted power, too. And how beautiful she looked; a living fire to match the inferno raging inside him. This blessing was not salvation, but demise for the lowly commoners who had breached the castle.
He chuckled, low and dark. He would see to it that their wedding was adorned with blood and paved by corpses.
At the end of battle but not at the end of insanity, Berkut fell. Unceremoniously and without the anthems of praise, a far cry of what he had expected for one of royal lineage. A sinner’s death.
And in this world, where not even Rinea’s illogical kindness was enough to bring her halo of light to wash away the taint in his soul, Berkut did not– could not journey with her to find their kingdom. There was no angel to save him from the consequences of his actions, no greater power for him to turn back the wheels of time. He had nothing, now, except for the pile of ashes Rinea had left behind.
He was a fool, because it was the cold, harsh truth that this was all of his own volition. He felt hollow, as if the fire which fueled him moments prior had consumed all of him, leaving only a husk of frustration and regret. A fool indeed, to willingly sacrifice what he had boasted as his most precious.
Berkut knew his palm was bare without having to look.
Rinea was gone, and it was all his fault.