Reflections of Despair

A Royal Heart That Beats For Her
The silver sunlight of morning spilled through the high-arched windows of the royal dining hall, gilding the marble floors and casting warm, golden patterns across the pristine white linen stretched over the table. Crystal dishes gleamed beside polished silver cutlery, and the scent of honey-glazed pastries, steaming meat pies, and fresh garden herbs filled the room with a tantalizing warmth.

Queen Lysandra sat at the head of the table, regal as ever in a silk gown the color of blood roses. Her black hair was swept up in intricate coils that shimmered under the sunlight like ink. Her posture was elegant, shoulders relaxed yet poised, and every gesture she made—even the simple raising of a fork—carried the weight of authority.

Prince Alexander sat at her right, dressed in navy velvet embroidered with silver thread, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze distant. His plate sat untouched before him, the poached eggs and seasoned sausage cooling while he absently swirled his spoon in a bowl of fruit compote.

"Something's on your mind?" Lysandra asked, her fork stalling halfway to her lips. Her tone was casual, but her violet eyes were sharp—piercing, observant.

"What?” Alexander blinked, forced himself to meet her gaze. “No… nothing’s on my mind.”

“Are you sure?” Lysandra asked, as she cocked a perfectly arched brow. "You've barely touched your food."

"I'm just not feeling that hungry today, Mother," he replied, trying to sound indifferent, though he knew she could see straight through him.

"If you say so," Lysandra said, but the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, as if amused by his poor attempt at deception. She resumed eating, dabbing at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin between bites.

Alex picked up his fork and forced himself to cut into his meal, chewing slowly and swallowing without tasting anything. His mind was far from the breakfast table, lost instead in the memory of soft green eyes and golden hair that shimmered like candlelight. Aurora’s image burned behind his eyes with painful clarity—her lips, the way they’d felt against his when she kissed him for the first time, tentative and breathless and real. He’d been haunted by that kiss ever since.

He hadn’t told a soul what Lysandra had revealed in one of her rare, morbidly giddy moods—that Aurora lived—if you could call it that—trapped in a cursed sleep so deep only two things might wake her. Either embarking on a journey of no certain return to retrieve a magical flower, or the elusive power of true love’s kiss.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t care what the journey entailed. He already knew the truth—knew it in every beat of his heart. He loved her. Not in the fanciful, courtly way he had once thought he loved other woman in passing. This was different. Deeper. He carried her in his veins now. She lived in his heart, in every breath.

A sharp knock echoed through the dining hall. One of the maids stepped forward and bowed.

"Your Majesty. Commander Rykard is at the door. He requests an audience."

Lysandra raised her brows, then nodded. "Let him in."

Moments later, the doors creaked open, and in strode Veyne Rykard—tall, grim, and imposing in his black sentinel armor, his cloak trimmed with wolf fur. He removed his helmet, revealing cold piercing eyes and a jaw set with restrained confidence. His gaze lingered a second too long on Lysandra as he bowed.

"Commander," Lysandra greeted him with a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. "Care to join us for breakfast?"

"Your Majesty, Your Highness." Rykard bowed again to both of them. "I appreciate the offer, but I won’t intrude."

"Very well. What brings you here this morning?" Lysandra leaned back in her chair, her fingers wrapped delicately around a crystal goblet of fresh orange juice.

Rykard stood tall. "I came to request food and supplies be delivered to the outer camps. The soldiers stationed around the borders are beginning to run low, especially with increased patrols around the western valleys."

Lysandra nodded without hesitation. "Approved. See to it the granaries release what is needed. Make sure the men are kept comfortable and fed—we cannot afford weakness in morale."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Rykard bowed again.

And that was it.

There. The opportunity opened before Alex like a door cracked just wide enough for light to slip through.

He cleared his throat, speaking in a casual tone he hoped didn’t sound rehearsed. "Mother, perhaps I could accompany Commander Rykard today. It might be wise for me to observe the camps—see for myself how the soldiers are faring."

Lysandra looked up, slowly, one elegant brow arching.

Rykard turned to Alex, nodding. "The Prince’s presence would bolster morale. The men would benefit from knowing their future king walks among them."

Lysandra’s lips curved slightly, but her eyes narrowed, searching her son’s face. He didn’t flinch. He held her gaze.

"Very well," she said at last, setting her goblet down with a soft clink. "But be careful. Stay close to Rykard."

Alex rose from his chair. "Of course, Mother."

He bowed quickly and turned to leave, heart pounding as he made his way to the east wing to change into his riding clothes and retrieve his sword. Every step echoed with the rhythm of his plan falling into place.

I’m coming, Aurora.

—

By evening, the sun hung low over the golden hills, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain as the first military camp came into view. Fires crackled in pit circles, and the sound of clanging steel and laughter rose from the barracks and tents. Soldiers gathered in clusters, some sharpening blades, others nursing drinks or huddling over maps and games.

Alex dismounted his horse and strode through the camp with practiced ease, exchanging nods and greetings. He stopped to speak with a group of young archers training near the edge of the clearing, asking them about their rations, their routines, the weather at night.

He laughed when appropriate. Offered praise. Gave nods of approval. But all of it was a performance—a thin veil to mask the singular purpose burning beneath his ribs.

He was not here for them.

After making a full round, Alex found Rykard standing near the edge of the encampment, arms folded, eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk.

"The men seem well-organized," Alex said as he approached.

"They’re soldiers. Discipline comes with training and fear of failure," Rykard replied, then turned slightly toward him. "Still, they’ll appreciate your visit."

"You’ve done well, Commander. The Kingdom is lucky to have you," Alex said with a nod, his words sincere despite the ulterior motive.

Rykard inclined his head. "And I’ll continue to do my duty. To the crown. To your mother. To you."

There was something in his tone—hard to place. A faint reminder that the Commander served more than one master.

Alex nodded once, then stepped back toward his horse.

"I should return to the palace before night falls."

"I’ll send a few men to ride with you," Rykard said, already turning toward the central tents.

Alex raised a hand. "There’s no need. I can hold my own, and the route is well-known."

Rykard studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Your Highness."

Mounting his steed, Alex cast one last look over the camp, then kicked gently at the stirrups. The horse galloped forward, leaving dust and murmurs in his wake.

But he didn’t ride toward the palace.

He veered west.

Toward Bellaflor.

Toward the witches’ new home.

Toward her.

Every thundering hoofbeat against the earth sang one name through his bones.

Aurora.

He would find her.

He would wake her.

And no one—not even his mother—would stop him.