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Time is the true keeper of fate, Caine thinks. The loss of an hour, the slip of a second, and something that is meant to happen doesn’t, and Time’s laughter is as dry as a corpse as he twines two paths together that were never fated to cross. Sometimes, Caine wonders who he would be if Agenor had not been the one to find him in that alley.
Tonight, however, Time seems to be on his side.
Cloaked in shadow, the Raven moves as silent as the grave through the citadel’s torchlit corridors, unseen by even the keenest of beady-eyed crows. From what he’d gathered in his conversation with Crows of a far more refined appearance, Caine had felt the smallest tinge of relief when he learned his sputtering magic had not failed him entirely. For they are close. Even without the validation of his spells, he knows that his journey is drawing to an end. Like the fading rays of dusk, before night descends upon its throne of dreams. Dreams, or nightmares? Soon, we will see.
The beating of scaled wings so massive they can belong only to a Goliath–namely, Aether–cuts through the air like a furious storm, and Caine pauses as he turns his silver gaze to the skies. His eyes narrow upon the Herald in an instant, because the Kirin is a swirl of blinding white in a sea of chasmic black. “Isorath.”
It starts as an itch in his skull. Yet the boy is still watching the ivory prince, only vaguely aware of the markings along his forehead growing hot. Like embers in a flame. And then, and then–the pain descends upon him like hellfire. His body reacts instinctively, his training steadfast even as his breath ends in gasps. Slipping behind the closest marble column, Caine hesitates only moments before crumpling to the ground in blinding agony.
It is as if his forehead has been wrenched open with an ice pick, and the hammer has driven the iron stake home. Get a hold of yourself, boy. Have you not felt worse pain? echoes Agenor’s spitting voice in his mind, and Caine stills. This is nothing, compared to what he has endured.
As quickly as it came, the pain vanishes like a thief in the night. The boy is left with only a dull throbbing, the symbols atop his crown glowing red, then silver, and then nothing at all. With a grimace, Caine draws himself to his hooves and exhales, silver eyes as hard as the crystal statues littering the courtyard like frozen sentinels. So Agenor had succeeded with the blood bond–his most ambitious spell yet, implanted upon his greatest pawn to date. I should've known he'd make it as painful as possible. He has an unquenchable flair for the dramatic, mutters Caine, as he shakes the last burning ache from his feathers. And I should not postpone the inevitable any longer.
A smooth smile settles upon his lips, black as obsidian, as the Harbinger steps out from the column and walks as soft as a cat towards his gilded Herald. Not a trace of the agony that had gripped him mere moments before, remains in eyes as pale and cold as snow.
Up close, the Prince is as resplendent as Agenor had described. A true son of Aesthia, yet greater than she will ever be. “I hope you are not too weary from your travels, my Herald.” He refrains from saying more, before lowering himself into a sweeping bow. The tips of his onyx wings graze the icy ground, and as Caine stands, his silver eyes fix steadily upon lavender pools framed with endless white.
“It has been very long since Your Highness has left Vectaeryn. The Garde has grown restless in your absence.” Placidly, he glances towards Aether’s smoking maw, the dragon’s glare as sharp as icicles, before turning his attention back to the fine-boned Kirin.
“I am called Caine, and I was sent by the orders of High Consul Agenor of House Selwyn. He expresses his deepest condolences in not being here himself.” His voice is light and lyrical, his smile lovely and pristine. The boy pauses, observing Isorath’s reaction, before finishing his long-rehearsed speech. “From this moment on, Your Grace, I will obey your orders as they come. Whether you wish for me to stay besides you as your shield, or to remain in the shadows as a Harbinger should–the Herald's command is absolute.”
Whatever you ask, Isorath. I do not have a choice.
@Isorath | "speech" | totally had a bit
