Misguided Attraction

Alistair rode down the deserted path, his thoughts weighed down by the conversation with Lord Pedegrin. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but the exchange had been far less fruitful than he'd hoped.

"I heard you were among the men who danced with the lady in the blue dress at Lydia Hawthorne's debut ball," Alistair had said, his tone deliberately casual.

"Oh, yes, I did," Lord Pedegrin replied, his chest puffing out slightly. "Quite a beauty, wasn't she?"

"I suppose. Did she give you her name?"

Pedegrin smirked, clearly relishing the memory. "She danced with me several times, you know. The girl was absolutely enchanted—who wouldn't be? I spoke of my fortune, my lands, all the advantages of aligning herself with someone of my stature. Naturally, she was captivated."

Alistair had barely suppressed an eye roll, his patience thinning.

[Of course, he'd boast. The man's ego is his only true inheritance.]

Lord Pedegrin's reputation was well-known—a man of indulgence who straddled the line between high society and scandal. If not for his knack for business, he would have squandered his wealth long ago.

"I'm sure she was utterly enthralled, Lord Pedegrin," Alistair had said, his voice edged with sarcasm. "But did she tell you her name?"

The lord had hesitated, the smirk faltering for a moment. "She claimed she'd reveal her name when the masquerade was over—it was a game of sorts. But she left before I could ask."

Alistair's frustration had deepened at that. A game? Hardly the word he would use for her secrecy. Masked and elusive, the lady had become more of a puzzle with every passing inquiry.

The memory faded as Alistair dismounted, tying his horse to a nearby tree with methodical precision. The healer's workshop stood ahead, its modest frame tucked into the shadows of tall oak trees. The faint scent of herbs drifted toward him, mingling with the dampness of the earth.

He approached the wooden door, knocking twice. The hinges groaned as it creaked open, revealing a young apprentice whose eyes widened at Alistair's imposing figure.

"I need to see His Highness," Alistair said firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

The apprentice hesitated, his gaze darting between Alistair and the shadowed interior of the workshop. Without a word, he shut the door, leaving Alistair waiting. Moments later, the door opened again, this time revealing an older man with a stern face and a commanding presence.

"And what business do you have with the prince?" the healer asked, his voice sharp.

"I must speak with him immediately," Alistair replied, his blue eyes meeting the healer's unwavering stare.

The man considered him for a long moment before sighing. "You'll wait. He needs his rest."

Alistair nodded, stepping into the workshop. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of dried herbs and medicinal tinctures, the shelves lined with glass jars and worn tomes. He lowered himself onto a wooden bench, his mind restless.

[Time. That's all I need. Time to find her. Time to decode the riddle. Time to stop this madness before it spirals further.]

The faint creak of a chair brought him back to the present. Mavros, dressed in a simple tunic, entered the room with slow, deliberate steps. Though his posture was casual, his pale complexion betrayed his weariness.

"You're early," Mavros said, lowering himself into the chair opposite Alistair.

"Your Highness," Alistair greeted, standing briefly out of respect.

Mavros waved a hand dismissively. "Spare me the formalities. Sit."

Alistair complied, his movements stiff. The prince gestured for the apprentice to leave, waiting until the door shut before turning his sharp gaze on Alistair.

"Well?"

"It went as well as it could," Alistair said.

Mavros raised an eyebrow. "Tell me about the bride's family. Were they bothered by my absence?"

"They didn't seem to care much, to be honest," Alistair replied.

"And the bride? Was she thrilled about this arrangement?"

Alistair hesitated, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "She hardly had a choice, Your Highness. From what I gathered, this is less a marriage and more a truce between her father and the king."

"Typical." Mavros let out a bitter chuckle. "Rumors about my health are spreading like wildfire in the capital. What kind of woman agrees to marry a dying man?"

"Someone eager to join the royal family, perhaps," Alistair said, his tone dry.

Mavros leaned back, his expression darkening. "What does she look like?"

Alistair sighed. "I knew you'd ask that. Customs here are… unique. Her face was covered by a veil the entire time. No one will see her face until the wedding day."

Mavros' brow furrowed. "Has a date been chosen?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Mavros shot upright, his voice incredulous. "There's no time to prepare!"

"Believe me, I was as surprised as you," Alistair said.

The prince pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Did you learn anything about the girl from the ball?"

"I spoke to several men she danced with. None of them asked her name, though they all seemed enchanted. They pointed me to Lord Pedegrin, who was utterly useless."

"What did he say?"

"He said she told him she'd reveal her name once the masquerade ended, but she disappeared before he could ask."

Mavros exhaled sharply. "We need to find her before this farce of a wedding goes any further. Until then, I want dirt on my future bride. There has to be something."

Alistair hesitated. "There are rumors. They say she dresses oddly to repel suitors, though it seems unnecessary—people claim she's unattractive."

Mavros groaned, slumping back in his chair. "This is a disaster."

Alistair stood, his expression softening slightly. "It may not be as bad as it seems. For now, we should return to the castle. The queen will want to see you."

Mavros rose reluctantly, casting a weary glance at his companion. "Fine. But if there's nothing to uncover about her, this marriage is doomed."

Alistair smiled faintly. "Then we'll think of something else, Your Highness. We always do."