Shadows Over Arcadia

I am Edric Drakemore, age 56, King of Arcadia, and I live only for the day I can exact revenge for the murder of my beloved wife.

My dear Arin, the love of my life, was taken from me five years ago. Since that day, the world has lost its color, food its taste, and my soul its joy. Every breath I take feels heavy. Worse than her absence is the torment I endure each day. The evil that stole her from me lives under my roof, and I am powerless to cast it out.

My nightmare has a name: Ren. A demon masquerading as my son, wearing a face that mocks my Arin. It is a vile trick, a torture so exquisite it could only have been crafted by the cruelest of devils. On the day he was born, the day he ripped her soul from her body, I tried to kill him. Not out of madness, but with the clearest conviction I have ever known. What lay before me was not a child, but a monster. That belief was vindicated when he summoned an equally terrifying fae named Willow to curse me.

This devil's familiar took the form of a silver-haired maiden, her beauty an insidious mask hiding the evil within. She is a powerful, dangerous creature with the ability to enthrall mortals and bend them to her will. Despite all my strength, all my years spent mastering magic to claim the throne, I still fell victim to her curse. And what an evil curse it is. It prevents me from taking any action to harm that boy. My mouth refuses to let me speak the truth of what Lady Willow truly is. I am forced to utter the lie that I wanted her to care for that devil in my castle.

It is a terrifying thing, not being able to control my own body or trust my own mind. Knowing that creature is inside me, crawling through my thoughts, silencing the truth and forcing my mouth to speak lies. At first, I wanted nothing more than for them to leave. I never wanted to see the monster wearing my wife's features or the devil that cursed me again. They are a daily reminder of my helplessness and loss.

But now, the red-hot fury has consumed my soul so completely that simply being rid of them will not quench it. I want revenge. With new resolve, I battle against that demon's curse every day, clawing back every bit of control I can. Her grip is weakening, slowly but surely. So I prefer they stay right where they are. When I do break free, they will be within reach of my righteous vengeance.

I will find a way to neutralize Lady Willow. And when that day comes, the monster who killed my beloved Arin will face the full wrath of a king who has lost everything.

To break her spell, I must weaken her, distract her, and loosen her grip on my mind. I have a plan, but it requires time and patience. Because of her enchantment, I must send others to gather what is needed, unable to reveal the true purpose behind my requests. Yet I have found a way to navigate the constraints of her curse. Carefully chosen words and vague instructions allow my loyal servants to act, even when I cannot explain why.

To safeguard my kingdom and my plan, I have commanded all the noble families of Arcadia to avoid Lady Willow and Ren at all costs. I have ordered them to remain silent about Ren's existence and to erase all mention of his birth. To the world, I have only one son, my true son.

Until I gain the means to destroy them, my loyal lords will do whatever they can to limit Willow and Ren's influence. They will quietly sabotage their efforts, weaken their standing, and undermine any foothold they may gain. All of this is only a prelude to the day I take my revenge. It is my duty, not only as a husband, but as a king, to avenge Arin and protect my kingdom from this monster.

These are the thoughts that consume my days and haunt my dreams.

I wake with a start, my chest heaving and heart racing as I pull free from the grip of another nightmare. Always the same nightmare, of her death, and the creature that mocks her memory.

"Maids!" I roar, my voice thundering through the royal chambers. Two elf slaves rush in, heads bowed, moving quickly to dress me.

As I rise from bed, one of the wretched elves fumbles with my crown in her trembling hands. The delicate golden circlet slips and clatters loudly to the floor. My fury surges. I strike her across the face, sending her sprawling.

"Useless!" I shout. "You dare defile the royal crown? Drop it again and I will gut you myself!"

The pathetic creature scrambles to retrieve the crown, her hands shaking as she returns and places it carefully on my head. I strike her again, a reminder of her place. She collapses to the floor, blood streaming from her nose, tears pooling in her wide, fearful eyes.

"Get out of my sight, you filthy animals," I order, my tone sharp and biting. "Have the cooks prepare my breakfast. And summon my son."

The slaves retreat quickly, one leaving a trail of her vile blood behind her. I watch them go with nothing but disdain. Beasts so low they can barely perform the simplest tasks correctly.

I step out of my chambers and walk the long stone corridors toward the royal dining hall. My footsteps echo off the cold, lonely walls. There is an emptiness here; everything feels dimmer, dulled by absence. Whatever I try to place in that void is destroyed, twisted, and swallowed whole. It remains joyless, cold, and hollow.

When Arin was alive, these halls glowed with warmth and beauty. The crystal lamps that lined them seemed brighter then. Now their light feels cold and eerie, casting long, uninviting shadows. It's strange how much the world can change in an instant. One person can make all the difference.

I enter a vast room that once bustled with life and laughter. Several long, ornate tables stretch the length of the chamber, each large enough to seat fifty guests. At the head of the room, on a raised platform, stands a slightly smaller table meant for twenty. These tables have seen no guests since she was stolen from us.

Now silent and still, this hall once echoed with the music of Arin's grand balls and galas. She loved this room, pouring her heart into every event, bringing nobles and commoners together in celebration. It was one of the many reasons she was beloved by our people, far more than I could ever hope to be.

When she was taken, the kingdom mourned deeply. To them, she died of an unexplained illness. Only I know the truth.

She died on the tenth day of the first week of Blossomarc. Every year since, on that same day, the kingdom holds a grand festival to honor her memory. The people still love her, even in death. It is a bittersweet reminder that she lived, that she was cherished, and that my mission to avenge her is worth any cost.

I sit at the head of the table on the raised platform. Shortly after, my six-year-old son enters the room, guided by his attendant, Holt. He is a tall, thin man in middle age, with a perpetually tired, shrewd expression, as if his duties hang on him like a millstone.

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Charles walks beside him, his posture casual, his expression bored.

He takes the seat to my right, and I smile warmly at him. He is the only thing in this world I truly love. The last remnant of Arin. The only piece of her I have left. I would do anything for him, give him anything.

"Good morning, son," I say affectionately.

"Good morning, Father," he replies, his tone indifferent, eyes drifting as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

Servants hurry in, placing food on the table before us. The clinking of silverware and soft shuffle of feet fill the quiet. I glance around at the countless empty seats, and a familiar pang settles in my chest. My son and I dine alone.

The scrape of knives and forks on plates fills the space as Charles and I eat. I watch him, and he watches his plate. Hoping to break the silence, I clear my throat.

"Son, I've heard from your instructors that you haven't been applying yourself in your studies."

Charles rolls his eyes, his voice tinged with annoyance. "I apply myself plenty. My instructors are liars."

"Your tutors are the best in the world," I say, keeping my tone patient despite having said this a hundred times before. "I've spared no expense to bring them here. Their knowledge is invaluable, and it's important that you take advantage of it."

"I'm tired of all the training and studying. It's boring!" Charles complains, his fork clinking against his plate. "I want to play with my friends."

I sigh, trying to remain calm. "Son, one day you will inherit my throne. To ensure your right to rule is not challenged, you must be strong and wise. If you appear weak, you risk jeopardizing the status and power of our family."

Charles scoffs and pokes at his food, barely hiding his disdain. "Whatever," he mutters.

We finish the rest of our meal mostly in silence. The clinking of plates and the sound of Charles chewing are the only breaks in the stillness. When we're done, Holt steps forward, bows slightly, and guides Charles out of the hall to begin his studies.

I remain seated, my thoughts heavy with concern for the future of my kingdom. I love my son dearly, but I cannot ignore the signs. He lacks the temperament, the discipline, and the drive to become a great mage or ruler. The kingdom demands strength, and without it, he may struggle to hold the throne I have spent my life fortifying.

A messenger enters the hall and bows deeply, pulling me from my thoughts. "Your Majesty, Lord Fobos is here and requests an audience."

I nod and rise from my seat. "Send him to the throne room," I say, striding purposefully from the dining hall.

Moments later, I arrive in the throne room, where Lord Fobos and a humbly dressed man await me. As I approach my throne, both bow low, their postures deferential.

"Thank you for gracing us with your time, my King," says the corpulent Lord Fobos, his robes so lavishly adorned they verge on mockery.

"I always have time for you, my friend," I reply, though my tone is more tired than warm. "What is it you needed to discuss?"

"My Lord, I have news about that… boy," Fobos begins, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I thought you should be aware."

"Well, what is it, then?" I ask, my interest piqued, a faint edge of tension creeping into my voice.

"During this last arc, he has been seen several times in the commons, giving away highly valuable healing potions," Fobos reports, his tone dripping with disdain. "The commoners are speaking of a second prince, calling him the 'Blessed Young Prince.' Worse still, he is doing this in blatant violation of Merchant Guild rules."

"Sounds like he's trying to win their hearts," I say darkly. "He offers them treasures they could never afford, buying their loyalty. But he is no savior. He would devour this kingdom, like a farmer fattening a hog before the slaughter."

"I dislike the idea of commoners growing accustomed to luxury goods meant for the nobility," Fobos says. "And now he's flooding the market. I don't know where he's getting them, but he's been selling hundreds of potions to the apothecary each week. He must be doing something illegal to acquire that many."

"It would seem he's raising funds..."

"Yes, my Lord. One hundred and fifty potions a week, all through Lady Muara's apothecary. At that volume, he's earning far more than he would need for personal use. I believe he's preparing for something."

"I think you're right," I murmur, my thoughts turning. "The question is, what do we do?"

"I plan to revoke Lady Willow's merchant license," Fobos declares. "That would cut off their income entirely."

"No," I snap, my voice firm. "You must not challenge Willow directly. She is dangerous." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Instead, flood the market with potions. Oversaturate it until the shops have no room to buy hers. Guild policy will force them to prioritize Guild stock over anything from independent sellers."

Fobos strokes his chin, thoughtful. "To manage that, I'll need to import potions from neighboring nations. It will take considerable time and money to source, transport, and stockpile enough."

"You won't need to sustain it forever," I say with a faint smirk. "Just long enough for Willow to realize her potions aren't selling and abandon the effort."

Fobos nods slowly, a calculating gleam in his eye. "It will be expensive, but doable."

He pauses, then adds, "Also, the boy and Lady Willow were involved in an incident in Lord Griswald's domain last night."

He gestures toward the humbly dressed man standing behind him. "This is one of my servants. He drove their carriage and came to me this morning with a troubling report."

"Well? What is it?" I ask, leaning forward on my throne, impatience creeping into my voice.

"After meeting with Lord Griswald, Ren, Willow, and Captain Gavin took a trip into a nearby wheat field. Ren identified the source of a blight affecting the crop and then..." Fobos hesitates, his voice tinged with disbelief, "...he pulled a Dreadcoil out of the ground and helped kill it."

"Impossible!" I scoff, though my stomach tightens with unease. "You're telling me a five-year-old boy pulled a Dreadcoil from the ground and fought it? At his age?"

If it's true, then the boy possesses magical power far beyond anything I've seen in a human child. It confirms my worst fear: he truly is a monster. And if his strength continues to grow, he may one day surpass even me. If I do not act before he reaches adulthood, he will become a threat to my throne. Charles will never have the strength or skill to stop him if that day comes.

"This is deeply concerning," I say, my voice colder now. "It only reinforces what I already knew. I cannot allow him to grow unchecked. He must be dealt with before he reaches maturity, before he has the chance to master that power."

I pause, calculating. "In fact..."

"He must be taken care of before he reaches the age of twelve. That is when he would be eligible to enroll in the magical academy. I cannot allow someone with his potential to enter that place and refine his abilities. Nor can I allow the kingdom to witness his power."

Fobos nods vigorously. "Don't worry, my King. Your loyal lords and I will see to it that the boy is dealt with long before then. He is just a child with a single attendant. There is no need to tolerate them any longer. The sooner we dispatch them, the better."

"No," I snap, my voice sharp with frustration. "Leave Willow to me. Do not confront her."

The words burn in my throat. The curse she placed on me tightens like a vice. I cannot tell Fobos what she truly is. I cannot explain why I have failed to have her eliminated. The attempts still haunt me.

The first assassin returned with no memory of his identity or mission. The second, a slave sent to poison her, vanished without a trace. For the third attempt, I hired three mages through an intermediary to strike the tower with fire magic. Their spells hit a barrier and left the tower unharmed. By the next day, all three were found dead in their homes, with no wounds and no clear cause.

The memory turns my stomach. She is untouchable. For now.

"Trust me, Fobos," I say through clenched teeth, the pain in my chest searing as I struggle against the enchantment. "Willow is... she is very powerful. Let me handle her. When the time is right."

Fobos hesitates, then bows his head. "Very well, my King. I will trust your judgment. We will do all we can to assist you, without confronting her directly."

"However," I continue, my voice colder, "if you ever find an opportunity where Ren is far from Willow, perhaps in another nation entirely, do not hesitate. Solve our problem."

Fobos' lips curl into a cruel smirk. "As you command, Your Majesty."