The morning upon the palace was gentle in its tidings.  The chantings had ceased and the temple gardens were silent. Even the wind seeping through the trees was tender and fragrant.

Asael, drowsy with lost sleep, slid wearily to the ground. The coarse sand neath, littered in leaves and buds of cerise brushed roughly on his feet and arms. Despite, his eyes fell close and for some moments he lingered between sleep and wakefulness. 

And so the vestals fell to slumber beneath the great tree and the priestesses and the aides spoke quietly amongst themselves. 

Then at once Asael awoke, feeling a hand rest upon his shoulders. An aide now knelt beside him and hoisted him up, bringing him to his feet. Yet his limbs ached and thick was the pain of his wounds. He stumbled and fell squarely upon another’s back. They were fools to come, a memory whispered. truly. Asael agreed, sighing in misery. 

Now the crowd of priestesses parted, and from afar echoed a voice, “ The purification ceremony has concluded. Bring the vestals to the baths and prepare for the ceremony” 

Asael knew not what this meant, but listened with waning hope. The head aide of the ritual pavilion moved across the grounds and now stood imposingly before them, gesturing and speaking in strange tongue and dialect to the priestesses about. 

Then they too dispersed, bringing the vestals to their feet. They huddled below the great tree and awaited instructions, shivering against its wind and stumbling sleepily. And in awhile they were brought away from the gardens. Crossing the shadowy passages, they arrived at the southern stretch of the temple grounds where the baths lay.

Through the mist Asael saw before them vast pools of water, clear and blue, reaching beyond sight to the cloudy skies and the forests below. And there across the rippling waves grew many flowers, lotus and hyacinths, and some he did not know.

They sat along the pool rims and dipped their feet within. Asael quite liked it, the water gentle and cold, seeped through the dressings and curled softly around his legs,  like the sweeping snow of Isryx and urged him to its soft depths. And then the ceased chantings began once more. Asael pinched his robes, closing his eyes in irritation. His ears ached sorely for a moment of peace, yet as the day drew on the rituals of the Ahsaran palace grew unforgiving and long.

And only as eventide fell upon the sky did they cease, only to make way for the clamor of cheer and eager drums that grew beyond the walls.

“ Now it is time”

The head aide called and looked keenly over them. And this time too the froward veils obscured their eyes and Asael sighed into the darkness, gathering his fingers into the slits of his dress. Then they walked for sometime deep within the opal lit red wood forests, until soon the ceremonial hall emerged from a distance. 

Though Asael thought it fitting to be called a palace, for it grew up towards to the amber skies, dwarfing all beneath it in deep crimson shadows. And within the hall too the grandeur did not abate, for there were numerous ornate decorations, of gold, silver and jade laden from eave and pillar, and at it’s middle sat the figure of a woman carved in pristine gem reaching down to the garden of ruby flowers that grew by her feet.

A hint of incense drifted through the air, heavy and suffocating, it’s fire cracking amber and echoing softly through the halls. 

The vestals that were led through the vestibule now sat scattered across the grand chambers. Asael’s eyes cast downwards, and he saw beneath a flicker of gold, burning softly and stretching across. Bejeweled and ornate emerged the figure of a bird. The light of its’ amber feathers fading as it took flight through the iridescent stone. 

As it passed through the gates, Asael looked back and felt beside him some movement. The wind chimed softly and a moment later, a golden hem swept past the crimson floor and fell softly upon it. 

And he felt it quite strange for none of the vestals were clothed so ornately. Asael looked upon his sleeves, white and bare and woven with little care. It seemed that Lilia had forgotten to tell him some part about the choosing ceremony. Yet he drew his own conclusions, for it was plain that such lavish treatment fell only upon the betrothed prince, Nevernrya. 

The hall of ceremonies fell to silence, and soon the zenith of the night drew upon them, and the golden moon took to the skies, scattering it’s light through darkling palace. And little time did Asael have to ponder, for suddenly he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

They did not patter nor run, nor steadily draw forward. Instead with the pealing of a saber’s hilt and chain, drawled lazily through the gates.

Asael sat up anxiously and withdrew his hands. Then he heard the drawing of a long breath. A shadow lingered about the marble pillars and billowed across, The enemy drew nearer, now, only an arm’s distance away.  If it still remained within his grasp, it was now time for him to retrieve the blue moon wisp. 

The footsteps drew closer. In the darkness of his closed eyes, arose a small white flame. Asael prodded it gently with his spirit. Yet soon the wisp’s light begun to whither. The opalescent ambers slipped through his hands and melted softly against the shadows, until only he remained within the darkling abyss, fading within it’s despondent enormity.

His hands fell limply to the sides, he had been late, and now only a lonely death awaited him in this hostile land. He breathed, heaving slowly against the dragging veil, and as the tears gathered and fell from his eyes, a soft warmth enveloped him. 

Asael stumbled and fell back onto the cold stone. A familiar gaze stared past him.He dug into the hands clasping his face and tore them away. Still the man did not falter. Just as they had then, tauntingly chasing past him as they sat amidst the blazing snow.

“ I have chosen my bride” Lucen withdrew his hands. 

The warrior, the victor of the winter games . . . It could not be. . . was it his failing senses  and mistaken memory? He watched keenly as the enemy prince’s gaze drew down. It was not a simple resemblance. He was sure of it, it was the heir of the enemy empire that had stood in the winter coliseum that day. Asael’s fists clenched in anger. It seems that not only his wisp but he too shall breathe his last by these hands.

Lucen grasped the veiled shoulder and brought Asael to his feet, grasping the bony wrist between his fingers, and encasing it within a ring of scarlet dye, the mark of betrothal. Then he gently held the clenched fists and let go.


 For as strange as these  rituals were Lucen thought them tamer to those of Araya where they sat upon trees and sang hymns to the skies. 

Yet Asael froze and his mind fell to disarray. Why had the enemy approached him when their beloved sat beside them? Lilia had spoken of no such rituals. Had they been mistaken or had he been recognized so easily? Though little possibility remained for such chance, for during the winter games it was the wisp that Asael had sent forth in his stead, and even then it was ‘Neven’ that the warrior had met. 

Beside them, the neglected prince Nevernrya fell to the ground. And from his eyes fell the sorrow of a broken promise.  Yet Lucen turned away, and through the veil  reached for the hand of the chosen. Asael withdrew and shook his head slowly. Yet his efforts were met with soft laughter. 

And his hands were taken prisoner once more,  and away he was pulled from the ceremonial halls towards the darkling pillars. Asael looked back a last time towards the vestals and the fallen prince… until they too were swallowed by shadows.