Rulers of Veistanlu

Two Different Worlds

TW: self-harm

**

Six months ago...

It was an effervescent cacophony of noises by the thoroughfare of Velemau when the parade line passed outside the Royal Palace’s gates, on their way to the people. Individuals in exquisite, expensive tunics and gowns, as well as jewels that glistened in the evening sun, flooded the sidewalks behind the chivalries, applauding. After all, the Royal Parade took place only within the bounds of the Nobility, which were densely populated by wealthy and upper-class residents.

Beautiful women in scarlet silk skirts swayed in front of the golden carriages, clearly well-rehearsed in their red ribbon dancing skills. A marching band was behind them, blowing trumpets and beating drums, filling the air with jubilant sound. Slowly they walked, with the Knights in their special crimson larps that were exposed in every joint, the parts where their iron armors had not covered.

“All hail the Alvar family!”

“The Royals were for sure very good-looking even if we didn't see them!”

“May another prosperous year enter the Kingdom of Veistanlu!”

It was indeed New Year’s Eve that was being celebrated, and spring had begun.

There were eight golden carriages: one for each of the six Dukes and their families or assistants, and one for each of the kingdom's last two Royal-blooded Nobles. Each carriage appeared to be identical, and they were all drawn by white horses with healthy-looking maines all around the borders.

The Royals were meant to sit in an open carriage, exposing themselves to the public and adorned with intricate floral carvings capped with gems. Apart from the Nobility's borders, they should have been brought to the Commoners' borders, as well as to other regions of the Kingdom rather than Velemau. However, their set-up tonight was understated, as if they were trying to blend in and hide.

Prince Floris was dressed in a crimson doublet and trousers that were sewed with golden threads and a white waistband. He was supposed to wear purple that would fully showcase his power, wealth, and luxury to the eyes of everyone— the color that could make anyone drop dead envious. Not only that purple was rather a difficult color to replicate, but it was also extremely costly. He had not, however, for a reason that all of Veistanlu was aware of.

Nevertheless, it wouldn’t matter, for the Prince’s slender, fit physique, porcelain skin, and captivating appeal could carry high class regardless of any outfit, and no one could see him anyway.

His entire face was veiled behind lavender drapery, a shade associated with riches and royalty that shimmered and glowed faintly, indicating that it was being run by magic. The magical veil draped barely past his chin from his semicircle golden forehead band, with gold pelline chains forming nine loops above the veil all around the band, and each loop had a diamond clinging in the middle.

Sightings of his were with clarity; there was just a light purple tint that filtered every color he glanced upon.

“Your Royal Highness, the women looked very excited to see you, regardless of your cover!” Exclaimed a Knight who had only the honor of wearing golden armor, wielding a golden spear, and being next to the Crown Prince.

The Prince peered out the window, which was draped in white silk curtains that also flowed with magic. They could see outside through the curtain, but the outside could only see their silhouettes, similar to the Prince’s veil. The lovely ladies by the crowd were squealing over him; his mysterious presence made even the most well-mannered Nobles give up their modesty, showing their skins or raising their voices to the highest extent. Sir Renjiro was correct, but the Prince's head instantly moved aside, appearing that he was uninterested.

Sir Renjiro frowned at the Prince’s bodily reaction. He asked, “Don’t the Prince fancy the women in the Kingdom?”

“…”

The situation had become rather awkward; Prince Floris was speechless while sitting upright with whatever expression he had under his veil, and Sir Renjiro's countenance was puzzled. Fortunately, Sir Renjiro had posed a different question to ease the air, “Is the Prince truly enjoying the festivities? Because you ought to be.”

Prince Floris blinked behind his veil. Sir Renjiro was correct again, but anxiousness had already taken over his heartbeats. He was agitated instead of relaxed, melancholic instead of glad. Their set-up was all about ensuring their safety while having a good time, and he had the Grand Knight in front of him— but why couldn't the Prince feel safe?

This was his twentieth celebration, and security had tightened over the years, prohibiting him from interacting with his own people. Prince Floris, who had the authority to change matters in his liking, was still unaccustomed to the stringent measures. But even if he despised it, there were still benefits, therefore he allowed himself to be constrained over time. So, what could have prompted such a decision?

Prince Floris and Sir Renjiro’s body jerked from the sudden halt of their horse. A Knight alerted outside with an alarming yell, “Bandits! There are bandits on the loose!”

Situations like these were the reason.

Amidst the townspeople that shrilled and scattered in panic, Prince Floris calmly ordered, “Sir Renjiro, kindly hand over my sword.”

Sir Renjiro reluctantly handed up the Prince's magnificent glided scabbard, which contained a twenty-eight inch blade. The Prince slowly reached his hand to grab it. Because Sir Renjiro was frightened about the Prince’s plans to be present in the chaos outside, he blocked his spear against the door, as if he could ever contain the Prince.

“Don't be afraid,” he exclaimed. “I'll take care of it, Prince Floris! No need for you to shed a single sweat.”

“This is just for defense,” Prince Floris hushed, letting the sword dangle by his waistband’s side. “Besides, I am the one they are after.”

“Excellent! To avoid further disrupting this purportedly nice gathering, I'm going to take out those bandits!” Before opening the carriage door, Sir Renjiro yelled, but his hand froze before reaching for the handle. He stared at the Prince who seemed tense, with sad eyes. “On second thought, I shall look after you—”

Prince Floris cut him off. “Sir Renjiro, the lives of the citizens are a priority, and you are the commander of every chivalry. Wield your power outdoors before someone becomes a hostage.” It was natural for the Prince to worry for his people before himself, however, given his current circumstances as currently the last Alvar, all were unsure if his statement was still applicable.

Sir Renjiro countered, “But without you, the Kingdom would be in shambles! Your life is the highest priority!”

A soft, ice-cold voice came from the Prince. “Are you doubting my abilities to defend myself?”

Despite the gentle speech, Sir Renjiro went silent, as if he felt threatened. He gritted his teeth and walked outside after a few moments, shutting the golden door. Due to his booming voice, the Prince heard Sir Renjiro yelling behind the door, “Heavens, His Majesty is the absolute beauty and dread!”

Everyone who had faced the Prince would surely agree without a word.

Prince Floris’ porcelain hand rested peacefully on the sword's hilt, and his gaze was drawn to the draperies. Outside, chaos reigned, with people fleeing in terror behind the chivalries who remained in their allotted positions to avoid the bandits from reaching the citizens, but some were taking advantage of the chaos to get closer to the Prince and meet him in person, as if they would ever see his face.

This year was no exception; public events were rife with flaws.

Even though his own son was being pursued for his life, his father, the King, still concurred to honor such a monumental occasion publicly. The anticipated New Year was still a few hours away, yet assassins were already ruthless. They were extremely aggressive in the closing months of the current year, employing all means at their disposal to assassinate the Prince from poisoning to bloodshed. When they were apprehended, they refused to say who schemed behind these things, or why their persistence drastically rose in this specific year, but Prince Floris already had a rough guess.

It was because his twenty-first birthday was coming up close.

“Teleport me to the second carriage!” Prince Floris heard a loud cry from an unknown man. He understood two things from that single sentence: someone in the group could use magic, and they knew where he was. They might have observed Sir Renjiro coming out of the vehicle, making the set-up useless, since he was found out regardless if all carriages were the same, or despite he hadn’t donned the most expensive attire from his closet. Prince Floris immediately drew his sword from its sheath, and aimed the sharp blade towards the exit.

“I've got you now, Alvar!” The carriage door was yanked open by a bandit in a black shawl and garments, his dark eyes ruthless. He had a charged crossbow and immediately fired an arrow straight at the Prince during his loud cry. The wooden arrow struck the roof’s corner, though he actually hadn’t missed.

The bandit’s eyes widened when he could hardly see the Prince, translucent and untouchable.

He laughed. “So, it’s true that you cannot be touched by anyone by will!”

“I would not want to be contacted by someone as filthy as you,” Prince Floris said. The bandit grunted; the taunt worked around his head when his hoarse chuckling stopped.

The bandit hissed, “The Crown Prince is this insulting? Those whacked in the head puterelles had low standards. This is why you deserve to die—”

While speaking, Prince Floris vanished, running behind the bandit by passing through him, then shoved the sword's hilt against his nape, knocking him out cold easily.

“Even death is undeserving of me.” The Prince sighed; he hadn’t wanted to be rude, but the bandits were ruder for causing a commotion that affected not only him, but every person of Nobility.

He hushed, “If only father had not demanded my utmost presence here…”

While remaining hidden in the eye of another, Prince Floris assessed the scene. There were seven bandits: six were fending off his chivalries, white the other one was unconsciously sprawled on the cement floor behind him.

Guilt started seeping in his thudding heart. “…this interference might never have happened.”

Normally, they'd be eliminated quickly because the chivalries were well-trained, but there's this one in a coal-colored cloak who clapped, and with each clap, the other bandits switched locations, making it difficult to dispatch them.

“Prince Alvar? Where are you?! For the love of the lord, do not get abducted!” While the Prince was eyeing the bandits, Sir Renjiro panicked and opened every carriage door when he realized the Prince had vanished from his carriage with a knocked-out man below. He was a lightning fast runner, too worried for the Prince that he only gave out orders to his Knights but not fight the bandits himself.

“Sir Renjiro, sincerest apologies, but I will have to use you as bait,” Prince Floris slightly raised his soothing voice when Sir Renjiro ran past him. Sir Renjiro craned his neck when he heard a voice from his right, and the Prince reappeared, standing graciously with an unsheathed sword on hand.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Sir Renjiro exclaimed, absentmindedly agreeing. “Even if you use me as a weapon or a shield— anything for His Majesty!”

“Wait, halt!” Looking down Prince Floris with a high, half-exposed chin, reeking great bravery to face even a hundred men, he immediately changed his mind. He continued, “My Knights can take them all. There’s not a single reason for you to exhaust yourself further!”

“You are correct,” replied Prince Floris. Right then his voice softened, a sound that just might put anyone to a delightful rest, as if he was about to say something outside his comfort. "However, I would like to repent as this is partially my fault."

Before Sir Renjiro could rebuke, one of the bandits noticed the Prince was openly exposed, so he cried loudly, "He's there! Slit Alvar’s corrupted throat this instant!"

At every clap of the cloaked member sprinting around the place, the bandits were teleported one by one beyond the frontline chivalries to sprint towards the Prince so quickly that the magic’s white luminosity fades immediately from their bodies, indicating that they could only teleport one every clap. Because Prince Floris was in grave danger, the chivalries tried to pursue them as quickly as they could, running behind them.

Prince Floris ran in the bandit’s direction, and Sir Renjiro hastily followed.

Sir Renjiro was confused, and yelled, “What is His Royal Highness doing?!”

Before any of the sabres wielded by the bandits hit him, Prince Floris vanished. Sir Renjiro realized that the Prince would stealthily attack, so he immediately shifted every bandit's attention to him, baiting and fighting them head on.

The Prince's plan was similar to Sir Renjiro's realizations, but he would not be in the battlefield; instead, he'd eliminate the cloaked bandit, or the magic user. She had the appearance of a little woman, racing and avoiding every Knight who tried to take her down. Because her emphasis was on her comrades, Prince Floris observed her habits and saw that she would only run in circles.

Sir Renjiro had defeated two of the five remaining bandits, as expected, leaving them to be captured by the other Knights. This fact had made the cloaked bandit frightened, so she came to a halt when she realized no one was looking at her.

Though, she hadn’t anticipated that the Prince lurked from behind. When a sword's hilt heavily hit her nape, blackness covered her sight, and her body was caught by the invisible Prince before she fell head-on. Such a gentleman even towards enemies!

After abandoning her on the ground, the Prince reappeared, and Sir Renjiro ran towards him. The crowd erupted in applause as the Prince was revealed for the first time in years, and no one had anticipated the Prince would be able to defend himself without relying on Royal Guards for his entire person's safety.

Without a word, Sir Renjiro walked with a high level of alertness, grabbing an iron shield from a random Knight to cover the Prince's right side. Shortly, swarms of chivalries came to surround the Prince in a haste, leaving no gaps for arrows to try their chances. Right then, Prince Floris was panting profusely, his stomach churning violently while walking their way back to the Royal Palace.

A small opening appeared behind the castle doors, as if someone, or everyone, was peering through it. The massive doors welcomed them when they spotted the Prince and Sir Renjiro approaching.

Inside were the worried Dukes and Nobles in opulent red garments that came from the other golden carriages.

“Are you alright?” A calm Nobleman approached them wearing a fancy scarlet tunic. He chuckled after his hazel eyes scanned the Prince from toe to head. “Why did I even ask? Obviously you’re not.”

“I am alright, Duke Mejia,” Prince Floris insisted. Duke Mejia squinted his eyes at the Prince’s shoulder.

Duke Mejia neared the Prince’s half-exposed ear, and whispered, “Your shoulder is showing, and bleeding.”

When Prince Floris twisted his neck to the left and saw his porcelain flesh damaged, a long cut both on his shoulder and on his doublet; his gaze became bewildered. The wound was deep enough to leave a scar.

Perhaps he became untouchable a little too late when the arrow had shot him back in the carriage. He sheathed his sword, and just felt the sting on his left shoulder.

“Your Majesty, apologies for not noticing! Your outfit is now ruined…” Sir Renjiro half-whispered, feeling bad.

“It can be fixed,” Prince Floris hushed. But my scars cannot.

Duke Mejia placed a crimson handkerchief beside the Prince's shoulder, effectively allowing blood to seep into the clean linen, with his palm on top. Prince Floris, Duke Mejia, and Sir Renjiro left the King and the other Dukes and Duchesses to regain control of the situation, knowing that the event was not yet over. There will still be a supper with roughly two hundred Nobles which the three of their presences were highly significant so they had to prepare, because aristocracy were born to fancy themselves in a party regardless of any disruptions.

Baron Dolian was an exception.

That Nobleman stank of liquor and narcotics, and the uproar in the thoroughfare involving the Crown Prince caused him to whine and retreat to his sumptuous mansion. Due to his disappointment, he clutched the brown bottle fiercely, but he wasn't powerful enough to shatter it all over the area. His gut, on the other hand, was extremely powerful and capable of injuring anyone in his household.

Stepping inside his home, he found his first victim: a short-haired blonde woman that silently swept the wooden floor.

Baron Dolian laughed hoarsely, his signs of aging evident. With one brutal swing, the bottle would hit the blonde woman right in the head. He tossed the bottle, his tongue licked his chapped lips afterwards as he awaited the delight of a crying woman who bled like flowing water.

The bottle broke by a silent head that suddenly appeared before the woman. He had a good-looking face and long locks of beautiful black hair that swayed by his hasty movement that happened in the blink of Baron Dolian’s eye. The man who caught the bottle was indeed a handsome, young man, but he was tainted by a flow of blood that came gushing from his left temple.

The blonde woman dropped her broom, and screamed, “Onyx!”

“I’m fine, Suji. Dolian throws like an old man that he is,” Onyx had spoken the truth; not a single prickle of pain was felt, and Baron Dolian was indeed old, with his head nothing but a small unkempt beard.

Baron Dolian looked unhappy, since not one whimper came echoing.

Onyx’s green eyes scanned the carpeted floor just behind the three of them and saw even the tiniest brittle of glass flew that far from the impact, hiding behind the fluffs of brown wool. His eyebrows furrowed as he mentally cursed, knowing that it would be difficult to tidy up.

“You knucklehead, stay out of this! Are you a lady? Unless you yelp like a woman as you bleed, in which case you must scram!” Baron Dolian screamed and dashed towards Onyx like a toddler in tantrums. His fist threw one after the other, wobbly and weak, slow enough for Onyx to avoid with ease. Onyx’s mouth turned bitter; who would ever desire to come into contact with hands that have a dreadful history of crime?

“I don’t like my hands to touch this—” Onyx paused, finding the perfect insult. “This reeking fopdoodle!”

The more miserably Baron Dolian tried, the more disgusted Onyx became with people. Shitty old wifeless barefaced monster! Onyx yelled mentally. If he hadn't known he worked around religious people with a high sense of modesty, he would have cursed the entire world instead of allowing his emotions to fester inside his head. For some reason, other than disgust, Onyx doesn’t— or couldn't hit him.

Suji clasped her hands together, and prayed, “Please, someone from the above, place an end to Lord Dolian!”

Someone came running from the kitchen, and pang!— swung a pan on Baron Dolian’s head. He was skinny, and much shorter than Onyx and Suji. Suji’s prayer was immediately answered, hugging the boy to express her gratitude. Onyx watched Dolian fall head-on, and it made him sigh of relief.

“Nice, Quillan.” Onyx unwillingly pinched the back fabric of Baron Dolian’s red tunic.

“Thank you for saving us!” Quillan cried, bowing his upper torso in an old brown tunic at Onyx as if he was Royalty.

Onyx gazed at him lazily, and despised what he was seeing. “You saved yourselves. Stop and stand up.”

Bowing was indeed a gesture to respect all of Nobility, so it was no surprise why it felt unnatural for Onyx, since he was no different than them: a common peasant. Quillan jolted his body upwards, and timidly dismissed himself back into the kitchen with the pan.

“Thank you, Onyx. I thought I would get an ugly scar as a New Year present…” Suji nervously laughed, and even if Onyx was visibly uncomfortable with the gesture, she, too, bowed to him quickly. Before Suji picked her broom and dustpan back in her hands, evident of labor, rough and scarred, she said, “Even if it seems hopeless, I hope your New Year’s resolutions come true.”

Now that no one was looking, Onyx effortlessly lifted up Baron Dolian as if he were some sort of thin rug, raising the red fabric on his back. He was disgusted despite the fact that he was merely clutching Baron Dolian's garment that he held his breath entirely. He tossed him by the mattress, which, unlike the other mattresses in the mansion, appeared to be filthy. Nobody bothered to clean Baron Dolian's, nor did he himself had realized that he was lying on his own dried perspiration and spit.

Before he could ever leave, his demeanor suddenly shifted dramatically.

Onyx moved slowly and cautiously away from the doorsill to approach Baron Dolian, who snored in his sleep. His hand eventually rose over the Baron's, and he watched as his nails developed, succinct and sharper than a knife scraped against a whetstone day in day out. In the dim light, his eyes blazed, and he could feel his canines growing, prepping his powerful jaw to devour anything. His heart never raced when he was cleaning the three-story mansion all day, but it did when he saw the Baron is his most vulnerable; wide open.

He thirsted for the Baron’s blood.

Before he could mark any flesh, a young child flowing blood from his waist, staining his unnaturally white physical features and clothes in a high saturated red, emerged in his head; his body began to resemble that of a human once more in a hasty snap, his hand stopping midway with normal-length nails.

“Fuck.” Onyx panted loudly, clutching the tunic above his heart that was about to slip out his dry throat, terrified of what he had attempted.

Onyx's motive to kill was all moved by anger; it was unclear as the foggy hills.

When he was out of the orange-walled room, cold sweat slid off his bloody temple. Onyx then sprinted towards the bathroom, washing his hands once or thrice. A handful of cold water splashed on his face, followed by soap suds to remove the crimson that was fortunately his, not from another.

That white child, who felt familiar to him at the depths of his hazy mind, saved him once more, countless times that he couldn't even recall.

“Like I had the guts to snap him in half…” he commented offhandedly. He only loathed to endure this every day, but in the end, he was still a quite decent youngster.

When he gazed at his own reflection, his troubled face was flawless— and his temple had no wound or scar, just tiny brittles of brown tinted glass that could be removed using his nails to pinch and pull it off. The lengthy process made his heart calm just like that, as if he’s facing the temptation to kill day by day, as if it’s nothing new.

Now that he was neat and healed, there was not an excuse to stop him from working.

But there was a Year-End event. Neither the holidays nor the celebrations had he paid any heed for, but this particular occurrence made him want to rest and reflect, especially as he had yet again tried to commit unlawful acts.

Even so, it didn't feel like there was a celebration in the mansion; no joy, no fond memories, no delectable dinners glistening beneath the lit hanging candelabras— as if Baron Dolian would ever feed them in the first place. Its ambiance was more appropriate for a burial, gloomy and dark. So Onyx made his way to the Wiesel Residence's garden, full of life and blooming color, which he had tended for years.

The New Year was magnificent for Nobles, with new three hundred sixty-five days to collect taxes and get richer, but it was unordinary for peasants, who seemed to be counting down the days of demise as they were mistreated and forgotten without a single penny after the sunset. At least, that was how Onyx had experienced with Dolian.

He felt that the ending year was no different.

“How can I even tell if this year was the same as the others?” Onyx mumbled, cupping his face, two fingers left a space for his sharp nose to be exposed. “I don’t even remember a damned thing.”

Sitting on a prairie with his legs crossed, his gaze drifted to his feet, where he discovered the same brittle glasses he had pulled from his temple were embedded in his bare feet, pinned under his skin like nails hammered in wood. He groaned, and an eyebrow arched. “Huh? Where the hell did these even come from. What a shitty life— as shitty as my feet.”

While his nails carefully pulled the brittle one by one, a white butterfly fluttered past his nose towards the saplings, as if it meant to get his attention. When the butterfly had gone far, he could still see it clearly even though they were meters away.

He suddenly remembered Suji’s words, “I hope your New Year’s resolutions come true.”

“New Year’s resolution, huh…” Onyx half-whispered to himself, and started to think, leaving his bloody feet. Despite his unwanted situation, he was somehow positive that he would be able to run free, unrestricted by Baron Dolian’s control, and his workmates would never be harmed any longer.

While he was contemplating, his attention went toward the same butterfly in the color of purity, approaching a thin branch that hung a lonely, black cocoon. That butterfly laid on top of the branch, as if it was watching, waiting for the life that would break out of it. It’s such a delightful sight in its shallowness, but Onyx could think of deep, meaningful ideas behind the small, dark silk casing.

“I wish to have the courage to break out of my own shell,” he whispered, clutching his left waist under his brown tunic with sheathed nails, and the sudden scent of metallic blood gradually circulated him. His nails dug deep in his flesh, and dragged his hand near his belly button regardless. “Scram away this hellhole to show who I really am.”

He was alone as he watched the sunset, his ears picking up a faint cacophony of noise from afar. It might be a public gathering, and he'd never gone to one before, so he'd have no idea why they were so loud or for whom they were so boisterous. The breeze that smelled of blood that got stronger every second, caressed his relaxed physique— a physique which was far too capable to be a mere house slave.

“Onyx!” He heard Quillan shouting from behind, causing him to be startled. On the other hand, Quillan was surprised that he made Onyx react in a way, since Onyx was never known to be jumpy, instead was courageous and unmoved like the mountains. Little had he known that Onyx just attempted to bury the image of his right hand stained with his bloody waist.

A well-cooked dish filtered the metallic scent, causing Onyx’s head to turn around. He saw a wooden plate in Quillan’s rough hands that withheld a seasoned chicken, juicy and tender. Meat was expensive, so Onyx wondered where it came from, and was frightened that Quillan may have stolen it from their Baron’ personal fridge, since even god doesn't even know what that horrible Baron would do.

“I was saving for us to have a meal for a month so we can celebrate this year's end to make it less dull.” Quillan laughed, and Onyx couldn’t help but chuckle. It was so thoughtful of him to think about the gladness of others, even if they could hardly fend for themselves. He waited for Quillan to turn around.

And when he did, Onyx had one look at the black cocoon, then left it, running back to the mansion concealing his injuries.

Even if his eyesight was sharp and precise, he failed to pay attention and acknowledge the white butterfly, who was now patiently and elegantly caressing the black cocoon. It sat there, even when the New Year had already welcomed the Kingdom of Veistanlu.

Two months had passed— the white butterfly remained still.