Epilogue II ‒ The Bloom of Steel and Smoke
Epilogue II ‒ The Bloom of Steel and Smoke
The dim light of the chamber trembled against stone walls, wavering like hope itself. The [Purification Essence]—now diluted to a pink-hued elixir—rested gently in Lira’s trembling hands. She knelt beside the grand bed where Prince Lucien lay, unmoving but not yet lost. His pale skin bore the tint of death and decay, bark-like fissures running along his arms and neck, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a fragile rhythm.
Queen Mireille sat by his side, her posture stiff with unease. Her hands, wrapped in silk gloves, clasped each other as if in prayer. Her breath caught at every twitch of her son’s frail body.
“Your Majesty,” Lira said softly, almost afraid to break the silence. “I’m administering it now.”
The potion touched Lucien’s lips. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then his body seized.
His fingers clawed at the sheets, the tendons in his neck straining, as if something ancient and cruel inside him resisted the healing. A low, choked scream gurgled from his throat. The Queen stood abruptly, her chair screeching back against the floor.
“Lucien?!”
The room filled with an acrid, scorched stench—like burning sap and rotted roots. Lira gagged on the bitterness in the air, blinking away tears that weren’t hers. The Queen turned her face away for a moment, but her hands never left Lucien’s. For all her grace and poise, she clutched him like a lifeline—as if sheer love might anchor his soul to this world.
The vines on his body recoiled, shrivelling, crackling into ash. His cracked skin regained its hue—colour flooding back like dawn after a storm. Light returned to his eyes, flickering weakly… then stabilizing.
And then, with a final cry of pain, Prince Lucien collapsed into stillness.
“Lucien!” Mireille’s voice cracked as she rushed to him, cradling his face with trembling hands. “Lira—what is happening?!”
The herbalist steadied her voice. “It’s the corruption. His body’s purging it. That black smoke—it’s the essence of the decay being forced out. I may have… I may have left the dose a bit strong. I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. He needs rest, and next time, we’ll dilute it further.”
Lira swallowed hard, her knuckles white around the empty vial. This had been her final prepared dose. She’d brewed it with trembling hands and a prayer whispered into each crushed petal. Had she been reckless? Had she nearly—
She forced the thought away. Lucien was breathing. That was all that mattered.
The Queen looked down at her son. His breathing was calm now, the tension in his limbs gone. She slowly let out the breath she’d been holding since the ordeal began.
Her voice was quiet. “He’s sleeping…”
She turned her head to the side. “Theodore, I—”
But the space beside the wall where he had stood was empty.
Gone.
Only the soft flutter of a curtain hinted at his departure.
---
In the cold stillness of the palace corridor, moonlight filtered through stained-glass windows, painting the floor in swaths of crimson and silver. Nyelisse walked at Theodore’s side, her steps swift yet measured. He kept his cloak wrapped tightly around himself, the sword at his belt no longer ceremonial, but worn with purpose.
A voice—deep, smooth, and powerful—rose from the silence.
“Are you leaving already?”
The two halted. Standing at the top of the staircase was King Orlan, his robes flowing like dark ocean tides, his silver crown casting a faint glint in the moonlight.
Nyelisse instinctively dropped to one knee. Theodore, however, met his father’s eyes without hesitation.
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“Yes, Father,” he said. “I’ll be taking my leave. I only returned because I heard of Lucien’s illness. Now that he’s safe… I promise I will never step foot in this palace again.”
Orlan’s gaze did not waver.
“I ask you this not as your King,” he said. “But as your father. Theodore—are you happy?”
Theodore’s lips curved, a tired but genuine smile forming as he glanced sideways at Nyelisse. She remained knelt beside him, her eyes flickering upward in confusion.
“I am,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because the path I walk now is one I chose. And as long as she walks beside me… I have nothing to regret.”
Nyelisse blinked rapidly, her face tinged scarlet. “W-What are you even saying right now…?!”
Before she could finish scolding him, a sharp crash echoed through the corridor, followed by the ringing of steel clashing.
Theodore’s face paled.
Nyelisse’s head snapped up. “That sound—it’s from the direction of second prince’s chamber!”
Without waiting, she dashed ahead, sword already halfway drawn. Theodore hurried after her, heart hammering in his chest. King Orlan stepped toward the window, gazing up at the vast night sky.
The moon hung heavy, full and watching.
“So… you’ve finally decided to show your true colours.”
---
The second prince’s chamber was in chaos.
Sir Caldus, back straight and unflinching, clashed swords with Baldwin. Sparks flew in all directions as steel met steel. Baldwin’s smirk widened as he pushed forward with savage force.
“You’ve still got strength in those old bones, Sir Caldus,” he sneered. “Almost makes me miss my training days.”
Caldus gritted his teeth and parried hard, forcing Baldwin back two paces. “You forget—I was the one who trained you. And I remember every flaw in your stance.”
He drove Baldwin back further with a flurry of strikes, a fire in his limbs that defied his age. Just as he was about to strike a finishing blow—
A voice interrupted.
“Surrender now, Caldus,” came Sylas’s mocking drawl. “Drop your weapon, or I’ll kill the second prince.”
Caldus froze.
Across the room, Sylas had hoisted Lucien’s unconscious body against himself like a shield, a dagger pressed against the young prince’s throat. His hands shook slightly, but the dagger was steady.
Caldus’s eyes darted—counting feet, exits, distance. Baldwin had angled himself between the door and the bed. Sylas’s grip on Lucien was clumsy but desperate.
A wrong step, and they’d lose the prince.
Again.
Caldus growled. “You coward.”
Baldwin took the opportunity, slamming his pommel into Caldus’s wrist. The older knight’s sword flew from his hand, clattering to the floor.
“You should’ve just retired, old man,” Baldwin spat, breathing heavily.
“Release Prince Lucien,” Caldus snapped.
Sylas chuckled. “Why would I? He’s my bargaining chip. Once I let go of him, you’ll overwhelm me in seconds.”
“You…” Caldus began.
“You don’t have a choice,” Sylas said, dragging Lucien toward the door. “Now move. Step aside. Or the prince dies here and now.”
Baldwin lifted his sword, voice dripping with disdain. “I never liked you, old man. I’ve waited a long time for this—”
“HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT MY FATHER?!”
The door slammed open.
Nyelisse stormed into the room like a thunderclap.
Her sword flashed forward. The tip pierced Baldwin’s hand, forcing him to drop his weapon with a howl of pain. In the same breath, her blade swept across his chest in a clean arc. Blood spurted as he collapsed, gasping, clutching the crimson gash seeping through his armour.
Sylas stepped back, dragging Lucien closer, panic overtaking his earlier smugness. “No… wait—step back! I’ll do it! I’ll kill the second prince!”
“Then go ahead!” Nyelisse shouted, face ablaze. “Do it! You’ll still never escape the consequences!”
Caldus, recovering his weapon, placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“No, Nyelisse. Wait. We can’t let him die. Even though you dislike him… he’s still—”
Sylas flinched, eyes wide, trying to calculate his next move.
“Yes… yes. Now stay back. I mean it!” he barked.
He slowly exited the room, dagger still pressed to Lucien’s throat, dragging the prince’s limp weight. His breath grew ragged. He was almost at the outer hallway.
His thoughts raced—once he reached the courtyard, he’d use the tunnels. The old aqueduct. Bribe a merchant. He had gold, connections. Lucien was his last shield—no, his only one. Without the prince, the moment the knights found him, they would tear him apart. He had to move fast. He had to—
Schlick.
A short, blunt blade embedded itself in his back.
Sylas let out a strangled cry, his grip loosening. The dagger clattered to the ground. He collapsed, his legs buckling beneath him.
Lucien slid gently to the floor.
Sylas turned his head, barely able to see—
Blood dripped from the hilt as the small blade quivered in Sylas’s back.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—half-limping, chest heaving.
Theodore smiled.
“Told you… I’ve been… getting better… with the sword.”
Sylas tried to reach for the blade again—but before his fingers touched the hilt, Nyelisse dashed forward and drove her heel into his skull. The force sent Sylas unconscious, body limp.
She turned toward Theodore.
He was swaying slightly, his knees trembling.
“Theo!” she cried, catching him by the arm. “Are you alright?! Are you insane?! You could’ve gotten hurt—what would I do if something happened to you?!”
“Don’t worry…” Theodore said with a soft grin, as he leaned gently against her for balance, catching his breath between gasps. “I’ll just train extra hard. So one day… you can rely on me.”
Nyelisse blinked, stunned into silence.
Her mouth opened—ready to scold, or perhaps to laugh—but no words came. Something in the way he smiled, sheepish and proud at once, tugged at the tight knots in her chest. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her fingers closed around his hand, steadying him with a quiet strength of her own.
She didn’t let go.