THE BRUSH SHOOK in Ladislas's hand as he put the final touches on his current painting. This one was different, for he would not stow it beneath his bed to collect dust—it was a gift for his grief-stricken mother. No matter how much it pained him to look at it, the young prince poured all of his despair into the eyes of his dead siblings.

       He needed to capture the life they had once beheld, before the light had been stolen from them.

       Before their souls had been taken.

       Across each of their faces trailed Ladislas's loving gaze, laced with despondency that could never be alleviated. They had been beautiful—he could never, never do their faces justice.

       Five-year-old Lysanios, ten-year-old Orithyia and fourteen-year-old Iristain had been gone from the world for three months. It seemed that Ladislas's remaining joviality had been cast into oblivion along with them.

       But he was not the only one.

       Prince Raolet, the eldest of the three remaining brothers, had been starving himself since the deaths, only eating the bare minimum required to live. As a result, his skin had grown sallow and his eyes sunken. He no longer had the healthy glow of a future king with all of the ambition in the world.

       Prince Ixidor, the second-born, rarely left his room anymore. The brooding prince had once brought wise-cracks and mischief into the lives of his loved ones. He had fallen apart—perhaps even more so than the others, because he was the one to constantly keep his emotions pent up inside of him.

       A light breeze brought Ladislas's wandering mind back to the present—his window was cracked open just enough to allow fresh air to seep through. He sighed and set down his completed painting to let it dry. Then, he dropped his paintbrush into a cup filled with murky grey water and set it down on his nightstand.

       Reaching idly beneath his bed for the one painting that made his heart race like no other, his nimble fingers met with a stack of them. He trailed them downwards, counting out four canvases and then pulling the fifth out from the pile. His eyes nervously flickered to his door to check that it was still locked. Then, he allowed himself to indulge in his memories.

       The paint and each of the colours swirled to create the silhouettes of two boys kissing amidst the lisianthuses. The corners of his eyes softened at the familiar sight; the sky in his painting was so blue and the sun was so bright that he could almost pretend that day hadn't been harrowing. A tingling sensation ran through his lips. He relived the precious, seraphic moment they'd shared before being unceremoniously interrupted.

       Prince Ladislas of Naryllitsa was completely, utterly heartsick, for he had not seen Thaddeus Viriildia for three months.

       Not since that fateful day.

       In his grief over his siblings, he had sought Thaddeus's touch and yearned for his strong arms to encircle him. He had craved him more than ever.

       But the cavalier had never once returned. It was unbeknownst what had truly spooked him to the point of no return: the kiss, the murders, or both. Sometimes, Ladislas wondered if he had run away from the danger or from the appearance of his true, sinning self. Nevertheless, he couldn't bring himself to be angry with Thaddeus. He just felt empty.

       And weak.

       Always weak.

       A flicker of colour by his window caught the prince's eye and he jerked his head in its direction, only to see a butterfly flitting through the open window. It seemed to gravitate towards him and had soon perched itself upon his arm. He remained very still so as not to frighten it away. Though this happened to him at least twice a month, he was still in complete awe every time.

       As his mother had always told him, butterflies could sense the gentlest of souls. That, she claimed, was why they tended to love him so much—because of his irresistibly gentle soul.

       The way its blue wings caught the light inspired Ladislas to paint, but he shook his head adamantly. "No," he whispered. "I must first give Mother my gift."

       Reluctantly, he threw his legs over the side of his bed, taking care to keep his arm steady. He then walked over to the window, caressed the butterfly with careful fingertips, and released the fragile creature into the open air.

       He carefully put the painting of his vanished lover back in its place, brushed his fingers through his tousled brown hair and snatched up the piece with his siblings' bright faces. He turned it over—he had almost forgotten that he'd written on the back. There, in obsidian ink, stark against the bone white of the canvas, was his clumsy calligraphy.

       And words that had induced tears to write.

Delve into the void of death,
My three little angels—
Delve as deep as you might.
We shall meet in Heaven,
My three little angels—
You are nearly lost, but not quite.

       It was a outright lie—and a painful one. Ladislas knew he was most likely going to Hell for his sins, after all. He had felt guilty writing it, but it didn't matter. He owed this promise—albeit an empty one—to them.

       As the prince glided towards the door, he braced himself to give the painting to his mother. She was in her room, for she was pregnant once again and would be giving birth any day. He hoped she wouldn't cry when she saw it, but such a thing was probably ineluctable. The one thing Ladislas hoped was that his father wasn't there. Since the deaths of the three children, he despised the king more than ever.

       He strode through the endless corridors, flying past the many doors until he reached the one he sought. It was all the way at the end and couldn't be missed, for it was the one with the pair of large, solid gold doors. There was also a row of guards standing before it, but not a single one moved a muscle as he passed. Pausing before the door, Ladislas gripped the edges of the canvas until his knuckles turned white. Tentatively, he raised his hand to it and knocked softly, so as not to startle her.

       The queen's handmaiden was the one to open the door. Upon seeing the prince, she curtsied.

       "Your Highness," she muttered in a small voice, "Her Majesty is resting at the moment. I will tell her that—"

       An exhausted slur interrupted the handmaiden swiftly. "No, Sedille, I'm awake," said the queen, clearly tired down to the very core—for more reason than one. "It is fine, you may let him in. Is that Raolet, Ixidor or Ladislas?"

       Ladislas stepped into the room. "It is I, Mother," he said gently, clutching the painting against his chest.

       The palace's master bedroom was one of the most lavish parts of the castle. Ladislas would've hated sleeping there. The carpet was burgundy, the walls a shade of gold that was too bright for his taste. The bed, the wardrobe, the bedside tables—they all had too many intricate carvings and embellishments. Ladislas preferred simpler things.

       Queen Roswina propped herself up onto the mountain of pillows she was lying on. Her hands were on her swollen belly, as if to cradle her unborn child in her hands. Her light brown hair was pushed back, out of her face, and freckles dotted her pale, moonlight skin. She had hazel eyes that were rather protuberant, but lovely nonetheless—Ladislas's had the exact same shape, despite his being a different colour.

       "Ladislas!" she said, smiling at him endearingly. She beckoned for him and squinted. "Come here, darling. What's that you're holding?"

       The boy immediately knelt at her bedside and, ignoring her previous question, said, "How are you feeling, Mother?"

       "Well, I shall certainly be much better once I have this baby. It will probably be a fat little child; I have gotten much bigger than I ever did with... any of you," she said, chuckling lightly. A soft, tinkling sound rang throughout the room. The queen then turned to look at the handmaiden and told her, "You may leave us, Sedille. I will call for you if I need anything."

       Once the door swung shut, Ladislas finally said, "Mother, I have something for you."

       His teeth chattered as he turned the painting around to show it to her. At first, he regretted it—what if it was too much?

       What if it only caused her anguish?

       "Sweetheart—oh, my sweet boy," she said, placing her hand over her own heart. Her words eased his worry. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes, but she continued smiling anyway. The brightness of her smile alone could light a thousand dark rooms. "It is beautiful. It's as if you've given them back the gift of life."

       He leaned down to kiss her cheek. When he did so, she grabbed one of his hands and placed it over her belly.

       "You'll protect this little one, won't you?" his mother sighed almost pleadingly. "I know you will."

       "Always."