April 22, 1779

‘Tis nothing but a loveless marriage; Eldred is always out there as I am sitting on the Queen's Throne like a porcelain doll. I may find the dolls pretty, yet there is sure reason to why I am born human, and that is having the will to act upon my own choices.

Ah, yes, when he is not around, I am at peace. I reach peak serenity and hear the zephyr coming from my homeland, beckoning me to return. I desire to escape at every spall of opportunities, but I do not do so.

The palace feels so big.

And I feel so small.

However, today and all the other days, my precious Vante tapped on the glass panes on the other side of the kaleidoscopic window, ignoring the maids for he wanted my company instead. Without a care, I easily slipped away from my golden seat and ran towards the outside—where my seven sons were waiting.

I spent my afternoon well. We had tea and brioche. Eugene made a mess to bake such a delicious treat. He was the oldest among the seven, yet I let him act his age. Even young birds take time to spread their wings and fly until they can build their own nest.

Agustus has matured and would become shy when I try to baby him. I miss pinching his cheeks. Despite his feline-like behavior, I was surprised that he wanted a dog. He would call it Holly, for he was enraptured by the tree's evergreen leaves and red berries as of late. Perhaps I can grant his wish once he turns 18.

Jacob was very playful and active despite Nathaniel's attempt to read stories with me at that time. Fortunate for me, I managed to convince them to share their activities with each other. I enjoy it whenever they get along. Being open to new wonders is good. It is admirable when they accept their differences.

Tayden was a bit silent. What in heaven's name is Eldred teaching him now? I will have a word with that man. My sweet boy does not need to waste a breath for his clownery. Eldred cannot lay a finger on my son whilst I am here.

Vante told me about him dreaming to be a wizard, which I thought was amusing. Our world is not made of magic, but I do believe in the miracles created of love. Love casts a very strong spell that can even break the boundaries of time. That, I believe, is my valued definition of magic.

Jacque did his best to catch up with his brothers today. He can only watch and imitate their actions, so he sat on my lap the whole endeavor. I do not worry. I know he will grow to be a fine man. His brothers adore him as much as I do.

I played the piano for them today. Although my heart was expressing the melancholia constantly breaking me in a slow and painful manner, in spite of my desires to go home where doves coo, I stay here. The palace did not feel so big and I did not feel so small...when my children are with me. 

The people of Grand are angry with their king, but it is not necessary for these little ones to take part of their curses. It is a good thing that I prevailed in giving out the order as queen. Their identities are hidden, safe.

All my life, I thought I would never discover the magic of love, yet I did. I thank my seven sons for that.

Isabella

Briar Rosette finished reading the entry, closing the leather-bound notebook in her hands. She was robbed of speech, her head hung low as she patiently waited for someone else to occupy the attention she vacated.

She sat down, her mind filled with delineated imaginations that drew pictures of memories that weren't hers as though she had been possessed by the departed queen's ghost while narrating her handwriting of feather pen and ink.

The seven princes of Grand sat at the Round Table, their faces displaying many emotions except that of joy. There was a hint of nostalgic recollections, but they couldn't smile. How could they when they just heard their mother's voice faintly chiming like faraway bells, her thoughts exposed to them so beauteously raw?

Like that tragic night, a fire within them rekindled.

“Let us commence Prelude, shall we?” Prince Eugene Brancen spoke, clasping his hands like a strategist gearing up for a game. And in this game, he doesn't want to lose.

The Heir's seven members of the Assemblage nodded, totally synchronized with eyes alight.

“Rosette,” he gave her a look of ignition, “you know what to do.”

She smiled, glancing at the fourth and the seventh-born. “You heard the boss. Lezgetit.”

“Lezgetit?” chuckled Prince Jacque out of piqued interest. The atmosphere automatically brightened, which meant the maiden was successful in lifting their spirits. She didn't like seeing them sad.

“What she refers to as slang, I assume.” Prince Nathaniel said with folded arms. “She also told me about this... Application Twitter.”

Prince Jacob Erhart was genuinely shocked and fascinated at the same time. “The folk of the 21st century apply for bird language?!”

At his statement, Rosette lurched forward and burst out laughing.

“Oh, look at that. The woman is entertained by our ignorance.” Prince Nathaniel snorted, adjusting his glasses. “We have slang too, you know.”

There was a small smirk on Prince Vante Osburne's handsome features as he leaned backward against his chair. “I remember you say that Father must be dicked in the nob some years ago.”

The maiden choked on her own saliva.

“Of course, I don't talk like an apothecary.” The fourth-born casually replied. “And, might I add, those folk of Twitter are probably just a bunch of muffin-wallopers!”

Their jargons were absolutely appalling. Rosette didn't comprehend a thing, yet she already felt very insulted.

Prince Agustus stared at her with his cheek rested onto his palm. He had been quiet for a while, but he decided to play along. He didn't want to seem too affectionate for her, so he sneered mischievously, like a Cheshire Cat. “She must be betwattled by now.”

Contrarily, the said female didn't give in to his pleasure. “How come I never picked up these lines for the past two and a half months?”

“It is clearly inappropriate for royalty to indulge such,” explained the Heir, but his face was bloated and red as if he was ready to explode from holding his laughs, “so we tend to avoid it. Although...”

He couldn't handle it anymore and released a piercing guffaw, the sound of it like wiping the windshield of Rosette's family car.

“Gin likes it.” Prince Nathaniel simplified, having an intuition that their eldest won't be able to stop anytime soon. “That's another purpose to his nickname. He always swallows a hare.”

“Swallows a what?” echoed the maiden in horror.

Prince Jacque beamed, which stupefied her because he should be the most troubled since his face was similar to the animal. “It's not what you think, Rosie. He meant that Eugene is always excessive when he drinks. That's why he's nicknamed Gin, the colorless alcoholic beverage.”

Embarrassment pinked her cheeks as Rosette glared at the snickering bespectacled prince. “Enjoying yourself, huh.”

“Guilty,” the fourth-born cockily grinned, “revenge is best tasted like peaches and cream—sweeter than sweet.”

“I learned a few words of your lot as well, thanks to my readings.” She huffed with a hand to her hip. “How about I call you Prince Eavesdropping Barnacles instead?”

He gasped.

Everyone howled in boisterous laughter. Some hammered on the Round Table while others clapped comparable to exuberant seals. Even Prince Tayden Pharrell failed to restrain a smile.

Oh, it worked. Rosette secretly glimpsed at him, unknowingly repaying what he did for her back then and repeated those exact words. You finally smiled.

Rosette's POV

We were an unlikely trio.

I recapped that short and tense moment we had before, when Prince Jacque confronted me about the page that flew out the door of my bedchambers and Prince Nathaniel intervened to help me egress the situation.

Since the truth was finally exposed, here we are...alone in the atelier that was once Prince Jacque's solitary confinement.

“You painted these?!” the newcomer behind us motioned towards the group of canvases that stood at every side of the room.

The youngest shyly scratched his jaw with his index finger. “Yes...?”

“Then you should have them plastered on the palace walls!” Prince Nathaniel encouraged, amazed by his brother's multiple talents in artistry. “It's dreadfully boring that only this woman's portraits are honored!”

I rolled my eyes at him with a smile, understanding the true meaning of what he said. I then spun to my fellow painter. “I agree with him, Jack. You should show them off!”

Our compliments made him blush.

“Maybe after everything is settled.” He decided. “Right now, we must focus on our duties. The fate of our kingdom depends on us.”

Prince Nathaniel and I exchanged looks. We both raised our brows, impressed.

“Mother would be so proud of you.” The older brother gave him an acknowledging pat on the shoulders.

I watched them share a bittersweet smile.

Without further ado, we began the task assigned to us by the Heir. While the other princes pretend to keep up the mundane lifestyle, our small group crafts the beginning of the end in this cramped atelier.

I felt my wrist flick to maneuver the brush that was dipped in hot vermilion, sweeping harshly to form the flames engulfing brick walls. In another canvas, I painted the townspeople—the hundreds of the innocent, the hungry, the enraged—raising their torches beneath the bright full moon. And to a couple, I painted the monster dawdling on the throne with blood-colored wine wrapped around his knobby fingers, a pile of useless treasures that he claimed to own at his feet.

Prince Jacque helped me paint under my instructions as how I translated the concepts Prince Nathaniel provided based on his insights of this significant matter into visual images. With this combination of ideas, ingenuity, and skill, we were able to portray the message we wanted to convey properly: that we need a Revolution.

We have to remind that foolish ruler that the people can be more powerful than the king.

We, the unlikely trio, found ourselves dragging a cartwheel of paintings downhill at the strike of midnight, the tree-strewn path welcoming us and our exhausted feet. We avoided using a lantern, avoided unnecessary attention, so my eyes adjusted to the dark after a few blinks.

“I thought we fulfilled our role,” complained Prince Nathaniel in a low rumble like the sound of the rickety wheels bumping past the rocks and twigs, “why are we the ones doing this arduous task? We literally have a bear among us and it baffles me that we are not putting him to good use!”

I grunted when my end of the cartwheel plunged into a narrow pit of the ground. “Bear?”

“It's slang for a very gruff person.” Prince Jacque offered to expound, heaving at the front. “I presume he's implying that this could've been Jacob's job.”

“Seems like he's not done with me and the slangs yet.” I muttered without letting them hear me. Subsequently, I whipped my head to the man struggling at my right. “Jacob is appointed to a different task. I will be joining him there, too. I should be the one whining, but I'm not. Do the same.”

Prince Nathaniel pouted. “B-But my precious hands created from the marvelous phenomena of life and gifted with quintessential talents of the nine muses...”

I snorted at that. “Save your silver-tongued excuse for something else.”

The young prince who was taking the lead whistled a regaled tune. “What a way to make his mouth shut.”

“Perhaps the 21st century lost morals.” Prince Nathaniel huffed, pushing the cartwheel with every fiber of his strength.

I could see the stars through the rifts of the filmy cirrus clouds when I looked up. I had bad experiences regarding nighttimes, yet because of the twinkling heavens and these two men beside me, it wasn't scary.

“I'm okay with the hassle nonetheless.” I said, beaming. “The view seen from here is beautiful.”

Curious, they followed my gaze. Trees spiraled towards the sky and the breeze is cold against my skin. The redolence of grassy earth and flowerbeds overwhelm me once I breathed it all in. I never really got to appreciate these things back in my world. When I return, I'll certainly stare at the busy streets, the city lights, the amber sky, the television and the channels that contain a variety of stories. I'll stare at them as though they were wonders.

And I'll certainly miss this world.

“It's a shame History can't record these kind of moments, and I can't read about us having this conversation, read a paragraph about the unlikely trio dragging a cartwheel of paintings downhill at the strike of midnight.” I weakly giggled, wiping a corner of my eye. “But the stars will cherish and store our memories until your future and the future of my future. The stars I see here will be the same stars I'll see back there.”

“Then we must thank the stars!” smiled Prince Jacque.

“Yes,” I replied, rebounding his joviality, “how fortunate we are to have them watch over us.”

“You guys are striving to be the next William Shakespeare.” The man from my right interjected with a clever comment.

“Hmm,” I said out of familiarity, “your Great Uncle Willy. He married a lady named Anne Hathaway, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Did you know there's a woman with the same name as hers in the 21st century who has a husband with a face eerily similar to the Bard?”

Prince Jacque was amazed. “T-That is quite romantic.”

“So they meet again,” the bespectacled royal registered the information, unshaken.

I nodded, oblivious to my voice fading. “They meet again...”

I became silent.

They meet again.

I didn't notice that I was in a state of reverie until Prince Nathaniel pulled me out of it by ruffling my hair. I gaped at him for a second. His lips curved upward as a sign of reassurance. Above his head, I could catch the sight of the stars.

Journeys end in lovers' meeting.

I exhaled, acknowledging him with a meek grin.

“This cart is getting heavier...” Prince Jacque maundered, which then resulted in me and his brother realizing that we weren't gripping onto our parts properly. We hurriedly went to position and rejoined the youngest, the cartwheel speeding up to its original pace.

“Whoops,” I laughed. Their chuckles erupted not long after. Maybe the feeling I had at this moment was contagious. Maybe it was theirs. Regardless, I just wanted to let the stars know, to let them know that this was a memory that should be cherished and recorded.

And if History doesn't record it, then they will.

The stars will record this for us.

Third Person's POV

Morning has arrived in the Kingdom of Grand. The sun speckled golden hues across the village cobblestone. The birds flapped from one rooftop to another. The wee hours were an entrance to a brand new day.

Still, it was unlikely to find a mass of townspeople flocked together at the Village Center when they were supposed to be in their houses doing their respective, daily routines. Instead of starting the house chores, wives were gossiping and whispering around. Their husbands were pointing, continuously pointing, towards none other than the exhibition of paintings modeling on the stage. Inquisitive children ran to their parents, prying at the objects that were causing so much commotion.

“Make way! Make way!” the soldiers yelled as they walked through the crowd, shoving the folk without a tremble of hesitation.

They were like bees towards rare pollen. The display was enough for the rest of the soldiers to observe with mouths agape. The men managed to grab one despite the public's efforts to retrieve it from them.

Victorious, they jumped onto their horses and rode back to the palace.

The innkeeper, Mr. Gudmund, hopped on the stage and elevated his fist high up in the air. There was virulence in his eyes, vigor in his body, and valor in his soul. He forced himself to sleep past the twenty years of suffering.

But now, he was wide awake.

“We have a Harbinger! A Harbinger of Revolution!” he announced in a booming volume. The people cheered.

“Revolution! Revolution! Revolution!” everyone shouted, their knuckles white as they mimicked him.

They were loud. They wanted to be loud. It was unlikely to find a mass of townspeople flocked together at the Village Center when they were supposed to be in their houses doing their respective, daily routines.

But they wanted to be heard.

“I hear you well.” King Eldred gritted his teeth in annoyance, rubbing his temples. He impatiently waited in his personal dining room with restless tapping feet. Once his soldiers appeared, he immediately rises and brushes back his furry cape. “Cease their infernal yapping! Can I not have breakfast in peace?!”

His men bowed.

“Why are those idiots chanting nonsense so early in the morning?!”

“It is because of this, Your Majesty.”

They presented the canvas.

“A painting?” he frowned, stretching his arm to the soldiers. “Come hither.”

They brought the item to him just several inches away from where he stood. He perceived the message of the portrait, seeing a reflection of himself that revealed his true image, a villainous aura enveloping him and the throne. His expression darkened, thumb sliding across the dry paint.

“Throw it away. If there are more, then throw everything. I permit you to use your weapons against any individual who defies my order.” He stated, sitting back down. “Be off. And make sure they stop that racket.”

“As Your Majesty says so, we shall.”

The soldiers were ready to march out of the dining room.

“Halt.” King Eldred uttered, the pitch of it so terrifying that it made his men quiver in their boots. They automatically wondered what they did wrong, what word they could've replaced with a better one, and if they were about to get punished.

However, the king's focus wasn't on them.

He was fixated on the painting.

Upon closer inspection, he recognized the style of the artwork. The selection of the color palette, the movement of the strokes, the realistic design of the character—they were all connected to someone he very much knew.

Since she had been working under him all this time.

Furious, he roughly flipped the long table. Expensive plates, glass, and wine bottles shattered to the floor. Premium food made by high-class chefs were wasted. Servants screamed and scattered away, exiting the vicinity. The soldiers stood their ground, forcibly ignoring the tantrum.

“Miss Rosette...” His face contorted to a grim snarl parallel to that of an angered beast. His shiny crown tipped over his brow. He never expected that his honored guest would do this to him. He treated her kindly. A delicate, pretty female such as her didn't deserve a wicked king.

But of course she had to be like Isabella.

Thus, she'll end up like Isabella.

“You traitor...” he stomped on a random shard, grinding it aggressively with each cracking noise. “You shall regret this. You made a mistake. You messed with the wrong king.”

He quickly took a fragment of his wineglass and slashed the nearest soldier's eyeballs. The man shrieked in pain, blood spraying at the tiles and on the flipped table. He fell down, a hand to his face. His comrades attempted to give him medical attention, but they retreated upon the sound of the king clearing his throat.

King Eldred regained his calm. “This is his penalty for letting her pass through the gates freely with that painting. Are you also interested in a slow and painful death, Hans?”

The soldier he was speaking to had one of the most prized swords in the lineage of weaponry, but he still gets intimidated by the king's wrath.

“No, Your Majesty.” Hans answered with his best, undaunted voice.

“Then do not ever disappoint me.” King Eldred warned, swiping his hand at them like a whip. “Get to work!”

His men bowed and stormed out of the dining room. Coincidentally, someone else walked inside to check the sudden uproar. Prince Tayden Pharrell stiffened the instant he saw the crying soldier on the ground with deep, red liquid all over the place.

He was sure that it wasn't the wine.

“Tayden! Perfect timing!” the king beamed at him in greeting, gesturing to the fallen person with the tip of his shoe, “Do bring him to the secret room for me. My mood was outrageously ruined so I think I will play with this man today.”

The soldier desperately crawled to escape, his bloody hands staining more of the tiles. “No, please no...”

Prince Tayden dithered in his spot, clearly indecisive because of the momentary delay. His father noticed.

“Son,” he said in a cautioning tone, “are you going to disobey me again?”

The prince swallowed, hiding his shaking fists. He could still feel the recent cuts and bruises, the trauma haunting him always. “I will be obedient to you, Father.”

“As you should,” King Eldred dipped his head, satisfied. “You know what happens when you fail me.”

Prince Tayden sighed in defeat, furrowing his brows. He carefully hoisted the man on his back, the sensation of something wet soaking along his shoulder area. He looked at the opposite direction, aware that it was blood.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered to the soldier.

“Please kill me, Your Highness.” The soldier replied as they got out the room. “I do not wish for torment.”

“I...”

Prince Tayden clicked his tongue in frustration. He had gone through hours of hell in that secret room more than twice, and now this poor soldier will experience the same. He was stuck between options. He paused, thinking of what to do. Aside from that, there was another person assigned to deliver the death stroke of mercy: the owner of Misericorde.

“Please...kill me...” the man went on, words becoming a slur.

“Request accepted.” An individual responded from behind them.

Prince Tayden rotated, having a guess to who it was. Their voice was husky and low. The confidence to perform the murder heard in it obviously belonged to an assassin.

He met the gaze of Prince Agustus Dane, who was already raising the black dagger, Misericorde, at the soldier he carried.

His eyes widened. “Agust—”

“I bestow thee mercy.” The ebony-haired royal murmured the line that he would always say whenever he delivers the death stroke. His narrow knife then plunged into the soldier's throat, cleanly slitting it open.

Prince Tayden felt the warmth of the blood oozing out of the corpse and seeping into his lavish, blue suit. He groaned, disgusted at the stench of hot iron even though he was accustomed to it as a killer.

“You can tell our father,” retched Prince Agustus at the last word, “that his toy lost too much blood and died halfway of your transportation.”

Flustered, the fifth-born could only blink at him.

“I did it for you but not even a word of gratitude from you. Typical.” The older brother scoffed, sheathing his weapon. “I'm leaving. I would hate crossing paths with that—”

“Agustus.”

The aged man he was speaking of popped out of the personal dining room and ultimately disrupted the vibe between the two siblings.

Prince Agustus internally cussed before gradually turning around with a straight face. He resisted the urge to throw his dagger at his parent. “Oh. You. Hi.”

“I have not seen you in a while.” King Eldred smiled pleasantly. He still had a persona to maintain in front of his six sons, just as how he had to in front of his people. It would be meddlesome if they knew the truth about him.

Alas, to his unawareness, they do.

“That's because I have been evading you.” The second-born bluntly seethed and glimpsed at his younger brother with ashen hair, soon gesturing to him. “I saw Tayden come out of your dining room while lugging that dead soldier. What happened?”

King Eldred controlled his reactions. “Dead? Uh, yes, I had Tayden kill him for me. He was rampaging and tried to attack me. And Tayden, you can dump that traitor's body somewhere in the woods.”

Prince Tayden nodded, exiting quietly.

Before he completely strode out, he gave his brother one final look. Excluding the bloody clothes and the sickening rotten smell, overall, the soldier didn't have to be in pain anymore. And that was good.

There was not even a word of gratitude from him.

But he was sincerely grateful.

Rosette's POV

I was sincerely grateful.

Prince Jacque strolled inside the atelier, surprised to see me stay here. He then glanced at the brush in my hand, at the set of paints on my lap layered by an apron, and at the canvas being filled with scenic shades of blue that was close to unsaturation.

“That doesn't seem like a revolutionary picture.” He surmised, aiming at my creation with a lift of his chin. “What are you painting, Rosie?”

I trailed after his stare. In the canvas, hundreds of dark pine trees stretched far and wide, not allowing me to see what was beyond them. Fogs glazed over them akin to feathery clouds. The sky was tinted in dismal gray as how one would expect to see on a rainy afternoon.

It was a painting of the hills.

I mustered a smile and answered.

“A memory.”

Third Person's POV

The Heir to the Throne was busily rummaging through his notes and rewriting the structure of his grandiose plan when an anonymous letter stole his attention, haling him far from his deliberations. Footsteps could be heard from the other side and thereafter, the letter was slipped through the gap under the door.

Alarmed, he carefully unfolded it.

He was quiet.

Prince Eugene Brancen knew he was too late, but he still peered outside, searching for an identity shrouded in ambiguity. No one was there, not even a trace of existence. The corridor was empty.

He locked the door, reading the rest of the letter's contents. Once he was done, his expression was a tangle of seriousness and worry. Like a situation where one is faced with a ticking time bomb, he had to be vigilant, had to act quickly.

His breaths were lengthy and harmonious with his troubled thoughts as he reread the admonishing paragraphs.

The Heir to the Throne solemnly gazed at the fire devouring lumber of his hearth, remembering the series of unfortunate events that occurred on that night of lament.

And he knew there will be more.

A/N: We're back, loves! We have another draft prepared but we need to edit it first! uwu (hopefully you guys liked this!)

A few more chapters left until this book ends. Thank you so much for staying with us! Stay safe always! 💜

Nocturnal Armys