The markets of Hiemura were always full of surprises during the trading seasons. Wayfarers led carts with braying donkeys through the cacophonous throng. The shrill litanies of merchants drowned out the heels clacking and hooves clopping against the cobblestone. And in the midst of all the haggles, small children weaved between the legs of traders, kicking a makeshift ball and ignoring the merchants who chastised them. The beautiful chaos was perfect for disguising a hooded figure that danced through the crowds, a leather pouch hanging over his shoulders.

Crown Prince of Umbra Park Jimin rarely left the castle for numerous reasons, but occasionally, he sneaked into the streets just to witness the magnificence of Umbra, breathe the scent of fresh herbs and elixirs from other kingdoms, and bask in the serenity of his temporary freedom. His blue eyes wandered the streets, searching the congested stands packed with foreign luxuries even the castle didn't possess. As children playing katzi snaked past him, he smiled. It was such a joy to be out of the castle.

No one spared him a glance or a word, and frankly, he reveled in that feeling of being himself. Not the Crown Prince of Umbra, but just Jimin, another ordinary elemental, another ordinary Umbran. Fate, however, stole that path from him, so he cherished what he could grab.

Squeezing between the masses, he passed into a lesser area, his boots plodding through familiar back alleys and halting in front of a small hovel. After brushing past thick drapes, darkness swallowed him. Pulling off his hood, he ran a hand through his silver hair.

"Mother Erna!" he called, his knuckles rapping blindly against the stone walls. "Mother Erna, it's me, Ji—"

Elderly hands drew back another set of drapes in front of him, and dust flew everywhere, making him cough. Light chased away the darkness and illuminated a friendly face matured with wrinkles.

"I was beginning to wonder when you would arrive," Mother Erna said. Leaning against her twisted, wooden staff, she motioned for Jimin to enter.

A sweet aroma of flowers and herbs pervaded Jimin's nose as the bubbling of boiling water tickled his ears. Flowers dotted the walls, light glistening on the moistened petals, and potions were hung on racks in the corner of the room. Colorful liquids in distorted flasks bubbled on top of kindling fires, and white mist from the hearth in the center danced on his skin. His soles smacked against the oak planks as he followed Mother Erna into another room, where she sat at a wooden table. Jimin took a seat across from her, placing his leather pouch on the ground beside him.

"So, what brings you here today?" Mother Erna asked in a soothing voice, bracing her forearms on the tabletop.

Jimin retrieved a rolled parchment tied with an ice-blue ribbon from his pouch. "Sylvia sends her regards," he said, passing the roll and patiently waiting for Mother Erna to read it.

"Princess Sylvia, such a gentle soul." Beaming, she placed the folded letter on the table. When her eyes met Jimin's, however, her smile faded. Mother Erna's brown eyes always held so much wisdom, and Jimin noticed, with sorrow, that the brown was succumbing to gray. "So, what really brings you here?" Mother Erna asked. "Your father? The people?"

And it was those eyes that always cracked his mask and read him like an open book. Jimin chuckled. "No, they are quite silent nowadays."

"The Caelics?"

"My father keeps my secrets well away from them. Too well, in fact." It was here. He could feel it. He knew what Mother Erna's next words would be and despised that they rang true.

"Then, the late Prince Tobias."

Jimin's breath hitched. There it was: the ugly truth. Licking his lips, he squeezed his hands underneath the table and said, "No."

Mother Erna sighed. "His memorial is just around the corner. It has been a decade since the Crimson Death, yes?"

"I believe so," Jimin whispered, frowning. He could still hear his brother's apologies, hear his frail voice that haunted his nightmares, see his dead eyes. . . "Anyway," Jimin said, lighting a smile on his face, "I am here because Sylvia was looking for a flower, and perhaps I was a little lonely."

Mother Erna raised a brow. "So it was your father."

Jimin thought for a moment before laughing sheepishly. "Yes, I guess it was."

Wood groaned as Mother Erna stood and left the room, Jimin in pursuit. They strolled to her parlor, where a table littered with pots of flowers and herbs awaited them. "What was it that she desired?" Mother Erna asked.

"A Kartheus."

Mother Erna froze and turned, her eyes wide. Jimin furrowed his brow. Over the years he knew Mother Erna, he never saw her surprised. She always seemed to know what was and would be, so he assumed she knew everything. But as he stared into trembling brown, he discerned it as fear. Not surprise, but fear.

"Why that?"

Jimin chewed on his lip. "I don't know. Sylvia read about it in a book and searched for one in the royal gardens. I only assumed she wanted one."

Murmuring something under her breath, Mother Erna hesitated before searching the plants with swift experience. Her aged fingers brushed the leaves of various floras and paused at a small pot housing a white flower. Sunlight glimmered on the white petals and moisture coating its waxy surface. Mother Erna gently raised the pot and handed it to Jimin, who carefully placed it in his leather pouch.

He bowed. "Thank you."

"Beware, Prince Jimin," Mother Erna said, her soft voice low. "I fear a war is brewing."

Jimin searched Mother Erna's grave eyes for amusement in vain. "In Kartas?"

Mother Erna remained silent, so he left without another word, passing through the two sets of drapes before the sunlight gleamed on his light brown skin. Grazing his hand over the pot in his pouch, he whirled to face Mother Erna's dwelling, but a stone wall stared back at him.

* * *

Jimin strolled through the markets with Mother Erna's grim expression floating before his eyes. He knew the lady was old—ancient even—but sometimes, he couldn't understand her. Squeezing between a donkey pulling a wagon and a screaming merchant, he sighed. He should forget it ever happened. There were already many occasions when—

A body rammed into his shoulder, a hooded figure running against the crowded tide. They zipped past bystanders and bumped into others, escaping without apology. Jimin scowled. That was one of the few things he hated about the trading season: disrespectful idiots. Brushing himself off, he was about to continue his dawdling when he reached for his pouch—

Faestuna had no mercy. His pouch was gone.

"Thief!" he screamed, searching for the hooded person. "You thief! Come—"

Another body slammed into him, and his back hit the ground. Groaning, he fought the twinge of pain that jolted his arm and pushed himself onto his knees. He glared at the fat merchant behind him as ice froze his heart, chilling his blood.

"Can't you watch where you are going!?" Jimin asked, shouting over the clamor. The merchant, utterly ignoring him, attended to a customer interested in his stand. Another surge of ice roared through Jimin, and before he did something he would later regret, he rose to his feet and dusted the dirt off himself. Rolling his aching shoulders, he split through the tide of raucous hordes, his cloak waving behind him like a cape. His blue eyes darted back and forth, scanning the faces of strangers. After passing five blocks, he saw a group of boys race out of an alley, babbling about a "strange man swinging a sack."

He stopped a boy holding a makeshift katzi ball under his arm and asked, "Where did you see this strange man?" Curious, young eyes studied him, and he uncomfortably averted his gaze, praying the boys wouldn't recognize him.

"Over there," one of the boys said, pointing a slim finger at the alley behind them. "We were playing katzi when he told us to leave."

"Thank you."

Eyes traced Jimin as he left, and voices whispered about how he seemed familiar. When he glanced back, the boys scattered like ants, going about their day. He sprinted deeper into the secluded alleys, the light thinning as the darkness swelled. Every second, that frost within him numbed him from the inside out, humming pleasantly in his veins. There was an urge to subject himself to it, but a voice of reason advised him otherwise. So he suppressed the impulse.

Feces and rats littered the alleys, and a putrid stench burned his nose like acid. Now and then, he stumbled upon some white sticks he believed were bones, and the piles increased in size. Before, there were begging peasants, but now, there wasn't a single hint of life—save for the rats. But they, too, were just skin and bone.

The odd compulsion to succumb to the cold returned, but the moment he found the thief sitting cross-legged in a dead alley, Jimin's pouch next to him, it died. The alley was narrow, too narrow for the sunlight to reach within, and the cobblestone was damaged in some places, cracked and jutting out at awkward angles. A large mound of dirt hugged the surrounding buildings, almost like a dune, and based on the rotten stench, there was probably manure mixed in, as well.

Exhaling, Jimin swallowed his gags and pointed to his pouch. "Give me that sack back, and we will not have a problem."

The thief was silent as he readily tossed the pouch to Jimin, who stumbled to catch it without breaking the pot inside. Nothing was missing, and the pot was undamaged. Jimin turned on his heels. He spared the dead alley one last glance, coughed out a strained breath, and turned away to find himself suddenly face to face with the thief.

Breath hitching, he unconsciously took a step back, his pouch plopping to the ground. In the corner of his eye, he saw a trail of dust whirling in the air from where the thief once sat to where he now stood. Jimin gulped. A lightning elemental.

There wasn't a single movement from the thief, whose face was concealed beneath his hood, the white locks of his hair cascading over his shoulders. The distance between them grew with each step Jimin took, and slowly, he reached for his hidden dagger. There were a decent ten steps between them, and Jimin was so close, his fingers grazing the leather hilt when the thief disappeared.

Silence. Jimin continued backward, his eyes frantically searching for the thief when his back bumped into a lean chest. Arms strangled him in a chokehold from behind, and struggling for breath, he grappled for his dagger and stabbed blindly at the thief behind him.

With a pained groan, the thief released him. Quickly swinging his hand back, Jimin smacked the thief across the head, swiftly pulled his dagger from the thief's right thigh, and aimed for the thief's throat when he vanished again.

Another moment of silence. More footsteps grinding against the gravel. Blue eyes flicked across the vacant alley when a whoosh of wind whistled in Jimin's ears. Whirling, he deflected a punch and plunged his dagger into the thief's abdomen. He twisted the dagger, sinking it deeper when hands abruptly seized his forearm and elbow. One nasty snap later, pain rampaged up his arm to his shoulder and heart.

Jimin wailed, tripping and landing on his back. The thief yanked the dagger out of his abdomen and thrust it into Jimin's left thigh, eliciting another cry. The sky churned above him, the clouds desolate and gray. The pain ricocheting from his elbow to his shoulder forced him to stay down.

A boot crushed the fractured bone and rubbed against Jimin's swollen arm. Thick tears streamed down Jimin's face as the thief kneeled, his white hair falling to his sides. Turquoise eyes stared down at Jimin as the dagger was twisted out of his thigh. When Jimin squinted his eyes, he could see past the shadows rimming his vision, see the thief's face—

A girl. The thief was a girl.

The dagger rose as she leaned closer, her lips inches away from Jimin's ear. Hot breath tickled his neck as she whispered, "The Demon Days are approaching," before vanishing in a puff of black smoke.

The dagger clattered against the ground only inches away from Jimin's face. All the pain in his body was forgotten as he lay there unable to move, rendered speechless as he breathed heavily, staring blankly at the blue sky.

* * *

Sylvia was pacing in the courtyard, passing between the soft bushes and occasionally peeking at the garden wall nearly twice her size. Clasping her hands behind her, she nibbled on her lip and sighed as she took another glance at the green vines.

This was unlike Jimin. Yes, he enjoyed the scams of those obnoxious merchants. And yes, he found the streets of the capital more welcoming than his home itself but never was he late to his daily training. Never. So this—Jimin still not here—was disquieting, petrifying even. Just. . . what if he was injured? Or worse: what if he was recognized? What if the people were boiling him alive, tearing at his flesh, ripping him apart limb from limb, castigating him for the loss of Tobias—

That was preposterous. Jimin was the Crown Prince of Umbra. No matter how much the masses may scorn him vocally, they would never amass the audacity to do something so. . . vile. Sylvia's eyes wandered towards the green vines curling up the stone wall where they intertwined over the lonely ledge. Or perhaps the masses could muster the temperament for such a sin.

Her teeth picked at the blisters covering her lips as her nails dug deeper into her palms. The sun had passed its high hours ago, and Jimin had left the castle at daybreak. By now, Sylvia should have informed the guards of Jimin's whereabouts, ordered them to search for him, but they would notify Mother. And Father. Nothing pleasant resulted from their anger.

She cursed herself for the predicament she was entangled in, for the absurdities she allowed Jimin to indulge in. But as frustrated as she was, she knew she had no option but to allow for Jimin to enjoy every moment of freedom—every second away from the castle—because of Tobias.

Her heart grew heavy with his memory. Jimin was the only brother she had left, and she had to do everything in her power to keep him happy—her slim fingers traced her ornate wristlet—to keep her promise. Tucking a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, she sighed, tilted her head towards the sky, and prayed. Lord Caeluros, I beg of you to watch over him.

As she spared the tortuous vines one final glimpse, a familiar satchel sprang up from beyond the thick wall and landed inches away from her feet. Tracing her gaze up the vines, she saw a hand gripping the edge of the wall. Relief immediately warmed her heart, pettiness urging her to complain at once, but that peace of mind was soon extinguished when she heard a whimper overflowing with agony. "Sylv—H-Help. . ."

And just like that, her nightmares became flesh and blood. Tears stung her eyes as her legs attained a mind of their own and ran towards the vines, her hands vainly attempting to grab the hidden rope beneath. It was as if all her experiences were wiped clean. Her hands fumbled, her strength failed her, and worst of all, she couldn't do it. She couldn't bear the idea of Jimin wounded, dying, but she employed that fear—that thought—to spur her on.

She tugged and pulled and heaved until her brother's body tumbled over the ledge and landed in the bushes below. And the sight—his arm, his leg—was. . . was. . .

"Guards!" Sylvia screamed, tears racing down her cheeks. "Guards help!"

Reaching towards Jimin's unconscious body, her trembling hands lowered him to the kempt grass. She was—she was shaking. A tear on the left side of Jimin's breeches exposed black suffusing the veins in his thigh, and blood was everywhere. Over her fingers, staining her gown, running down her wrists, and coloring her snow wristlet red.

Her wristlet. Her promise. Pounding steps were inching closer and closer, and she could do nothing but stare at Jimin, shake her head, and cover her mouth. It was exactly like that day many years ago. Blood. Blood everywhere. And death. And plague. She sank to her knees.

The guards were behind her, their muffled speech echoing as if far away, and she couldn't bring herself to say anything. So when they carried Jimin away, she assumed they understood her unspoken plea. Stumbling to her feet, she attempted to follow them when her foot kicked Jimin's satchel, and something rolled out of it.

It was a pot—more specifically, one of Mother Erna's cracking ones. And noticing the flower planted in it, she was driven to hysteria. Sobs left her parted lips as tears streamed freely down her wet cheeks. She couldn't lose Jimin. No. She couldn't. Not again.

As she palmed her bloodied wristlet, a red droplet landed on a petal of the Kartheus, the crimson tear crawling down its waxy surface.

Not ever again.