"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were annihilated, the Universe would turn to a mighty stranger."

—From Wuthering Heights,
By Emily Bronte

THERE WAS PERHAPS nothing duller than being on the queen's detail when she was simply lounging in a library, flipping through books. Not interesting books, no, but tedious, ponderous times about history and magic lore in Atla, Othar and Mordania. Dust motes danced in the air on this rare sunny day. Outside the manor, sunlight reflected off of the snow, casting bluish-white shadows. He could smell the aroma of old books, mingling with Jovana's faintly sweet perfume.

"Find anything interesting, Jovana—Your Majesty?" he asked, checking that no one was within hearing distance when she had put down her book with a thud on the mahogany table in front of her.

"No, Captain Lambert. I have only read dry facts which I have not studied since I was a young girl." She avoided his gaze. Jovana stood and stretched, inadvertently revealing more skin than she doubtless intended with the movement. He stared at the stone floors, fighting a blush. Was he nothing more than a boy again in her presence?

Behind them, a plump, ageing man bustled around the cavernous library with a sprightly energy that belied his round frame. He was the manor's librarian, Mister Siward, and had been working there since Alastair was a boy. His white, bushy eyebrows were furrowed as he watched the two of them behind stacks of books on the counter, standing atop a stepstool to be able to see over it. Alastair chose his next actions, his next words carefully to keep his secrets where they belonged, but it was useless.

Jovana stood. "Watch my things, would you? I'll have Captain Marchand guard me, as he is certainly waiting by the door, bored to death."

"Yes, Your Majesty." He bowed, dipping his head slightly, not wanting to risk it in case there was the slightest chance of someone overhearing them. Hugo was waiting outside the door indeed; he caught a flash of his friend's blond hair.

The queen's high heels clicked out of the room, echoing loudly in the harsh room that was softened by neither rug nor tapestry. It was still quieter in here as the noise was absorbed by the immense amount of books, shielded from Atlan ambush by their specially made fireproof shelves. Immediately Alastair migrated to the abandoned books and traced his finger over their faded, peeling spines. The words were stamped in gilt and their clasps were steel, to keep the vellum from expanding with humidity as the braziers roared. Their titles were all similarly tedious.

A History of Foreign Magic.

Blood, Bone, and Death: Mordanian Sorcery over the Centuries.

Weddings, Funerals, and Births: Rituals of Mordania and the Magic Behind Them.

The last book caught his eye, heavy and leather-bound. He picked it up and heard the crinkling of parchment. Alastair saw that Jovana had been making notes on it, a quill tucked into one of the books as a bookmark. Carefully shifting the pot of ink away, he cracked open the spine and sat down to read. The chapter heading read: Engagements & Betrothals.

The betrothal ceremony is a simple one in theory: a blood oath in which the blood of the couple is mixed into a bowl, and they swear oaths to each other. In practice, it is far more complicated. The betrothal ceremony's magic effects last for only a limited period of time (one year) without marriage to bind the couple together. The effects include but are not limited to the following:

1. Every emotion that one partner has, the other feels as well.

2. Every injury that one partner suffers, the other suffers with them.

3. Magic, the senses, and bodily desires are heightened by skin-to-skin contact or sometimes simply by being in each other's presence, particularly at the time of the betrothal ceremony.*

These are the reasons for the ban on physical contact in private, in the case that the couple swears the betrothal vows with nefarious intentions. The prohibition minimizes the risk of harm being caused to either partner until marriage bonds them together and makes them physically unable to harm each other.

However, after the period of one year, if the couple decides to part ways and not go through with the marriage, the magic will fade and it will be as if they had never undergone the ceremony.

—

*This side effect is similar to the ones that blood relations have on each other.

Unwillingly, he slammed the book shut and replaced it on the table. The scar on his finger throbbed, even fifteen years later when it was nothing more than a small white dot from the pinprick of a ceremonial blade over a decade ago. He had been betrothed to Jovana once, but according to the book, any magic effects they had on each other ought to have disappeared by now.

That magic had vanished. Hadn't it?

Hugo Marchand was indeed escorting the queen back into the library while Alastair paced the floor, reassured by the fact that Mister Siward had disappeared in one of the backrooms to tidy up and do inventory. Unwilling to believe what he had just read, he clenched and unclenched his fists, needing a good fight or sparring session to tame the raging, feral sentiments that ran wild within his chest.

His friend waved at him as if reading his thoughts. "Our shifts are over. Care to spar with me, Carlyle?"

Alastair nodded back, not trusting himself to speak.

Hugo went on, standing at the queen's side. His elbow was casually perched on a bookshelf near the desk where the three tomes and the queen's parchment lay. "Or should I say, do you care to lose to me?"

The queen glanced between them, her emerald eyes detaching from the books with a quiet laugh. "I fear this clash of male egos is slowly suffocating me. I shall leave you guards to your business and find someone else to attend to your duties."

Hugo chuckled loudly, and before Alastair could say anything, he watched as his friend's perch on the bookshelf slipped, and he knocked a bottle of ink onto the floor. It crashed and spilled out in blackened shards of glass, and everyone took a step back.

"Gods above!" Hugo cursed. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, for my clumsiness. Lambert will summon a maid to clean this mess immediately, won't he?"

Alastair nodded and went to do so. It made sense, seeing as he was the closest to the library's entrance. When he returned with a maid in tow, who held a mop, a broom and a dustpan, the queen was languidly flipping through her books once more.

"Shall we spar, then?" Alastair took one last glance around the room, checking for intruders. The other two guards, Lèger and Martell, were waiting outside to replace them, but one could never be too certain of the dangers that lurked bear the royal family. He himself was a prime example. "By your leave, Your Majesty."

She nodded, still busy with her literature, her brow furrowed in concentration. He could see the two books on the table and one in her hand, but the paper was gone. Perhaps she had tucked it into one of the books? "You are both dismissed, Lambert. Marchand."

He gave Jovana one last lingering glance: the green eyes that were currently narrowed, the dark hair that cascaded in silky waves over one shoulder, the red silk dress that hugged her frame perfectly. She was lovely, had always been lovely. But she had always been his poison, and he had still yet to find an antidote.

"Lambert!" Hugo called.

He jogged over to catch up. Being fascinated with Jovana--his childhood enemy--was his past. Gaining revenge on the reason for his sister's death, the queen of Mordania, was his present.

"You know, this may sound insulting, but I have always found it curious that you actually made it this high up into the rank of queen's guard. Your magic is so very..." Hugo trailed off as they walked to the training yard.

"Depleted?" Alastair suggested. "Lacking?"

Alastair was used to the whispers by now, the rumours. Mordanian aristocracy was comprised of the best fighters, not the best courtiers. For a low-magic individual such as himself to have risen so high, it was a surprise even to himself. The truth was, his magic had never been very strong after the Atlan attack fifteen years ago. He had blamed it on grief, perhaps, or exile from his family. But to be honest, he had no idea why.

Hugo gave an awkward chortle. "Er... Yes, actually."

"There's no need to feel odd about it. It's the truth." He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the armoury before they took more weapons (staffs and javelins and shields) to train. "My father, he..." Why was he discussing Ilyas Durand without being questioned? Yet the man popped into his thoughts anyways, unbidden. So he continued. "My father always looked down on me for it. He said I would need to work twice as hard to prove myself without magic, and... He even questioned if he was my real father since he, of course, had great control over it. He and my mother would have shouting matches over it. Over a little boy's inability to heal a splinter or control a pile of bones."

His friend nodded sympathetically. "I have a father like that, too."

"Then, you must know what it is like." What that did to someone. The constant feeling of never measuring up, of being weak and lesser for something that he could not control... the shame never quite left him, and neither did his father's berating words that still echoed in his ears.

"Enough of this maudlin stuff. Shall we train?"