SIX

    The journey to the eastern border would take a full day of hard riding. Due to the morning’s activities, they had set out in the afternoon, and when the desert sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into an inky, star-dusted blackness, the horses could go no further. They made camp in the lee of a sandstone cliff, the men quickly building a fire whose flames danced like captured demons. The scent of roasting desert hare and flatbread filled the air, a comforting contrast to the vast, empty silence of the dunes.

    Keith remained in the carriage, and Mars, after a moment’s hesitation, stayed with him. Not because he enjoyed the confinement- to be honest, the carriage was surprisingly spacious, lined with cushioned seats of deep crimson silk and smelling of leather and Keith’s distinctive sandalwood scent- but because the alternative was a circle of hardened warriors who looked at him as if he were a strange insect.

    Keith had his eyes closed for the entire journey, and he kept them closed now. Mars wondered if the prince had actually fallen asleep. He let curiosity win, cautiously shifting closer.

    Even in repose, Keith was a figure of breathtaking, almost terrifying beauty. His fiery red hair was a stark slash of color against the dark cushions, his skin the rich, warm tone of oiled teak. His face was a masterpiece of arrogant lines- a strong, straight nose, a jaw so sharp it could cut stone, and a mouth that even in relaxation held a hint of cruelty. Long, russet lashes fanned against his cheekbones, a surprisingly delicate feature on such a bold, masculine face. He looked like a war god taking his rest.

    Mars waved a hand slowly in front of Keith's face, genuinely surprised. The book had been explicit: Keith rarely slept. A past trauma, never fully detailed, had cursed him with a relentless insomnia, forcing him to seek exhaustion through other, more violent means to find a few hours of dreamless respite.

    While Mars was still studying him, Keith’s eyes snapped open, the brilliant, predatory green fixing on him instantly. Mars stumbled back with a yelp, rattling the entire carriage. Outside, the warriors exchanged knowing, grim looks.

    'That must be why His Highness brought him,' they thought in collective, salacious misunderstanding.

    "Ah! I thought you had fallen asleep," Mars scrambled back to his seat.

    "I do not fall asleep that easily, especially on a mission, hm?" Keith stated, his voice a low rumble.

    Mars nodded, already aware of that fact. "Well, you had been so still and quiet. And you didn't get down from the carriage. Your men are outside eating, and we're not." His stomach growled just a bit.

    "I never stopped you from going out to join them," Keith said, his curiosity piqued once more. For some insane reason, he was fighting the urge to... smile?

    Mars cleared his throat, peering behind the little window curtain at the small group of men, swords laid beside them. "They're scary," he admitted.

    "Of course they are. They have to be. But are they more scary than me, since you prefer to stay in here with me? Hmm?" That final, questioning hum was a seductive weapon, a vocal caress designed to disarm and ensnare.

    Hearing it live, Mars understood the prince’s lethal charm. His voice was like dark velvet, wrapping around a person, slowly lulling them into a dangerous sense of security. Mars shook his head, startled by the direction of his thoughts. He couldn't fall into the trap of the narrative. His job was to save Keith and get home.

    The thought of the book’s three-year timeline was a cold dread in his stomach.

    Under Keith’s unwavering gaze, he hurriedly exited the carriage. The men’s stares were no better, so he quickly snatched a few sticks of roasted meat and a skin of water before retreating to the far side of the carriage to eat alone. Full and exhausted, he leaned against the large wooden wheel and, without meaning to, fell into a deep sleep.

    When he opened his eyes, it was daybreak, and he was back inside the carriage, his head resting on something warm and solid. He blinked and found himself pillowed against Keith’s arm. He jerked away with a stifled yelp. Keith sat impassively, eyes closed, but Mars knew he wasn't asleep.

    A knock came. "Your Highness, we've arrived."

    Keith’s eyes opened instantly, and he disembarked.

    "You stay here,"he commanded as Mars moved to follow.

    "But-" Mars swallowed his protest, shrinking under the prince’s hard stare. This was not the capricious man he could banter with; this was the Mad Demon of the Battlefield, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Ember, a living weapon ready to be unleashed.

    ♡♡♡

    A Light That Changes Fate was a fantasy world, and its royals wielded magic.

    The world operated on a flow of energy- Aethyr- that fueled sorcery and caused strange phenomphenons.

    And the opposite of that energy is the negative energy, Khaos which when accumulated in certain areas, it could spawn disasters.

    Here at the border, the recurring ghoul problem, birthed by unchecked Khaos emergy, was a nuisance. But the recent, larger wave had prompted a desperate petition to the palace. 

    Normally, this would go to nobles still in training as it would be an easy battle where they would gain experience.

    "Your Highness?!" The mayor of the small, dusty town, a man named Jabari, was aghast. He and his council bowed so low their foreheads nearly scraped the sand-strewn ground. They had expected a cadre of soldiers, not the Crown Prince himself.

    While Keith received the briefing with cold impatience, Mars decided that he would still bave to go about his plan, even if it meant doing it alone.

    Charlotte would arrive soon, just in time to ‘save’ Keith and play the damsel in distress while attempting to do so. 

    The influx of ghouls wasn't just from naturally accumulating unchecked Khaos energy, but actually caused by a tool that caused this negative energy to gather in the eastern border. 

    Keith and his men moved out, a wave of polished steel and lethal intent toward the distant, shimmering miasma that marked the ghoul infestation. Now alone, Mars slipped away. He knew the path from the book: a narrow goat trail leading to a hidden cave overlooking the battlefield.

    He found it—a dark fissure in the cliffside, pulsing with a malevolent energy. Inside, on a crude stone altar, sat the artifact: a black cube of obsidian, veined with crimson light that throbbed like a diseased heart. He could hear the distant sounds of battle—the grunts of men, the sizzle of Keith’s fire magic, the unearthly shrieks of disintegrating ghouls. It wouldn't take them long. He had to move.

    He snatched the cube. It was cold and vibrated unpleasantly in his hands. He dashed back toward the carriage, but as he drew near, the cube pulsed violently. A ghoul—a smoky, semi-corporeal horror with glowing red eyes and clawed hands—materialized from the shadows and slammed into him.

    He grunted in pain as his back connected hard with the carriage, the breath knocked from his lungs. The cube clattered to the ground but continued its ominous pulse. The ghoul, joined by a second, shambled toward him. The mayor, witnessing this, screamed, and the few townsfolk nearby scattered.

    Gasping, Mars scooped up the cube and ran, stumbling, away from the town, leading the ghouls away. He knew he couldn't smash it; that would release a premature, unstable beast that would likely explode and kill everyone in the vicinity. He just had to hold on, evade the ghouls, and survive until Charlotte arrived to reclaim her prop.

    It was a terrible, desperate plan.