Prince of Fire

Chapter 16

Laurent woke with a start, bolting upright in his bed.

Outside, the sky was a sorrowful grey, the sun hidden behind layers and layers of clouds. It was impossible to tell the time, but Laurent knew dawn was yet to come. The cold seeping in through cracks in the stone, penetrating the air and his skin, digging deep down all the way to his heart.

Next to him, Cath lay beneath the sheets, her chest rising and falling gently. With each exhale, the fallen strand of hair on her cheek stirred. She looked so calm, so at rest. Laurent reached down to tuck the fallen strand behind her ear, careful not to wake her. It filled his soul with warmth to see her so peaceful. Her first month of nights at the palace were restless, filled with nightmares where her father beat her and shouted at her, she had told him of the horrors she woke to, the ones that left her crying and unable to sleep. But now she slept, safe beside him.

She had called him her saviour, her gallant warrior.

He shoved the thought away, pushing the sheets back and leaping from the bed. The stone ground was cold against his bare feet. He dressed in a simple black doublet and pants, a white shirt underneath. Not bothering with a brush, he tied his hair into a knot; a mess of tangles.

Once dressed, the Prince left his tower.

Guards bowed as he took turn after turn down hollowed out hallways. The bronze flames of the royal sigil flashed harshly in the firelight on each guards' breastplate. A few of the younger guards, stationed randomly throughout the palace hallways, chirped a "Good morning, Your Grace!" as he passed by. He paid them no heed. The older guards knew the routine better. They stood stone faced as he passed and remained silent. Laurent paid them no heed either.

His mind was somewhere else even as his body took him to the King's office.

Guards with similar stone cold expressions opened the door as he approached.

There, gazing out over the distant snow covered mountains, stood his father.

The fear of the little boy inside of Laurent weight down on him like a boulder placed on his shoulders. But he fought it, held it up with confidence, as if holding the hand of that little boy.

When the doors shut, the King turned in a slow, deliberate movement. His face was devoid of all emotions, a cold blank canvas. He had his hands locked behind his back as he stared at his son. Laurent stared back.

The cold exterior of the King, the snow covered mountains and grey sky in the background... Laurent found it a fitting image, the world a reflection of his father. How ironic it was, Laurent thought, that the King of Fire could be so, so cold. Not even the burning fire in the fireplace could hide it, nor the flames flickering in scones on the walls.

"Son," the King broke the silence. If Laurent did not know better, he would have believed it was genuine regret, real shame in his voice. But he did know better. "You know what day it is."

Oh, how could he forget?

"Watch!" the King snarled in the little Prince's ear, his cold fingers digging into his neck, twisting him to face the man chained to the wall.

Thick, heavy iron chains circled the man's ankles, anchoring him to the ground. Another pair around his wrist fixed his arms to the stone wall of the dungeon. And one last one glittered at his throat like jewelry. They rattled as he desperately fought to get free, the ear splitting noise echoing through the room.

A member of the royal guard, from the King's personal arsenal, approached the man. The King held Laurent firmly. The guard drew forth the sword sheathed at his hip, its edge glittering in the firelight, the screech drowning out the struggle of the man for one moment. A one blessed moment, a one cursed moment; Laurent could not decide.