The uncontrollable power lurking beneath Princess Alethia's skin can either be the savior of the Four Kingdoms or its destruction.
Princess Alethia was raised on three principles: (1) Mercy is for the weak, (2) Emotions are an unwanted distraction...
a/n: Sorry for the delay! Life has been hectic but Ren always brings a smile to my face. I enjoyed writing this chapter so much and I really hope you guys like it as well. Don't forget to vote if you like it and please leave behind some comments! I miss talking to y'all<3
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Ren couldn't decide if his misfortune had started the moment he met a particularly hard-headed ice princess, or if he was simply cursed from the time he entered the world.
Knowing his godforsaken luck, it was both.
A voice drawled from across the tent, singing a foul tavern song that was popular in the formerly joyous Gera Kingdom.
She came a walkin'
Her chest was a knockin'
Baby, it's a night of rockin'
Take off those red stockin'
He was going to murder that battle-crazed princess if it was the last thing he did.
Ren craned his neck as he debated whether to hurl himself off the top of the Eastern Slopes or ingrain his axe into the pompous face of the prince currently bobbing his head as he sang.
Aching muscles popped with every slight movement. For a week, Ren had suffered through a seemingly endless slew of injuries that Weylin forced him to heal over and over again. A thin cut on the palm, a broken finger, a magical wound on the shoulder; each day brought about some new bloody attempt to "explore his potential and limitations."
Maybe if he sliced his axe across the oddly creative trainer's throat, Weylin would find his own damn potential in the afterlife.
Now, his body throbbed with pain. But it wasn't from the numerous wounds that he'd managed to heal in a panic as agony warped him, amplified by Weylin's mysterious abilities. No, it was the type of bone-deep exhaustion from using his magic in successions. A feat he had never attempted before due to his personal aversion to it. He had kept the tainted atrocity buried deep inside of him, refusing to use it even when Galen urged him.
At the thought, the horrifying screams of his parents began to ring in the back of his mind. Echoing through the cracks in his defense until they settled viciously in his chest.
Their screams were like the sounds of the reaper. Intangible cries shaped into heart-piercing words that made one wish death upon themselves—anything to get it to cease.
Even now, his mind conjured up the questions their yells seemed to form: Why didn't you help us? If you're such a great healer, why didn't you heal us?
Ren recoiled away from the words as the scowl deepened on his face. His brain was trying to play tricks on him, and he wasn't going to fall victim to them. Ren refused to give in to the vague sense of guilt curling at the pit of his stomach. He was a child at the time. Great healer or not, he couldn't have possibly saved them at his age.
