In my world, it is said that the only magic one needs is that of battle. In my world, there’s not much middle ground; either it is or it isn’t. In my world, love does not exist. It did not. I am Endellion, Princess of Hecatia and I am the first of my people to know love but this story begins before that. This story begins with my own beginning, my own start of knowledge.
Hecatians are meant for war. Our realm is always battling another; it is for this that we are bred. The families with the strongest are first in line to marry into the royal family. Unfortunately, the strongest Hecatians are also my cousins. At the time of my birth, I was betrothed to the youngest of my male cousins. He is called Aric and he is the most annoying, brutal excuse of a male I’ve known in my fifteen years.
Aric is the son of my father’s oldest sister, who is almost as wretched as he is. He is five years older than me, making him twenty now, and is close to seven feet tall with eyes the color of spilled blood. Oh, and he’s bald, as are most Hecatian males. Actually, the majority of Hecatians are balding or have insanely long, dark locks that are braided and either black or red eyes. I’m the exception, it seems, for my eyes are violet and my hair is a pale blonde. My father despises this. Perhaps that is why he’s sentenced me to be attached to Aric. It is my punishment for being so different.
Today, the Ro’Tan are planning to raid the village just outside the walls of my father’s massive fortress. How do I know this? Because I have the Gift of Sight. This Gift, however, is passed through the royal females and is heavily relied upon. But I don’t tell my father about this attack. I can’t - not without betraying something new that is slowly developing in my chest. The man leading this unit has invaded my dreams before, only it was when they were just dreams, before I truly developed the Gift of Sight.
He’s strong, as many of the Ro’Tan are, but there’s a gentleness to his face that wins me over every time he passes through my mind. He’s closer to Aric’s age than my own - he looks a little older than Aric, though it may just be how he carries himself. His tanned biceps glisten with sweat. I’ve yet to see his face. I bet you’re wondering how I know it is even the same - I just do.
I lie in bed, waiting on my handmaid but dreading the time after breakfast when I’ll be asked if there is any news about our enemy’s plans. I’ve never lied. I’m not even sure I’m capable but I have to try. I need time to figure out what this man means, what he means to me. I’m running over the possibilities of what this man means and emotions that I’ve heard of when I hear a light tap on my door and a tiny shuffle of feet and cloth. it is Brigit, my maid. Brigit is old, very old, and she never speaks. Aric likes to joke that our great-grandfather had her tongue cut out when she was a child. I usually slap him across the head or stab at him with my sceptre when he starts in on Brigit. It’s effective.
Sadly, though, Brigit’s tongue was removed. She was young, about my age, when it happened. A band of pirates had held her captive and mutilated her tongue so she couldn’t cry out when they docked. I’m not supposed to know this - my father forbade it but Brigit told me anyway. Well, she wrote it. She never was one for rules.
I roll over, throwing the covers off my upper half just as she makes it to my bed. I’m rewarded with a smile and burdened with the outfit for today’s council meeting. It’s lovely enough but not my taste at all. The red velvet dress is too heavy, laden with a chainmail over-skirt and sleeves. I groan as I get out of bed and prepare myself for the cruel outfit of torture. Brigit gives a small, sad smile as though she’s apologizing for my father’s barbarism. It also seems as though she knows something. Being mute, she’s often trusted with secrets, after all. I decide against asking her to write it out for me. I’ll probably find out during the meeting, anyway.
I allow the frail woman to help me out of my night clothes and into the steamy bath of rose scent. It’s a refreshing wake-up call, though what I really need is something to sooth my mind and its racing. I cannot get the Ro’Tan soldier out of my mind. My silent prayers are heard, for Brigit begins to wash my hair. It somehow always soothes me. Perhaps it's because of my mother. I remember her running her hand through my hair at night to help me sleep. I felt safe. Safe hasn't been felt in a very long time.
My last memory of Mother, before she vanished, is in our garden. We were watering the lilies and she asked me the strangest thing, though I don't remember exactly what it was. Something's preventing the memory from fully surfacing. I want to assume that it's Hecate, the goddess of magic, whom we worship. Part of me doubts this, and I'm brought back before I can dwell much on it. Brigit is lightly tapping me, telling me that it's time to finish preparing for the day. I tug on the hideous dress that I must wear during war meetings and Brigit laces the back for me. My fair hair is braided and I smile at Brigit before I walk out the door.
