Golden Hour | Mark Lee

2

And inevitably, it brought you closer to the prince, to the boy who played the melody on tightly-wound strings that you still heard in your dreams, a whisper on the wind, an ever-present background to every vision that encompassed the raven-haired boy, melancholy and wanting, yearning for something just out of reach.

As kids, you'd stay in his quarters after helping him prepare for bed and tell him tales from your hometown in the countryside, from haunting sacrificial rituals to folklore of fairies and gnomes. He listened to every word of it, watching you intently with dark eyes as you perched on the edge of his bed. In the mornings, you'd help him get ready for the day, and then head off to help your mother in the infirmary. Mark would visit more and more often, faking aches and pains and developing mysterious bruises for the chance to visit you as you worked.

And in return for the interpretations of your visions, the promise of your truth in the infrequent occasions you had them, you were given better food, clothes, money. You walked in the garden with Mark and played ball with his brothers in the courtyard, served the king and queen bowls of fruit and buttered bread and decadent cheese in their quarters. Suddenly, you were granted privileges beyond the normal servant's, and suddenly, everything was twice as dangerous.

Everyone knew the royal family was dangerous, and not just because they had the power to dispose you of your head with a mere flick of a wrist, but because they were constantly being hunted. It was why they had tasters, servants unfortunate enough to be chosen to taste each meal before the royal family ate, to take that first possibly fatal bite. It wasn't often that anything managed to slip past the extensive security, but mistakes happen, things go unnoticed, and that's why you were there, at every dinner, in the corner of the room as the royal family ate, why the queen consulted you every week and before every hunt her sons departed for.

"Have you seen anything?" she'd ask, leaning forward with cold and desperate eyes, the heavy jewels of her necklace hanging from her delicate neck. "Any signs? Anything at all?"

And usually, you'd answer no. No, because you rarely had visions-at least, visions that you could decipher. Most of your visions were never very clear, and not all of them told you of danger towards the princes. Dreams were more common than your visions, but they were even harder to understand than the latter. You hated the dreams even more than the visions, because they always came back.

It was worth it, though. Worth the cold and ever-present wrath of the queen hanging over your head for the promise of a better life for you, and more importantly, your mother. And sometimes, even Mark was worth it. Having the heir to the throne as your best friend certainly had its perks. You had safety and security, a shield from the dangers outside the stone walls, from the plague sweeping across the kingdom, from the rebels setting villages ablaze.

It wasn't until you were eighteen that you discovered the real danger came from inside the ivy-choked walls.