The Taste of Sea Salt on Your Lips

Chapter 1-Of Magic and Myth

Throughout our world's history, fairy tales—epic sagas of legend, magic, and myth—were simply stories passed through the laughter of friends around a crackling fire or the whisper of soft fingers carefully flipping the pages of a book. Many such tales spoke of magic and dragons, fays and unicorns, things thought to be born from the imagination of the story's author, for no man had ever truly laid eyes upon such ideas. As such, society labeled fairy tales as "children's books", as imagination and fun were solely for children, apparently, and thus the fantastically woven tales were etched into many childhoods, fading with age as many things do.

Despite being on the cusp of adulthood, Prince Adrien Philip Basil Agreste of the Kingdom of Émeraude would have given anything to be in a fairy tale of his own. How he dreamt of one day embarking on a quest to fight all manner of beasts in order to restore balance to the world or find his one true love. How he wished he could skip to the end to see how his story would play out. How he longed for that happily ever after. Alas, the young prince would have to settle his obsession by reading the books that filled Émeraude Castle's extensive library—a library expanded by his own mother's deep and unwavering love of such tales.

All of this is very important knowledge, you see, as our story starts with a book. Not the one you are reading, but one gifted to Prince Adrien, titled "Of Magic and Myth", by his devoted mother upon awakening on his seventh birthday.

Queen Emilie Eurydice Rania Agreste, had commissioned the 3-inch-thick novel specifically for her son, handpicking both Émeraude's and neighboring kingdom's finest authors and artists to rewrite different fairytales of varying renown and sources to compile them into a single book.

Many of the artists' kingdom of origin was made evident by their art styles—with some solely working in black ink, some vivid paints, others wielding rich charcoals, and the majority tended to include the dress, buildings, and scenery found in their region, such as Émeraude's artists including the long gowns royal women were fond of or the stretch of white sand leading to the kingdom's main port in the capital, while the artists of Écarlate depicted their long traditional robes or the gorgeous pink petals that bloomed on the cherry blossom trees native only to the kingdom.

Through a thorough matchmaking process, each chosen author was paired with a specific artist and a handpicked story based on the pair's talents and skill sets observed from their past individual works. Thus, each fairytale within was like picking up an entirely new book, with a unique writing style, voice, handwriting, and art piece for each story.

Although today our prince could tell you the precise order the stories were catalogued in and even list off, without hesitation, which artists were paired with which authors and what tale they had retold together, his story had to have a beginning, just as all stories do. And just as he could recount the start of many of his favourite tales, Adrien could tell you exactly how his story began as well.

The young prince had awoken on this fateful day by his mother's gentle nudging, her soft voice repeating his name—although it always seemed to sound different coming from his mother. Perhaps it was her accent from growing up in the Kingdom of Chrysos or maybe it was how the queen's every word dripped with adoration for her children. Whatever the case might have been, Adrien always had the sense that the way she said his name was something to be cherished, something to be memorized, something that he would only ever hear coming from his mother's lips—always spread in that tender smile.

Stirred from a hazy, long-forgotten dream, Adrien slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. His eyelids were still heavy and his groggy voice was cracked and meek as he spoke, "Mama?"

"Good morning, my sunshine." Emilie stroked her son's fluffy blonde hair, who let himself melt into her hands, eyes drifting shut once more—as if his mother's very touch was the hands of sleep. "Stay awake, now," She said with a soft chuckle. Lifting herself away from the prince, she pushed her feet off the cold stone floor and fully sat herself cross-legged on the bed next to Adrien, ruffling the expensive bed linen. Then, in one dramatic, over-the-top movement to draw her oblivious son's attention, she snatched a book from the floor—hidden by the skirt of her nightgown—and held it behind her back.