hey guys! first story ever. please review and hopes you like. the prologue is long i know but it's really important
Iris
Prologue
50 years ago
once upon a time, in a world that still believes in once upon a times
Rain in a sunny day.
Wolfram smiles at the incongruence of dreams, rubbing eyes still heavy from sleep.
He is still young (he hasn't even seen the ocean)-- Too young in fact and he blinks in confusion when he glances outside and the sun's already set leaving streaks of pink and storm clouds in their wake.
Why hasn't papa come?
Small bare feet push off the bed to meet brutally cold, hard stone. A window has been carelessly left wide open causing candles to flicker in and out of life. The room is too big, the small boy thinks in dissatisfaction, tenderly picking up a storybook, its spine slightly creased from use. He clutches it gently against his chest and totters towards the other side of the room where an oaken door stands. Standing on tiptoes, he is just able to peek through the keyhole catching a whiff of some floral perfume and clean white sheets.
'Doria?'
Footsteps and then the door creaks open revealing a kind maid. Her face is still sweet and young, framed by short, dark green curls, and pretty eyes covered but not hidden by thick glasses. She's not as pretty as other noblewomen he's seen and yet she's more beautiful than all that and Wolfram wraps his arms around the neck of the woman who he's had a childish infatuation with for as long as he can remember. He knows its not love because what is love? He is her duty, but she is still warm and kind and nice to hold. Doria asks silly questions about his day like a mother should. Whether he's hungry or sleepy, if he's had a bath and he glows under the attention.
'Where is papa?' he finally asks against her shoulder and frowns when he feels her shake her head, green curls making his nose itch.
'Your father is very busy.'
'He said he would read me a story.'
Wolfram's frown deepens when Doria attempts to pull the storybook from his hands. Both of them know that he's perfectly capable of reading it himself but neither of them say so when Doria offers to read it to him. Big emerald eyes stare down stubbornly.
'Of course he is busy, he is King of Shin Makoku. But he promised.'
Doria smiles ruefully at her persistent ward when small hands guiltily let go of her crinkled dress.
'Alright, Young Master. We'll visit him for a minute.'
Hand in hand, they walk down the corridors of Blood Pledge Castle.
The air is silent and charged and Wolfram can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. He shivers in his nightshirt. The taste of rain lies on the tip of his tongue as torchlight casts long flickering shadows in the dark.
A tenseness is gathering in the base of Doria's spine. Her grip on Wolfram's smaller hand tightens and she realises she's holding her breath as they near the office.
It's just around this corner.
The night is a wild thing and alive.
Something is wrong.
'Where are all the guards?' Wolfram asks quietly.
And indeed they are all alone. No guards on patrol, no maids or scullery boys. The castle is so silent the only sound is the erratic drip, drip, drip of oil from a leaky torch.
'Stay here.'
Doria creeps quietly, steadily towards the door which is slightly ajar. Her fear is so evident she wonders why she is the only one who can hear the thudding of her heart.
Blood.
She nearly chokes at the stench of it and covers her mouth with both hands muffling the sound she makes at the back of her throat.
She should have turned and fled then, but the ajar door captivates and transfixes her. One pale, trembling hand pushes it open. The other is clutched at her chest as she prays silently that the King is safe, that the guards are simply changing shifts.
Her mouth is still shaping unspoken hopes before the door is flung open and a sword is plunged into her body.
In times of death and urgency, there is no time to react.
Wolfram starts when he sees the door fly open and hesitates. Too late. Doria's body crumples like a flower. Through the door lies his father. It is almost as if he has fallen asleep on his desk except for the blood matting his pale, blonde hair and the corpses of guards and enemies scattered around him like broken dolls.
Lightning flashes illuminating the captor momentarily,
'Duke von Spitzweg…'
The sword is pulled roughly out of the maids body and blood glistens against cold steel.
Doria pushes herself slightly off the ground, a hand still clutching where the sword had once been. Her gaze never wavers from Wolfram's, blood trickling from pale lips as she utters one word.
'Run…'
And suddenly Wolfram is running, running, running. Corridors pass him in a blur and all he can hear is his laborious breath amid the thunder and crackle of lightning. He jerks in surprise, dodging a clumsy thrust on his left. A guard. A traitor and for a second he is so numb from the shock of betrayal that he is nearly struck from behind.
Countless turns later Wolfram muffles a cry when he enters a room with no other exits. He locks the door behind him and runs to the balcony. The jagged rocks and crashing water far below deem the jump suicidal and he is already soaked to the skin when the door behind him bursts open.
Ten seconds. Ten seconds before the Duke strides across the room and runs him through with his sword. Wolfram does not back into the railing. He is heir to the throne and stands his ground, emerald eyes blazing as the howling wind and rain pound down on him.
Doria, I'm sorry.
He waits, treasuring each and every second of breath and vital, rich blood flowing through his veins before he throws himself over the edge.
Many years from now, Wolfram will still recall the sensation of falling. The wind whistling past his ears, the waves raging far below and all around him the black sky stretching out endlessly. He plummets for what seems like an eternity before a hand, strong, safe and warm grabs him.
Green eyes open, surprised that they had even closed. A childish gasp escapes a mouth so usually set in expressionless stern lines.
Dragons.
He is being swept through the skies to the heavy beating of black wings and his small hands twitch for the presence of a long forgotten story book. The rain is starting to cease as the creatures rise impossibly higher and a voice, gentle and low, tells him he's safe.
In the dawning sky, Wolfram dreams of heroes and smoke, magicians and alchemists, of love and tragedy and happy endings.
if you found this slow or confusing, it all gets explained in the coming chaps so please stick with it!