Chapter 4
"Whispers In the Dark"

The unkindled flames licked forth from the deep pit, swallowing whole the logs mounted inside it, and grasping for fresh air to feed its growing hunger. A servant busied about its perimeter with an iron in his grip and sought to restrain the fire from rising too high into the King's chambers. It seemed to multiply under his prodding almost lashing toward the man who tried to restrain it. The servant rushed to control it, striking deep into the pit to ebb the logs, and all at once he hissed like a wounded animal while the iron fell with a dull clatter onto the stone floor.

"Out!" Galen grunted and tore at the man's tunic. "Out with you, you idiot!" The servant scarcely had time to bend and pick up the iron before Galen's heel collided with his backside, sending the man onto his face and adding insult to injury. Like a beaten dog, he scrambled to his feet and left the room as discreetly as he could, abandoning his pride to the floor behind him.

In his place, a sole guard stepped forward where the fierce flames illuminated his youthful features, thick blonde curls to match the heaviness of his beard, and between both his pale blue eyes didn't dare to probe beyond the fire's reach where the King sat upon his throne with his furs and rich robes spilling over the arms and from the base to support his sandaled feet. For a moment only the fire spoke in crackling bursts like the embers tossed onto the floor and later to be swept up by yet another beaten dog of a man.

The King sat too deeply within his chair for the unbridled fire's light to reach him, though the guard was still too terrified to lift his eyes and take notice, and his voice snaked from the shaded face which housed it, "You are Esai, son of Castor."

"Yes, My King," he responded in one breath, then sucking in another to keep pace with his erratic heartbeat.

"Galen has told me of you. He says you bring news of great interest to me."

Here, Esai searched his feet uncertain whether to say what was and was not of interest to the King, and he fretted over his own silence. Before he could lift his tongue, there was a rustling of fabrics, and Esai stiffened and glanced toward the throne fearing that his ignorance had caused Savas to abandon his station. But the King had merely shifted forward in his seat, and now past the grasp of darkness, Esai sustained his icy blue gaze for a fleeting second before looking at his feet once more.

Savas smiled, the shadows sinking into the corners of his thin lips, and he observed the guard's agitation with the pleasure of a connoisseur of fear. The King bent even further bracing himself with his hands gripping the arms of his chair and seeming to pierce the thin skin of this man and gaze into the very workings of his soul. Loyalty was such a rare quality, and he had long learned to sniff out the treacherous. "Two nights ago you were called to my niece's chambers. Why?"

"The Princess called on me… She asked about my father," he answered unsteadily and bit his tongue shortly after speaking to damn it. It would lead him to sure death.

"Your father was a guard to my father, King Gallad, was he not?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"And he died protecting my brother."

"Yes."

Savas eased into the plush embrace of his seat, leaving his powerful eyes to reach through the darkness and keep watch for lies. Massaging his fingers into the stone engravings of his seat, he prompted, "Continue."

"My Lord, I-" Esai shuddered and dared to peek through the flames at his King once more shaded from his view, but the shadows surrounding him teemed with Savas' power. "I would never betray you."

"I know," Savas answered coolly, and the guard's body visibly relaxed. "If you had… you would take your own life before facing me, knowing what I do with traitors." Without the slightest movement, Esai's stance was rigid and fearful once more, but Savas was too bitter to enjoy his influence now. "Tell me everything, and perhaps I will feel merciful."

Esai swallowed, and his tongue seemed to dissolve with it. For the time, he could do nothing but stare at the heaving fire and the edging darkness beyond it sensing the evil that he had unwittingly committed to.

"Speak!" Savas barked out, and Esai tensed at the reverberation of his master's powerful voice.

"She called me to her quarters," he began again, stammering as his body released its grip to allow him the room for breath, and before his eyes, he saw the heavy green and black tapestries draped from her walls to draw away the chill, the glittering of bronze basins scattered along the walls, the silent maidens tending to her room while she sat at her window gazing out across the expanse…

Hearing the shuffled footsteps intermittent along the stone floors and rugs and consequent announcement of his arrival, the Princess stood from her post and chanced a closer peek at the man she called to her now.

Only after a thorough sweep of her odd eyes did she wonder, "You are Castor's son?"

"Yes, My Lady," he responded and didn't neglect the opportunity to bow his head deeper toward his chest.

"Your father was among the royal guards assigned to my grandfather, Gallad..."

Esai was silent waiting for the incline of her voice or end of her statement to be sure whether she was in fact expecting a response from him, but like her pale features guarded in their vacancy, there was no hint at her natural expression in her tone as though she considered him with the preserving regard of a barren soul. Unconsciously the hairs pricked to life on the base of his neck, and he recalled tales of the evil spirits that haunted her. How deep does her gaze reach? he wondered.

"He was later called to guard my father," she continued after the dejected pause, and he was not entirely sure she was dumb to his thoughts. "Did your father tell you why?"

The personal nature of the question confused him coupled with her stoic voice, neither embarrassed nor nervous, and he paused at her sudden audacity. "Yes."

Again, the presence of silence, the weight of her gaze, both expectant though neither intelligible…

"Are you mute?" she asked curtly, and at last some emotion stained her words.

"Forgive me," he responded as soon as he had the breath to form the words. "I've been trained to remain unseen –not to converse with a woman of your status."

His honesty appeared to unnerve her for she turned away and approached the window where the rain fell without cease. With her attention distracted, he dared to look at her trying to read her purpose in the intensity with which she carried out her simple task. What did she see?

"'Trained to remain unseen,'" she repeated and adjusted the edges of her robe, but truly she seemed to be righting the words in her mind. Remembering his company, she glanced over her shoulder and prompted, "Recount to me what your father told you."

Esai looked away once more too wary to be sure how he should behave, and so he obeyed, "He said there was word of an attack-"

"Rumors," she corrected.

Once more he was disoriented by her addition, and he followed the length of silence until he assumed he was to continue. "Rumors of an attack," he attempted more cautiously almost peeking out at her from the corners of his eyes to see if this pleased her, but she was gazing out the window yet again leaving him blind and dumb. "Possibly the Samnites planning a strike. King Gallad thought it wise to guard his heirs and divided the number of men protecting him."

"And your father was sent to protect the Crown Prince," she finished, leaving Esai to nip at the unspoken words for he sensed them but was too blind to see them.

"Yes," he muttered uneasily.

"He died that night."

"Yes."

"What quality of man was your father?" she inquired then twisting to face him and pin him with her fierce eyes. They assaulted him unexpectedly in one fell glance, and he searched his memory for the insult he had unwittingly given her to cause such a look.

"He taught me all I know," Esai answered. "He was a good man."

Briefly, her attention flickered across his face perhaps looking for the tail of his lie and slightly surprised to see none. "I suppose all children will see the good in those who bore them."

He frowned before he had the sense to stop himself, and as soon as his conscious mind could command it he hid the slighted look by turning to his feet.

She remained still withholding her breath much like her words, and then abruptly she decided, "That is all."

"Nothing more was said, and I left," Esai finished.

The end of his impromptu story lingered, but he could feel the King's tense agitation like the untamed flames shifting and burning the air near him.

"Do you have a son?" Savas wondered at last, proving he bore the same ability to confuse the guard as his niece, and similarly the exhausted man required a beat to decipher the intimate nature.

"No, My Lord."

"Pity… There will be none to carry your name."

No sooner had the words been spoken than hands gripped Esai's arms, and the man reacted on instinct for his thoughts were lethargic and tore away from the guards swooping down on him. His fight was delayed wrapped up in his mind and terror, and he was too concerned with his fists to see the hilt aimed for his temple. His body slumped, and each guard took one of his arms carrying him from the King's quarters while the man's limp feet dragged behind him smearing the blood dripping from his head into the plush rugs. Without command, two servants rushed to clean at the rugs and floor and wipe away the evidence that this man ever existed.

All this Savas watched from his dark chair, cultivating the shadows which lingered about him and twisting the ruby ring on his finger while he thought.

"Long ago I foresaw this day…"

Galen replaced Esai's position beside the fire pit and promised his king, "The matter will be handled discretely."

"Discretely," Savas hissed then finding the rush of anger to propel him from his seat and toward his advisor. "Silencing his voice does not fix the problem!"

"The Princess will be engaged within the week. She'll be of no concern when she is in Latium-"

"Filling the Prince's head with her stories! Look how they delay!"

"I've spoken with Solon," Galen continued attempting to appease Savas' growing rage, but like the fire, it proved wild and untamable. "He assures us the engagement will continue, but the Princes don't wish to look too eager."

"No," Savas growled under his breath, throwing his cape from his way and pacing beside the roaring fire then lighting the fury of his features splayed and cavernous. "There is treachery at play."

"My Lord, no one would dare to betray you."

"No one but that little wench!" he grunted the threat then assailing him until the whites of his eyes flashed at Galen, and as swiftly as the breath of air fed his fire did the sparks diminish into a simmering face of vexation. "I knew when she emerged from the woods what legacy she carried."

His pale blue eyes pierced Galen with accusation unraveling the memory of that day before them both and stabbing at the insult he found in it. Balking unconsciously, the counselor felt the sweat gathering in the aged lines of his brown, and he answered softly, "She was a child."

"Children appear sweet and innocent until they wield the hand which strikes you down!"

"She couldn't-"

"Silence!" he snapped, and the air sucked from the room upon one command. The rough rustle of his feet pacing once more only challenged the tension, and Galen sensed his impotence swelling as though a pest squashed beneath his lord's heel. "How does my niece find our guests?"

"She…" His leaden tongue was slow to awaken, and steadily Galen answered, "She has not been agreeable. Solon mentioned that she has denied the Prince's affections on several occasions."

Savas smirked, exhaling shortly through his nose, and chuckled beneath his breath. "So stubborn and blind to her escape." Rather than aggravating him, this news appeared to have a pleasant effect on the King giving a fresh sheen to his icy eyes. "She will be similarly willful against marriage."

"I cannot say…"

His smirk shifted to an awry smile shared more with himself than Galen, and the counselor feared what command would follow such a darkly indulgent look. Abandoning his nervous feet, he found solace in the rich seat and relaxed purposefully across one arm. "What a shame it would be," he mused and drummed his fleshy fingers along the smooth stone, "if in her despair… she took her own life."

‡‡‡

Heat blanketed the narrow room drawing small pools in the nape of her neck and small of her beck. Absently, Iliana gathered the thick curls into her palms and heaved them onto the crown of her head while pursing her lips and blowing a steady stream of air beneath the neck of her dress to confront the beads sliding down her belly. Summer was reluctant to wane and heaved its final exertion before it could gracefully dip away and yield to cooler temperatures, but for the moment its spell compounded with the persistent fire in the kitchen to overwhelm the space. Atop its orange crest the soup warmed, though tasting the sweat on her lip, she realized how foolish it was to bother with temperature. How could any find a warm meal appetizing on so sultry a day?

Impulsive with nerves, she took the large bowl, spooned the soup within it, and worried over the proportion of vegetables to broth before seeming pleased. Waves of steam snaked from its surface at once promising and making her thirst for cool water from the mere sight. Rather, she draped a piece of clean cloth over the top and was eager to leave the oppression of the kitchen for the open air outside the home. A slight breeze called from the sea, and she welcomed its brush against her damp skin, closing her eyes for the moment to indulge fully in its touch. Her dress shifted like her heavy hair, and she relaxed as she opened her eyes to search the streets of Alba Longa. The agitation of battle waned as those oblivious peasants carried about their work, seduced by the high sun and healing wounds. Offerings were made to the Temple of Zeus east of the Alban Hills where Aeneas had founded the site upon his arrival in these lands, proving himself more mortal than divine and capable of humility enough to pray for salvation –if not for his sake, than that of his children. It was a beacon of Alban tenacity and preservation, and through the peace emanating from its sacred ground, they felt safe.

Her chestnut eyes cast toward the hillside rising away from the sea and carrying the endless greenery upon their arched backs, and their strength infected her with the sense of a greater purpose at its base. Guided by her timid thoughts, she dared to glance at the forge which was his home and knew where her feet would take her. Still, they were a bit clumsy beneath her as the edges of her sandal caught a protruding rock, and she nearly stumbled onto her knees. The soup heaved within its bowl, slipping past the edge to burn her fingers, and she bit her lip feeling the burn in her hand and foot to remind her of her lack of grace as though she could ever forget. Once righted, she drew a steadying breath to firm her shoulders and fill her chest, and she continued her advance.

Dipping inside the threshold where the crooked wooden door was opened to its fullest reach and restrained by a mutilated helmet at its base, the forge was sticky with heat despite Damian's attempts to air out the interior. Straw mixed with the dirt floor stained black from the ashes that hung in the air burnt and bitter to her tongue. She blinked at the heat reverberating from the huge pit built upon stones, though its intensity smoldered on the brink of dying out, but its handler was preoccupied shaping the edge of a blade on another stone nearby. As her gaze centered on the curve of his hunched back, his body concave and wholly engrossed in his work, her confidence wavered much like the nervous shaking of her hands barely able to keep their hold on the bowl. The bronze blade cried with every strike, and its voice hammered into her chest, making her wince at each blow. Still, her chestnut eyes were pinned in the expanse of his back where the plain vest strained against his posture, and she could faintly see the two peaks of his shoulder blades protruding beneath. The knotted black curls were matted with sweat at the base of his neck though a few stubborn coils sprung out from the heat, his tan skin shone in the faint light, and she found her tongue dry and heavy with the sight and her silence.

Her sandals scratched along the straw and caught on the edge of a spear, then falling and clattering onto the floor. She jerked nervously and through her blinking found herself staring down the length of his half-finished blade to his features similarly cut with suspicion as rough and unfinished as the sword in his hand. The dark orbs relaxed abruptly upon encountering her shocked expression, and he retracted the blade and turned the hilt in his hand, resting the smooth edge against his forearm and pointing up to the heavens.

She blanched, lips ajar, eyes searching for the proper words when he spoke, "Forgive me… I didn't hear you."

Her brow fretted uncertainly as she realized his mistake, thinking she had announced herself and he had been too engrossed in his work to notice when she was all the more guilty and foolish, but she hadn't the heart to correct him. "No harm," she assured him weakly and then noticed as the numb surprise seeped from her skin that both her hands were burning for even more soup had slipped over the edge of the bowl and singed her fingers. Ignoring the pain radiating up her palms, she forced a small smile. "I should know better than to approach a distracted man."

He bent to pick up the fallen spear and return it to the growing pile lined up along one wall and returned the unfinished blade to its stone. All this he accomplished while her nervous gaze followed his every movement, and at last, he turned to her once more and awaited some explanation for her appearance in his home.

She was surrounded by weapons to fill their armory but utterly unarmed. Her smile waned, and she turned her face away, unaccustomed to studying him so openly, so long, and instead considered the blades and spears and axes scattered about. "I did not mean to interrupt your work. I know how busy you have been, and I can see all that you've accomplished in so short a time."

Rather than reviewing the fruits of his labor, his attention remained fixed on her perhaps the better interested contemplating the image of her inside his walls sharing more words than they had spoken since his arrival, and she wondered how well she hid her nerves. The heated air fed the tension like wind to an open flame, and it assaulted her with a bevy of vigor like the sweat beading along her skin and sliding down her belly that seemed more the provocative touch of his eyes examining her.

"Usually your father sends one of your brothers," he commented in a raspy voice that was victim to the weight of the ashes and perhaps singed eternally from them.

"He didn't send me," she responded swiftly and then flushed at the admission for she could see the implications flood his eyes. All the products of her nightly creativity then drawn into the depths as dark as onyx and illuminating her innocence, making her shy at one look, but she feigned her strength like a weakened animal trying to keep a predator from swooping on her. "I have a favor to ask of you."

The curious frown cluttered his features for a moment, and he appeared to group her nervous energy, unwarranted appearance, and current lack of a reason into his own estimations. The potent look remained seated in his eyes as he wondered, "What could you need of me?"

The ashes scratched her throat, and she swallowed to clear it though they made her sound almost stern as she answered him, "I need your skills."

At once his interest waned like the softening of his stature when he nodded curtly. "Of course, My Lady."

Only his abrupt retreat made her aware of her tone and furthermore the dual lines of conversation unfolding, and her cheeks felt feverish stealing the blood away from her sprinting heart. "I brought you some soup," she muttered before the silence lingered too long, but still the tension remained. "I can tell by the smoke the hours you keep. I imagine you scarcely have time to eat let alone prepare a meal."

"Thank you." He reached to take the bowl from her, and she swiftly drew away the now damp rag embarrassed how its stained color betrayed her. He led them toward a small table where he pushed aside the various articles to make room for the both of them and offered her a seat.

A smile darted across her features, and she sat down too quickly and folded her hands in her lap, drawing up her spine and flattening her shoulders like her mother had done. She felt stronger merely by imitating such a woman who had been a goddess to her childish eyes. The same ones followed him as he found a spoon, polished it on the edge of his vest while his back was turned so that she wouldn't notice the extent of the ash's touch, and sat across from her to take a spoonful of his meal. Before he could comment on the taste, he scooped another into his mouth, and she found her answer well enough in his eagerness. Though the silence pervaded, her thoughts challenged it, brushing up against its edge to reflect on how little she knew about this man whose proximity left her palms clammy. With the milieu of subjects and possibilities stretching out before her, she found herself reticent to speak. Silence had been their habit for so long. It felt impossible to break, and yet she feared even more the shame of failing before she tried.

"Was your father a blacksmith?" she spoke up, and the question hit the air like an arrow to a tree's trunk, blunt and abrupt.

His brows pinched above his eyes, angling them where she could better see the lines of soot caught in the small wrinkles at the edges. In fact the ashes sunk into every crevice of his face though the sweat washed the rest away, and so close, she could suddenly see past the vision she had embedded of him in her mind to realize the intricacies of the man beneath. For one, she discovered he was older than she had thought, and that heightened her sense of naivety, making her suspicious that this game among them was wholly of her imagination and his participation had been a figment of her inexperienced desires. How easy it was to pin her thoughts to the outsider of their community, more friendly toward his walls than his neighbors, but she had found his privacy fodder to her curiosity.

"Yes," he answered before taking another large bite.

"It's no wonder, then, where your talent comes from." Again, the false smile she implanted on her face when she was nervous. He continued eating: testament to his modesty or hunger, she couldn't decide. "We're fortunate you've come here."

"It is fortunate I was welcomed."

"Alba Longa has always been more than a city," she said proudly. "It's a home to those who seek it."

He nodded his agreement and stirred around the vegetables in his bowl without purpose as though the topic opened a void in his attention, and she was drawn to understand his silence.

"Why did you come here?"

His spoon stilled, and he straightened atop the small bench housing him to square off his body and face her. The ease with which he confronted her like a soldier lining up for battle was daunting. She had always thought his muteness and his averted attention was shyness as was hers, but now she realized it was driven by something else entirely. "Alba Longa is a home to those who seek it," he repeated evenly. "It is a home to wanderers… I left my tale when I left my lands."

Unnerved by his sincerity, she turned to her folded hands which appeared a charade much like this affair she had built between them and that was now unraveling before her eyes. "I meant no disrespect."

"I know," he commented in a lower tone and set his spoon aside. "I scare you. I don't mean to."

"No," she said sharply and glanced up once more to see an aged look of resignation awaiting her. Her posture melted with her awareness of how poorly she had executed this meeting. "I," she paused and laughed lightly at her foolishness. "I rarely speak to men other than my brothers or my father because of my brothers and my father… Evidently, I have no talent for it." She muttered the last line to her nervous fingers a bit scornfully and bitterly before she righted herself. "I did visit you to ask for you help."

"Yes," he recalled and rested his elbows on the table to support the weight of his shoulders, "but you've yet to tell me why."

Prodding at her inadequacy further stripped away her confidence, and she found herself speaking the more easily because there was no reason bothering anymore. "I have a dilemma," she said and looked to his dark eyes which were patiently mirroring her own expression. "My father continues to grow older, and with every year, I'm running out of gifts to give him. I've outgrown the novelty of little trinkets and favors. So I've come to you with a very unorganized and impulsive plan, and I hoped you could make sense of my ideas and forge a blade worthy of a king –worthy of a father."

Her scheme was in play, but it did not unfold in the manner she had expected. Still, their eyes caught across the short space, and neither turned away. At length, he said, "My time is scarce. Your father has me forging weapons for his army day and night, and a blade of that magnitude will take the bulk of my concentration."

"Yes," she agreed though lost for what he was truly saying. Realizing her omission, she quickly assured him, "I will pay you-"

"I will do this for you," he said, emphasizing the final two words, and he reveled for a moment in how enraptured she was with his honesty, "but you must do something for me."

Paralyzed by a rush of happiness, she offered, "I will help if I can, but I don't know what I could possibly do."

The edges of his ash-stained lips curved in a frank smile that dared her and sent her heart into a crescendo, but his fingers nudged the bowl in front of him, making a loud scratching sound against the grain of the wood. Her face paled as she realized her mistake, and she exhaled her humiliation.

"Food," she understood dryly.

"You were right to say I don't have time to prepare a meal," he spoke with no inclination whether he understood her flushed cheeks or not. "I need no payment. Your father has given me more than enough. What I need is a hot meal every now and again."

"It is a fair trade." Iliana wet her lips as she considered the proposition, but truthfully there was no possibility she would deny this arrangement. She had consented the moment she stepped outside of her home with the bowl of soup in her hands. "This must be in secret, you understand," she continued a moment later and uncomfortably glimpsed at him. "I don't want to ruin the surprise. I can make larger portions when I cook for my father and brother without them being the wiser and bring however much I can to you while they're preoccupied."

The smile settled into his features while he wondered at the timid sincerity in her gaze, too sweet to seem real and yet it was. "We have a deal."

They parted moments later, treading across the steadier ground beneath them, and Iliana faced the afternoon sun outside his home with a smile fixed upon her face.

‡‡‡

Three was the end of this game of power amongst them. After three insulting nights facing her arrogant denial of his gifts, both his patience and determination were worn to the bone leaving him seething at even the slightest mention of her name or the affront she provided to his pride. Where he had been reluctant and unconcerned, the Princess managed to attract his undivided attention in one fell attempt, then hammered in thrice progressively driving the insult deeper and deeper into his skull. It was unavoidable. She called upon this torrent of anger spurred by the injury to his honor, and he did not doubt her cunning purpose and blatant audacity to face him so boldly. He fell back on the conversations he had shared with Ascanius and Solon days ago when they speculated about her motivations, and he was assured he understood the reason she would not acknowledge his interest. Repeatedly, his thoughts returned to the huntsman. Whether his competition or a handler to this conspiracy, Haemon would find out the truth with his words, his power, and his blade –if necessary.

Ascanius sat in one of the chairs behind the table where Haemon handled his affairs and watched his brother standing at the fire's edge and staring into the belly of the flames. He held nothing but dissent for this course of action, but he understood how Haemon searched for an appropriate object for his anger. He could not strike down a Princess, and so a huntsman seemed a better sport. Ascanius only offered his presence to bear witness to whatever passed between the two, so that he might stop his brother if needed or speak on his behalf were this engagement to end turbulently. He hoped Haemon would be satisfied with answers and not require blood to pay the toll to his ego.

At that moment, the doors parted while a servant announced, "Atlan, son of Borus, King Savas' huntsman," and both Princes looked to the man who entered.

Like the people of his country, Atlan had the height of a titan, build of a fighter, and pale complexion of a man who had spent his life in the shadows of the dark Apulian forest. Beneath his pale, thick brows, his blue eyes cut from his features looking brazenly upon the two royal men before he bowed his head and said, "My Lords… You called for me."

While Ascanius remained seated, a diligent observer to any end, his brother circled the edge of the fire pit and drew closer to the huntsman who embodied all that the Crown Prince had not anticipated. From his eyes' edges, lines fanned across his temple and down to his thin cheeks. A straight nose severed the two halves of his features, a severe interruption to the whole image, and deep crevices arched away from his nostrils and buried into his blond beard, the weight of which made the base of his face heavier and bulkier like a jaw meant to endure the blows life dealt him.

"The King's hunter," Haemon commented and continued his thorough examination of the man brought to him. "I didn't expect you to be so grey."

Rather than offended, Atlan smiled and sustained Haemon's concentration. "I'm not as swift or strong as I once was, but age has made me patient and a better hunter."

"How long have you been in the service of the King?"

"Fifteen years, My Lord."

The Prince's intrigue grew, sensing the underlying cause but willing to play his ignorance for the time. "That is not so long for a man of your age."

"I've hunted since I was old enough to carry a dagger and follow my father into the forest," Atlan said in a way that seemed evasive but without apology.

"From a peasant to a king's servant. How did you come to your current station?"

Though the Prince maintained his vacant façade, Atlan paused with a subtle narrowing to his eyes as though sensitive to the ground they were treading, and Haemon knew at once that he had followed the proper lead. "It was a reward," the huntsman answered at length, "for finding the Princess."

"Explain."

Atlan lifted his head slightly seeming to face off the challenge set before him and growing more agitated with the topic. "Surely you've heard of Lycaon's death, My Lord." Haemon idly crossed his arms over his broad chest and motioned with one hand for Atlan to continue though such a course clearly aggravated the man. "In the middle of the night, he and his family were murdered. His wife. His two sons. His eldest daughter. They burned the house with their bodies inside and destroyed any evidence to involve them… Lycaon's youngest child, the Princess, was the only to escape. She hid in the forest without food, without water, victim to the cold of night and predators in the woods. I found her after three days while tracking. Another night alone, and she might have died and joined her family in Hades." Atlan exhaled through his nose and stared squarely into the Prince's eyes. "But you already knew that."

Here, one corner of Haemon's lips edged into a sardonic smile, and he confessed, "I've heard tales, but few will speak of the past."

"We do not speak of our dead," he explained and lifted his wrinkled brow, "and most think that night cursed."

The other corner joined his smile to bring to full fruition although it appeared more calculated than sincere, and he idly ran his thumb along the grain of his bread, patient as a man who already deduced what he would from his company and their conversation. "She must be indebted to you –her savior."

Subtly, Atlan's gaze solidified finding its hold in the Prince's and sensing the edge to his tone and insulted by any insinuation about Aurora even he did not yet understand it. Regardless, Haemon made no effort to hide his fishing expedition, and the older man had no desire to be toyed with. "I would better answer your questions were they voiced."

"You're bold for a huntsman," he observed, the smile becoming static and tense on his face. "I know the Princess came to your home the day after my arrival."

His chestnut eyes caught every twitch and falter of his expression, noting it in his mind and assuming it guilt, and Atlan accepted this news with as much tact as he could manage which manifested as him subtly bowing his chin. His following silence was a confirmation of this fact and an unwillingness to implicate himself farther.

"You may be a common man, but you are not a fool. You know what this means."

Atlan straightened his neck again, returning Haemon's gaze with his features stripped of expression and defensive in that respect.

"Silence won't help you," he said, his smile falling now as the annoyance tainted his voice, and he frowned in disgust to see how deeply this betrayal against him went. "It is better you confess your involvement in this affair." He remained purposefully vague with the hope Atlan might mistake the extent of his knowledge and admit to whatever his role was.

"I've not denied that she visited me," Atlan returned evenly.

"That is all you have to say?" he challenged with eyes flashing dangerously. "Perhaps you would be more agreeable toward your king…"

"Our relationship is no secret."

So the man finally took his bait, and Haemon smirked and ignored the blade to his pride, simultaneously content to know he was correct and insulted to have been deceived and underestimated. If what the man said is true, he doubted Savas ever thought they would uncover this illicit affair, and he sensed his brother drawing to his feet at this news and turned to consider him. "Savas has betrayed our trust. Evidently his niece is not as pure as he claims."

Ascanius' frown could not bear deeper into the lines of his handsome face.

"You misunderstand, Prince," Atlan spoke up and drew the Princes' attentions yet again.

Incredulous, Haemon scowled heavily that the man would now try to retract his words as if they were so dimwitted. "Did you not admit to a relationship with the Princess?"

"Not a romantic one," he answered earnestly and almost appeared disgusted by the implication. "She is an orphan, and I am a father to her."

Here Haemon snorted in disbelief and shook his head. "Above her uncle?"

Atlan's lips flattened into grimace, and his private gaze glanced from Haemon to Ascanius standing behind him. "You've been fooled by his act."

"No more than yours," Haemon charged frankly.

"I'm the only in the palace who will speak truthfully to you."

"A lofty accusation, huntsman."

"I understand your suspicion," he said and sustained Haemon's aggravated gaze, "but I have no motivation to lie."

"Other than to secure your place at her side or to trick me into marrying her. Whether you are a conspirator or her lover, you have every reason to lie to me."

"No," he answered for he would not allow his reputation and that of the Princess to be tarnished by such foul words. "She is Lycaon's heir, and she is pure. She only came to me to seek advice –nothing more."

"I'm done with your games!" Haemon growled beneath his breath and turned from the man, striding toward his brother with the intent to send word to his father that they would return within the fortnight.

"What advice?" Ascanius asked despite Haemon's bitter glare to end this subject before they fell too deep into the tangle of lies.

"She's troubled by your presence here," Atlan answered loudly to be sure his words met their mark, the Prince resolved to ignore him. "You've noticed her peculiarities, haven't you?"

Neither man answered, and in that silence was response enough.

To quote the young woman that he had seen days ago, he explained, "She is twenty-six, an orphan, and a virgin… Her uncle has only adopted his station as her guardian now that he sees some advantage to his benefit. For years she has been neglected and overlooked in every manner and decided she was past a marriageable age." His words resonated honestly, and though Haemon remained with his back to the man, he was still with his profile offered to the man. "The King did not tell her he sought to arrange a marriage."

"For a woman so ignorant to these negotiations, she seems persistent to deny my brother's interest," Ascanius spoke up, and Haemon's fury turned on his brother to have his humiliations shared with this man.

All at once, Atlan understood the reason he had been called, and his broad stature eased at this news. "Understand," he appealed. "She is inexperienced and frightened."

Haemon couldn't hold his tongue as he spun to face the hunter and accused, "A frightened woman does not insult a man by refusing his gifts."

"I did not say she wasn't stubborn," he admitted, "but you can see it is an act."

To this, both Princes could surmise their own inferences, and in his mind, Haemon pictured the tense evenings spent at dinner, her unadorned neck and ears an abasement to him but her eyes too weak and timid to deliver the insult to his face. Despite himself, he listened the more intently if only for an explanation that would ease his bruised pride of the insult which confronted it each night.

"You still suspect me," Atlan said and nodded as if surrendered to this fact. "But I will tell you the secret to her, and you'll know then that I've spoken the truth." His blue eyes focused solely on Haemon, and he surveyed the proud Prince for a time before revealing, "She's not a woman who will you let woo her, so don't give her the choice. Face her, and she won't deny you."

‡‡‡

The weight of his eyes haunted her long after she abandoned the dining hall and strode through the corridors to the escape offered by her private quarters. Where his fury had made him oblivious to her, his attention returned with renewed vigor in the loud way with which he addressed her by name and cornered her with those dark eyes, leaving her no room to avoid him. She felt panicked by the trap of his abrupt hunt for it gave her no space to retreat or advance, and so she sat at dinner across from this man who did not hesitate to challenge her. They shared such a limited exchange, but it seemed a betrayal to her decided indifference toward him.

"Aurora," he spoke up and caught her in the net of his attention, "how do you find the rains?"

Staring at her plate, she felt the weight of his eyes without the need to straighten her neck and face him, and glancing sidelong down the table, she recognized how others around them silenced to hear what she would say. There was no avoiding it, and none hurried to answer the Prince for his sole concentration was her. Unnerved by this new tactic, she was reluctant to lift her eyes and look at him, smirking as content and satisfied as he had been the first night they met, and similarly, she was shamed by his audacity.

"An impediment to your visit," she revealed slowly, her own voice soft where his had been bold. "It is a pity you can't see the beauty of our lands."

"But this is part of your beauty, isn't it?" His eyes shone, and he corrected, "Your country's beauty, I mean."

"I suppose," she muttered, embarrassed enough to dip her head to his amusement and that of those watching them, and she was propelled to shift the attentions from her. "Is it so different in Latium?"

His brow quirked in a way that humbled her like his blunt smile, pinpointing the limitations of her knowledge and enjoying her ignorance as if she were a child. "Yes. We don't have your mountains and forests, but we have the sea. Have you been to the shores?"

She shook her head slightly, pretending not to be embarrassed by how little she knew outside these walls, outside the prison of the woods. "No, I've had no reason to."

Eyes darting up to watch his smile grow, she regretted that he captured her attention so easily. "Perhaps one day you will."

Her cheeks warmed at the memory of her ignorance admitted before all, and she knew she shouldn't be so sensitive it. If only his eyes hadn't seemed so full of amusement as they stared at her, filling her with unease for she couldn't understand the disappearance of his anger now to be replaced with pleasant exchanges. To her, this was some new tactic, an attempt to shame her, and she was witless and powerless to fight it. What was even more ridiculous to her anxious mind was how she still fretted over the few words!

It distracted her enough so that she recognized the sound of footfalls behind her much later than she should have, and she paused to glance behind her where the corridor was empty aside from the bronze basins which sporadically lit it. In their interim shadows settled, and her eyes uncertainly darted from one void space to the other, confused and unnerved by the vacancy that met her. She waited a moment longer for some sound or vision to interrupt the space, but it seemed the footsteps had been of her imagination perhaps conjured up while she was so engaged in her thoughts and ignorant to all else around her. It was a further humbling to her night, and she exhaled hotly from her lips as she turned and continued her path to her quarters. Inevitably, the memory arose from the ashes of her mind, persistent not to die as she wished it would, and as she replayed the conversation before her eyes, the echo found her again.

For a moment, she tossed aside the thought and continued her stride, hearing its resonance meld with another timed to match her own but coming from farther down the corridor. Without hesitation, she turned once more so suddenly she was sure she would come face-to-face with the phantom haunting her, but the hallway was empty as it had been last she checked. This time, however, she held no reservations as to what she had heard, and the implication –the idea that someone followed her who did not wish to be seen– drew a cold chill down her spine to electrify the hairs and fill her body with terror. For fifteen years, she feared they would come for her, yet she was simultaneously stunned and in some manner prepared mentally, knowing she could survive but fearful her fate had escaped her years ago. A dagger was hidden among her robes since she spoke with the guard for she understood the closer she drew, the more thorny her path would become. She knew that once she reached the corner her quarters lay ahead of her, and inside their confines, she would be safe in the company of the servants and guards who tended to her.

She turned once more, and though she could not keep her stride from lengthening when the echo of footfalls began once more, she strived to seem at ease. She worried if she ran that they would pounce on her the sooner, and she needed the distance between them if she wished any chance of reaching her refuge. Her heart thundered in her chest to feed the adrenaline through her. Her body was fire, but she could think of nothing but the presence drawing closer behind her. Its resonance increased to match her own, and it seemed to yearn to equal the pace of her heart. In her mind's eye, she planned how she would react if he caught her before she reached the door, seeing the dagger in her hand and the angle it would take to reach him. She rounded the corner, the threshold awaited her, but a hand on her arm sent her body recoiling on instinct. Within seconds, her dagger was drawn to his neck, and she forced the man against the wall of the corridor with every ounce of strength her terror-stricken body could expel. His hand caught her wrist and held the dagger from pressing deep enough into his throat to cut the skin, and without the capability to strike him down, she was left to stare up into the face of her killer. The chestnut eyes gazing back stole the blood from her features, and the fear and confusion was ice to numb her body's crescendo. Her features fell wide and open with shock much like her lips parting.

She drove more power into the hand wielding the dagger, gritting her teeth for the pressure, and caused him to tighten his grip on her wrist to restrain it. Her face quaked like little fissures of her features fed by the explosion of nerves in her mind, trying to understand and trying to fight. Hands shaking and voice strained, she asked, "Why are you following me?"

The frown absorbed the shadows of his face, sinking most into the dark gaze searching her expression. The hand cupping her waist curled around her, holding her fast to him, urged by the pallor of her features and terror soaked into her wide eyes. "I'm not," he answered and couldn't anticipate how this response would revive the trembling in her lips.

Immediately, she stepped away from him and gazed down the short corridor to the corner with her stance spread as if prepared for battle, but he followed her still holding to her wrist, sensing she might flee at any moment. The mismatched eyes flickered to him, unable to remain stagnate for long before they were considering what lay behind him once more. It was then that she stilled, her gaze wholly focused, and mouth ajar. Haemon turned to catch the shadow thrown across the floor and sliding to disappear beyond their sights, and without hesitation, he rushed down the corridor, rounding the corner and discovering the hallway vacant. So swiftly were his instincts sharpened, heart pounding, breaths even, and he attention searched every available nook where a body could hide. There was no time for a man to reach the end of the corridor... Bronze hinges groaned from his right, and he twisted to see the Princess had fled into the confines of her chambers. He alone remained in the night to face the silence of the hallway and the secret he had stumbled upon.

The hunter was right: She was terrified, but it was not of him.


Author's Note: Hey my dolls! Excuse my delay, but I've been a bit busy and this chapter is obviously a lengthy one. I swear I'm not trying to make these huge, but I've already divided up the scenes according to chapters to keep the action rolling evenly and smoothly. I know Amy commented on the length, and if it's something you guys find tedious and overwhelming, please let me know :) So in this chapter, I'm finally getting some business done, and you're seeing some plot points begin to simmer. It's about time, right? haha I hope you guys are intrigued to see how Iliana and Damian's arrangement progresses, where this mystery in Apulia is going, and what Haemon will do now. Next chapter some big news is announced, and Haemon does something a bit naughty! :D

Thanks to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 as always the awesome reviews!

Amy: Agh! Yes, I'm a verbose hooker haha My chapters are long, and I seriously don't know how they get this way. I think I'm a hoarder for words -like soon they'll have an intervention, and I'll be crying like 'no, please, please don't hit the backspace bar! I need that adverb!' Sad yet true haha I swear there will be much more discussion of Myrina & Hector. I've been a liar up to this point, but you know how I have a million things going on at once. Haemon in particular is going to have a trip down memory lane soon... sigh. Yes, big families! I like that. Makes me feel less guilty for all the drama when I throw a baby in there haha I hope you liked my surprise(s) and enjoyed this chapter! xoxo

klandgraf: Haha short and sweet. Oh if only I had that power ;) I'll try: LOVE your review and can't wait to see what you think about this one! How's that? :D xx