After the vow was sealed, the ceremony continued as planned. Music swelled, laughter rose, and the guests rejoiced as though the Northern Witch's appearance were nothing but an old tale revived for the sake of tradition.
Just another legend soon to be forgotten.
Polite smiles, empty well-wishes. Every face painted with a courteous mask, offering hollow congratulations to the young prince who now bore the title of heir to the throne.
King Alexander III and Queen Laura spoke with regal grace, exchanging measured words with noble daughters vying for proximity, while Xavier's mind drifted—still haunted by the remnants of a vanished presence in the air.
His chest felt hollow, as if part of his soul had followed her retreating shadow northward. Unanswered questions coiled tightly around feelings yet unspoken.
Yet Xavier held fast to the image of a composed crown prince. He spoke with practiced charm, offered polite nods to noble daughters and won approving glances from both them and their eager parents. He could see clearly the hunger in those sparkling eyes, but he turned away from it all.
He couldn't help but wonder: if he bore no crown, how many among them would truly still offer their hands?
With a weary sigh, he banished the thought. The answer was all too clear.
His gaze swept across the grand ballroom, now blooming with a thousand dazzling gowns, bright petals in a gaudy garden of competition. Every girl striving to outshine the next, until in the chaos of color, they all blurred into sameness.
Then he remembered her.
The pale skin, cold as moonlight. The singular black gown that needed no embellishment to be divine. Those crimson eyes, hollow yet haunting, never seeking attention, never begging for mercy.
And her voice, strong and shattering, in equal measure…
Every detail, however small, poured into the hollow ache in his chest like water into a vessel made just for her, effortless and inevitable.
Unconsciously, Xavier turned his gaze toward the northern window, where the moon hung half-veiled behind wandering clouds.
Selena…
Xavier's heart quivered as he whispered her name into the silence of his soul. His hand rose to his chest, where the witch's mark still pulsed, quietly burning. He could feel her in every heartbeat, every breath. And yet she remained out of reach, veiled behind an endless mist.
He knew he needed to do something, anything, or the weight in his chest would surely tear him apart.
From across the ballroom, King Edward had been watching. His gaze, quiet and fathomless, hinted at thoughts long unspoken. But he said nothing. He merely blinked, concealing whatever truth lay behind the crown.
Time slipped by. Glass after glass of wine, dance after dance with perfumed nobility, until at last the festivities wound to an end. Xavier exhaled, the sound nearly a sigh of relief.
As the crowd thinned and the hall began to empty, exhaustion pressed in from all sides—social niceties, the effort to appear untouched, and the grief clawing at his insides.
He turned to leave, longing only for the solitude of his chambers.
But his father's voice halted him.
"Xavier. A word, if you would."
The king's voice was low and resonant, cutting through the empty hall like a bell at dusk.
Xavier turned, meeting his father's gaze—and for a moment, it robbed him of breath. There was weight in those eyes. Seriousness. Knowing.
"Yes, Father."
Though he didn't know what was coming, Xavier followed. Despite his body begging for rest, he obeyed.
The palace had grown quiet. Servants scurried about clearing remnants of the night's grandeur. In the endless corridor lit by flickering torches, their shadows danced along the stone like lost spirits, wavering into the void. Each step echoed, deep into the hollow chamber of Xavier's chest.
He didn't ask where they were going. He knew that everything his father did had purpose. So he followed—silent, steady, and at a respectful distance.
Then, at last, Edward spoke, his voice low and rough, melting into the hush of the hall.
"You must have many questions."
Xavier flinched, torn from the tangle of his thoughts. His eyes lifted to the broad back of his father, lit by the orange flare of firelight. He glanced aside, not wanting to reveal what he felt.
"No, Father."
The king chuckled, a dry sound, touched with amusement. He saw through the lie with ease.
"You've always been curious. Ever since you were a boy, that hasn't changed."
Edward stopped before a towering double door of aged oak. He turned, facing the son who had once clung to him, asking naive questions—but now stood tall and composed, cloaked in the silence of a man.
"You've always wondered about her—the witch in the Northern Castle."
That knowing look pierced through Xavier's soul. He turned his gaze away, saying nothing, yet offering no denial.
Edward smiled faintly. Blood would always speak to blood. No matter how much Xavier had grown, he was still his son. And a father could see the storm beneath any mask.
He pushed the heavy doors open. Wood groaned like ancient bones, the sound echoing through the night's hush, stirring a chill in the air. A gust of wind poured out from the room, sharp and cold. Xavier shivered. It felt… untouched, abandoned by time.
Despite the torches glowing along the walls, a deep cold lingered in the air. It clung to the stone like sorrow that refused to die.
At the center stood a sculpture—stone-cold and solemn—of a maiden kneeling in a hooded cloak. Hair falling in soft waves down to the carved floor. Her face shrouded in shadow… but his heart knew her, instantly.
Selena. The Witch of the North.
She knelt alone in the room's heart, untouched by the firelight. Even surrounded by flames, she remained a figure of solitude and dusk.
Edward moved past the statue toward a crimson curtain draped against the far wall, as though concealing something sacred.
Xavier followed, but paused beside the sculpture. Up close, the features emerged from shadow. It was her. Every line, every curve. Time had dusted her face, but her eyes—closed in eternal silence—seemed to carry the weight of all that was lost.
Her hands reached out, cupping something unseen. As though holding something priceless that could never be named.
Slowly, Xavier reached out and brushed the dust from her cheek. The stone was cold, and its chill lanced through him, straight into the trembling of his soul.
"That statue was carved by his hand. By our ancestor, Henry."
Edward's voice landed like a stone dropped into the bottomless void inside him. Xavier pulled his hand back and turned toward the curtain, just as the king drew it aside.
Behind it was a portrait.
A man—noble, commanding. Eyes alight with stars, yet weighed down by sorrow.
But what stopped Xavier's breath was the resemblance.
He looked down at the plaque.
Henry de Maximilian.
The hero-king.
The name whispered through legend.
The name she had called out, like a cry to a soul she had never forgotten.
Xavier's heart fell silent.
"I always wondered," Edward said, his voice echoing gently. "None of your brothers ever thought about the witch the way you did. None… were haunted by her."
Xavier's chest burned—his mark igniting with fevered heat. He clenched his fists and stepped closer to the portrait, staring into a reflection carved by time. Those eyes… that face… they were his.
Edward watched him, his gaze steady. He continued, his tone a low murmur.
"I found scraps of old texts—tattered, unofficial—saying the witch appeared after King Henry vanished from history."
Xavier's voice came dry, rasping against the question he feared to ask.
"Are you saying… I am Henry?"
Edward sighed. Even he dared not answer. Rebirth… such things lay beyond the reach of mortal truth.
"I don't know. But the resemblance—your bond with her—none of it can be ignored."
Xavier's mind reeled. The thought screamed inside him.
That's why she called him Henry.
That's why he knew her name.
Because he is… Henry.
His fists tightened. Every emotion, every ache in his soul—was it his? Or a ghost's?
"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
Edward hesitated, watching his son wrestle with pain he could not soothe. The silence stretched long before he answered, voice thick with something raw.
"Because I feared that it might be true. And that you would run to the North."
He looked up at Henry's portrait, eyes weighed by years.
"I don't know what happened between them. There is no record. But something in her eyes… it's as if she's still waiting for a war we haven't yet seen."
He placed a hand on Xavier's shoulder, drawing the prince's eyes back to him, his voice was steel sheathed in sorrow.
"You are my son. You are Xavier. I don't want you living the life of a man long gone."
And something shifted in Xavier's eyes—like fog parting after endless twilight. He laid a hand over his burning mark, where his heart still fought to beat beneath the weight of destiny.
He was Xavier. Heart and will. Even if he bore the soul of Henry, even if the ache belonged to another time—
It belonged to him now.
Edward saw the fire return to his son's eyes. The same fire that once drove him to chase the throne. He smiled, clapping his son on the shoulder.
"A king must always place the realm above all else."
Then Edward turned, his footsteps fading into the hallway, leaving Xavier in the quiet storm of his thoughts.
He believed he had reminded his son of duty. Of responsibility.
What he didn't know was that he had struck the spark to a fire waiting to burn. A fire that might one day consume the very kingdom he sought to protect.
The chamber fell silent once more. Xavier stood alone—between the witch carved in stone and the ghost immortalized in paint.
His blue eyes turned toward the North—brilliant, unyielding.
Above, the moon cowered behind drifting clouds, unwilling to witness what came next.
Far away, in the realm of snow and silence, another soul stirred, adrift in a storm of forgotten memories.
***