Heir of Kyree {under editing}

5 | cruel observations

Wyld wasn't one to mull over people's words or actions, but his morning encounter with Adora left him uneasy. As he marched towards his father's council room, he clenched and unclenched his fists. Still greeting the servants and handmaidens, Wyld tried to shut out the images of Adora cowering in fear. The Princess easily put on a confident front but the second Wyld showed a lick of magic, she reverted to the fearful state he'd found her a night ago.

"Good afternoon your highness," one of the servants spoke, ducking her head as the Prince walked by. Wyld inclined his head, giving her a small smile. She was one of the younger ones he noted to himself and images of Adora curled up on the prison floor flashed through his mind. Like the servants that worked in the palace, they lived in fear of the Zylan King. From their first day of work, they keep their heads ducked in the presence of any high-ranking officer, refraining from making any noise other than a respectful greeting.

Clearing his throat, Wyld continued his march down the winding hallways of the Zylan palace. The extravagant wooden buildings failed to distract the Prince from the memories that kept flashing in his mind. The image of Adora shrinking back in fear morphed into the sight of his now-dead mother, kneeling before his angered father. Like the Kyree Princess, her eyes were wide in terror, lips, and hands trembling. A knot had begun to form in Wyld's throat, his pace only increasing.

His mother had always pleaded for mercy, even as her husband's bursts of anger became a routine. After all, Keigo of Zylan was never a man of forgiveness. Sometimes he would hesitate, his hand floating in the air. The world would come to a halt and Wyld would hold his breath from where he stood, peeking through the crack of the door. But the blow would always come and so would his mother's cry for help. Cries for Wyld to turn away. Cries for him to stop treating her wounds once his father grew tired.

Wyld came to a stop in the middle of a courtyard, his lungs failing to provide him oxygen. Resting his hands on his knees, he exhaled shakily, shoving away the memories that kept appearing in his mind like a never-ending tide.

It was an illness that took her, not Father.

Wyld wanted to scream and punch the marble fountain bubbling nearby. He craved the splintering pain that shot up his wrist when his fist made contact with furniture. Whether it was wood, marble, or stone, the pain tasted all the same in his mouth. No matter how much blood spilled out of his blows, the relief always managed to cool his nerves.

The Prince ran his hands through his tousled hair, eyes narrowing as his father's council room came into sight. The door was made of dark oak wood with excentric shapes carved all over the edge. Around the two golden door knobs, two dragons battling each other were carved into the sturdy material.

He steadily walked over, placing his hand on the doorknob. It was hot to the touch, just like his father's magic. From the outside, the Prince could make out the muffled sound of his father's laughter, along with the cackling of his generals. Disgust and unease crawled across his skin but the Prince opened the door in one swift motion, eyes poised on his target.

His father, the King of Zylan himself, lounged in his golden chair with hands on his chest. He let out a bone-rattling laugh. The King's dark hair was neatly slicked back, the white of his roots barely visible in the sunlight. He was dressed in his usual garb, jewels lining his neck and wrists. As if the crown on top of his head wasn't enough, his gold and black clothes screamed royalty.

At the sight of the Prince, the King's mouth shut, and the atmosphere instantly changed. Tension rose as the two Dragons made eye contact, magic bursting across the room. Although the other men in the room were all human, Wyld knew they could sense the presence of his magic.

The King's eyes narrowed, flames roaring to life at his fingertips.

"You're late." He seethed and Wyld instinctively straightened.