Lykalis has a new obsession: a bewitching man carrying secrets stained in blood. But is he worth less than the safety of her kingdom? Or is he worth more than she could ever imagine?
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The King...
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The Lost Heir
IT happened like this:
Heir Luciano returned to his kingdom, crowned King during a private coronation. He aided in the selection of successors replacing the Petrichorean Court. Newspapers spoke of Duke Orfeo's imprisonment, his trial and his subsequent ideology. Luciano hid nothing in his attempts to overthrow the regime of Otello and the parents who aided such barbarity.
General Osteria was removed from the Nyx Ippuroi and banished from Kolteo. A kill order was processed and, subsequently, publicized to both civilians and bounty hunters. But not a single flame nor ray of light could find the General as her aptitude kept her safe and concealed.
Lykalis Vasoraki was no longer an Heiress. Her title was stripped away; her kingdom lost to the scrupulous control King Moira possessed over the night which reigned forevermore. She remained at the border of Leutes and Oredra with Osteria, before entering the capital.
And Ilioszo?
Ilioszo was alone.
There was a solace in taking time for himself, existing solely for the reason to sustain himself, to become something more than the empty man he came to be.
But, and there was always a but, it was utter torment which sat with him the most, keeping him company by pronouncing his loneliness with his own deprecating thoughts. Uncertainties and decisions were placed upon his shoulders, burdening him alone. He struggled to comprehend the choices given and, when Lykalis lost the ability to visit, he wondered if there was no point in living at all. He wondered if he'd lost his purpose again; wondered if his existence was no longer pertinent.
And another cruel part of him questioned if she'd abandoned him for good.
But, when those thoughts started to accumulate and he found himself lost with no purpose, the letters would come. There was no special timing, no coincidental moment that coincided with his thoughts. When the hawk pecked at the window of his cottage in the woods, Ilioszo would halt all movements, placing freshly picked carrots on the counter as he allowed the hawk entry. The bird, well-tamed, would stretch out its foot and Ilioszo would unravel a tied letter from his ankle.
And the letters were always so enticing to read.
Lykalis, after all, was worlds away in a place he could not reach.
But, of course, Ilioszo was foolish to assume he was safe in the confines of his cottage, where cows mooed and chickens clucked, where winds sang and birds cooed. It was naive for him to believe he could ever be blessed with such peace, such utopia. Perhaps fate decided it was too domestic for a warrior of his nature; for a creature that was undeserving of a quiet, tranquil life.
