THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Night Of Terror

As he darted through the dim hallways, James’s heart thumped wildly against his ribs, each beat echoing the frantic terror churning in his chest. His father’s words played over and over in his head—“Get your mother, sweetheart.” But the haunting image of his Kepa, slumped and bleeding, was far louder than any instruction could be.

He had never seen his father like that. He was supposed to be invincible, larger than life—a force that nothing and no one could ever harm. But tonight, he’d fallen at Sirion’s feet, skin turning an awful shade of blue, body crumpling like a broken puppet. The dagger’s bloody hilt glinted in James’s hand, and he fought back the urge to drop it, to throw it away as if that could erase what he’d just seen.

He could hardly catch his breath, stumbling as he rounded another corner. The dark, winding passages felt like they were stretching endlessly, each step forward feeling slower and more agonizing than the last. The thought of not reaching his mother in time clawed at him, tearing through the thin threads of calm he had left. What if she wasn’t there? What if he didn’t reach her before… No. He couldn’t let himself think that. His father had told him to find her, and that’s exactly what he’d do.

Every shadow seemed to twist and shift in the flickering torchlight, each sound amplified by his terror. His thoughts jumbled together, a swirl of panic and disbelief. He was only eleven; he shouldn’t be carrying a bloody dagger through the castle halls, or feeling like he was racing against the grim reaper himself. And yet here he was, alone, praying desperately that his mother would be waiting just behind the next corner, that somehow, she could make everything all right.

“Please,” he whispered to himself, feeling hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He hated how shaky he felt, how powerless he was to do anything but run. He wasn’t like Sirion; he didn’t know how to patch up wounds, didn’t have the magic or the skill to keep someone from dying. All he had was this task, this one chance to find his mother and hope she’d know what to do.

Finally, as he rounded another corner, he spotted her figure up ahead. Relief crashed over him like a wave, nearly sending him to his knees. He pushed forward, his steps unsteady but driven by sheer desperation. His voice, normally strong, came out as a choked whisper.

“kepa…” He barely managed, pressing the dagger into her hands, unable to explain beyond that. His breath heaved, and he looked up into her eyes, hoping against hope she’d understand the terror he couldn’t put into words.

That night, Alicent and Severus had made it their personal mission to track down the source of the poison that had allegedly been used to kill Queen Emma. Let’s just say that by the time they found the culprit, that individual received a particularly unpleasant bout of Fiendfyre straight to the chest, reducing him to ash before his remains were unceremoniously tossed into the dragon pit.

As they crept back to her chambers under the cover of darkness, Alicent heard hurried footsteps echoing down the hall. She turned, only to see her third son, Prince Jaemarys —known to the world as "James"—sprinting toward her, eyes wide, breathless, his face flushed crimson.

She rushed forward, immediately cupping his face, scanning him for any sign of injury. “James! What are you doing, running and shouting like this? Anyone could hear you in the dead of night!” she whispered, her voice a mix of worry and reprimand.

“Kepa!” he gasped, relief washing over him at the sight of his mother. Alicent’s heart plummeted. Kepa—his word for his father, Daemon. Something was wrong.

“What happened to your Kepa?” she asked, forcing herself to stay calm despite the mounting dread that twisted in her stomach.

James, still panting, pulled a small, sinister-looking dagger from his belt and held it out to her, his hands trembling. Alicent’s breath caught as she took the blade, her eyes narrowing as she inspected it. Though she didn’t recognize the design, she could instantly tell from the faint glisten on the tip that it was laced with poison. She turned, handing it to Severus, who eyed the blade with grim interest.