Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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As his long locks of ebony flapped in the wind, Sébastien sucked in a whiff of the fresh air, let it ripple against his cheeks and fill him with hope. With a nagging for adventure and a yearning to settle under a batch of trees and curl up with a book.
But I must not stop yet; I must move onward.
The beast beneath him galloped, speeding down the cobblestone path through the forest. The landscape blurred as he raced on, faster and faster, farther and farther. Away from the dreaded Torrinni court and its expectations, from the lies spun for attention. From his mother and her schemes, his brother and his pompous wife.
Away from it all.
The memory of his father floated around him like a ghost, squealing at him to speak up, to react, to grow a back-bone.
"You cannot spend your life in a Library, Sébastien!"
He wouldn't—because what no one knew or sought to understand was that Sébastien's favorite books were about weapons. Fighting stories, military tactics, thickest clothes to wear when sparring. At night, while his squires and staff thought he slept, he snuck out with Jules to train.
His father's haunting tones pushed him to make a decision; to realize his place, if only while he trained and grew stronger, was elsewhere. Not in the stuffy offices, advising Antoine how to oversee his men; or in the Ballroom, listening to girls groan about the Queen's strict requirements for her Solar.
When she ran off, Marguerite had it right—the castle was full of hypocrites and liars, draped in shame and liquor and overpriced diamonds. Everyone plotted, even the elder brother he always looked up to. Choosing Adelaide at the last minute, shocking the attendees into silence, sending a snide smile to Clémentine's face? Why? He'd tried to explain his reasons to Sébastien, but Sébastien never understood it, and wasn't sure he ever would.
Lingering at court wouldn't provide him with answers; and neither would leaving, but he preferred the latter option.
The moment Marguerite ran woke him up. Pried him from the reverie his parents raised him in, the life they expected him to lead. A Prince of Totresia, the second-in-command, the heir should Antoine fail to procreate—it was toomuch, tooheavy, toofast.
That famed night, atop the hidden balcony, while Jules stormed off, yelling at Marguerite to come back, and Cordelia cried in confusion, Sébastien froze. He saw Marguerite's golden train whisk through the crowd and squirm out into the corridor, and he knew he hadto follow her. Perhaps not go where she went, but flee the cramped coffin they called court, like she did.
The rumor soon skirting along the floorboards was that Marguerite died. Caught in arrow crossfires. Tumbled down a hill and landed in a ditch and crashed her skull. Or—the worst of all—detained and tortured until she perished. Too many stories to decipher which was true, ifany of them were.
