Chapter 2: The Proposal

Azrel

“Move that table over here. No, not that color drape, we need one that's cream.” The royal coordinator ran around directing servants all different ways across the grand hall.

Azrel Fersnick watched the commotion from the corner of the room hidden partially by the grand stairs. He was already shooed away by a handmaiden when he stepped too close and almost toppled over a tower of glasses that sparkled with amber-colored liquid.

“Is this a lemon tart? No, the princess will spit this out; it needs to be raspberry.” The coordinator sighed exasperatedly.

Although the proposal was meant to be a joyous occasion, Azrel felt indifferent about the entire affair. Since their birth, Azrel and his sister Nasacha had hardly seen each other let alone spoken about formal affairs together. Her marriage proposal to a foreign power had nothing to do with love and everything to do with a military partnership with Kosha of the west. When another town from Kosha had burned, the proposal was hurried along. Despite its function, the foreign Prince Khanthar was putting on a show.

“You, stop dragging the tapestry on the ground.” The coordinator hit the servant on the back of his legs with his long, flexible cane.

He was reminded of his time away from court when the monks used to hit his hands with rods when he was in trouble. When he turned three, his father had sent him to a monastery to learn about patience and how to quell his emotions. He was also taught to fight, the languages of far-off kingdoms, and most importantly, politics.

"Please everyone be ready, the princess may arrive at any moment.” The royal coordinator seemed flustered.

When Azrel returned at the age eighteen, his sister had been born and was already a blooming young woman. He was too wrapped up in petty political meetings, and now the threat of a rebellion, to notice her. Or maybe he was too shy to get to face the sister he never knew. Azrel noticed a group of servants carrying a large portrait of Prince Khanthar, the prince from the west, and a woman. He was ashamed to think that it took him a few moments to recognize her as his sister. Even in her painting, she wore a veil over the lower part of her mouth. Apparently, their father had learned from his mistake with Azrel, and instead of sending Nasacha away to protect her, he just had to hide her identity. No one really knew what she looked like anymore. Even the royal family had trouble remembering what was under the mask.

“Oh hello, Prince Azrel.” A handmaiden almost walked passed him but came back and bowed, “I did not see you there.”

She waited for a response but nothing came but a small, tight smile. He blamed his time away from society that made him quiet and reserved. He still caught the eye of everyone in the room, though. His shoulders had broadened with training, and his jet black hair was kept short on the sides but long enough on the top that he was able to comb it back. His face was angular, and the servants swore he looked just like his father when he was younger. Ever since he was allowed to have facial hair again, he kept a well-trimmed beard. Short but noticeable enough to make him feel older.

It had been five years since he had returned to court, and he still had trouble connecting with his father. Islo, the third, was overseeing the incoming gifts from the West with a bright white smile. He noticed Azrel sulking in the shadow of the balcony and came to stand by his oldest child.

"Enjoying the process?" The older man asked, his voice growing deeper with age.

They stood still for a moment, watching the bustling of servants before them. Azrel fidgeted with his cloak until it fit more squarely on his shoulders.

"It is a grand festivity, to be sure." Azrel eventually answered.

His father did not look at him, but nodded anyway. "Do you not approve of her groom?"

His father always misunderstood his emotions. "No. In all honesty, father, I have no opinion on the matter."

“Your time for marriage will come my child.” His father had never spoken with him much about marriage or love. Azrel was beginning to believe it didn't exist.

Another portrait passed, this time just of his sister. Her eyes were foreign to him.

"I'm more worried about what's happening outside our walls," Azrel began, but a messenger came up and whispered in his father's ear.

"They are about to enter. Everyone get in their places, please." Islo squeezed his son's arm before going to take his place on the stairs.

Azrel stepped from the shadows but not by much.

The servants scrambled into positions. The great hall was clear and open. Khanthar and his court entered from a hidden place and created a half-circle in the middle of the hall. The stained glass high on the wall created a dreamy effect on the foreign ambassador.

Azrel fidgeted with his cloak again; it was choking him. Khanthar, the Prince from the West, was very muscular but shorter than Azrel by at least a foot. His hair was already graying, and Azrel suspected that he was a few years older than himself but just shy of his father's age. Khanthar had hardly spoken to Azrel, and the two would watch and listen to each other closely. Azrel felt it was his duty to oversee Khanthar's alliance with his own country.

In return for his sister's hand, Khanthar provided the much-needed military support and resources that Dermnith had failed to gather in the event of a war. Azrel's kingdom was spoiled by peace, and when the rebellion came, they were caught off guard.

“She arrives, Princess Nasacha of Dermnith.” A courtier called from the doorway.

Azrel’s sister entered with her chambermaids; they all wore veils around their faces to match the princess. Her eyes that poked through the top of the mask squinted, unamused at the spectacle that lay before her.

"Ah, what do we have here?" Nasacha's voice was cold and pierced through the air like a storm.

Khanthar stood forward, and the chambermaids took a few steps back, leaving only the two of them in the center of the hall.

"My love, although this partnership has seemed like nothing more than an alliance between countries, I really truly love you and wish to marry you."

The foreign prince produced a highly decorated and ornate knife from the pouch at his side. He bent on one knee and kneeled before presenting it to her. Nasacha reached forward and took the knife before she held it up to the light, the jewel on the end of it sparkling across the court. She unsheathed it, and the silver of the blade flashed. For a moment, Azrel saw a glint in his sister's eye and thought she might stab Khanthar in the throat. She instead placed the blade back in its holster with a soft click.

"Rise, Khanthar, you are much too over dramatic." Her voice bore no variance of being playful. "If my father allows," she continued holding her hand for Khanthar to take, "I will marry you and bond the union between our two countries."

Azrel stole a glance at their father. Islo smile was bright and genuine, and he nodded his head and bowed to the couple. All others followed suit, and Azrel bowed low, avoiding the gaze of his sister. He might not want to admit it, but he was envious that his sister, who seemed to have no care for politics at all, was doing more for the war than he was.

"Please rise and let us celebrate this new couple." Islo's voice bellowed just loud enough, and the room erupted in applause. Music began, and the couple took each other up in a dance. Azrel watched the engaged couple circle around each other. He couldn't help a stab of regret in his heart. He missed his mother sometimes, he had not gotten to say goodbye. More than that, he longed to fill a hole that years of solitude had made. At nights when he couldn't sleep, he imagined that someone would crawl inside and fill the void.

He had been dreaming recently of a woman. She was shrouded in a mist, and from a distance, she looked like his sister or maybe his mother. He knew, however, that she was different, and there was something deeper in her. He longed to reach her; she felt like a place that he could finally call home.