Chapter 3: A friendly letter

The prince had left Riona upset last evening but why was he to blame for her ferocious nature? She had always been truculent and quarrelsome.<i> Why did father ever adore that about her? It is un-butterfly-like to be hostile to such an extent</i>, he thought.

He dipped his favourite green Qingniao quil back into the ink. His best friend had been out of the kingdom for a while now and he feared for him. Drystan had sent him to cause a dash of mayhem for the Moths. The Moths haven't particularly abided with certain terms. They continuously snuck into the kingdom's villages and stole goods such as honey and maize kernels to probably sell off to pixies.

A sigh left his chest. Not one of hopelessness, boredom or relief but ironically a sigh of worry. Drystan's friend went by the name of Spunky, which was his nickname from school. It summed him up quite perfectly either way. He is handsome, mysterious, chirpy and a manager of mischief, which fitted to the standard that Drystan had set.

"Brother?" called a silent voice from behind the oak doors of his little study. The posture of the prince straightened out of habit and he stood, stretching his wings. His expression was one of pure smugness — something that always irked Riona marvellously. "You have permission to enter, harpy."

He was fully aware that calling her an ugly creature with the face of a woman — known as a harpy — would strike a nerve. Riona was already insecure about her features after all.

The door flew open right after that. Drystan had done it once again. A shiver of exhilaration pranced over his shoulders and the wings on his back fluttered slightly with tingles. "Harpy?" she shrieked, "Harpy is no word to describe your sister!"

Drystan raised a brow, challenging her further. He adored to waste her time. His sharp gaze looked her up and down, analysing her choice of wardrobe; which was not adequate to walk around in as a future queen. She wore a dark modest nightgown with a deep blue robe over her shoulders. She was careless and certainly wacky when it came to style. "You seem dressed to spend time with the vampires. Why don't you return to bed?" he mused, awaiting her to fume.

"Was that supposed to faze me?" Riona muttered. Unexpectedly, she simply folded her arms unamused, though her wings flared. She practically radiated anger and Drystan was now wary. "We must talk and I suggest you bite back your remarks about my clothing unless you wish me to contemplate murdering you with my hands."

"Alright, alright," he submitted with false promise, a conceited grin plastered on his face, "Begin to interrogate me then since that is what I assume you are here for."

"What is our next move? We must either invade the Moths in the Forest of Souls or we must wait till they return. So what will it be?"

He sat back down, being sure not to wrinkle his groomed wings. "We wait for them," stated the prince.

Her brows knit together like they usually did when she had the urge to question or argue. On the other hand, Drystan merely allowed his gaze to wander over his piece of heaven — his own little gallery. The prince loved to paint and create. He didn't quite live free from expectations in his younger years, but found freedom from everyone in his art. Eleanor loved it too. She told her dearest son that it was a gift of his which could be used to create joy for people. Rather, it appeared that he had linked it to manipulating people similar to how brushes manipulate paint on canvases — patiently and attentively.

"Are we not prepared enough? I think you are cowering," she replied with the utmost audacity. Drystan glared towards her. <i>How dare she call me a coward! </i>

"I think not. You cower in your study while I at least show my face in the kingdom. You don't even help bringing up the troops. And as to why I suggest we wait is because we have better chances of setting out traps and defences in this kingdom. We cannot simply wander with troops into their keep. Butterflies do not cope well in the forest depths either. There are too many unfamiliar dangers to our kind, such as toads and bats. It is better to fight in the fields at night, which they certainly will prefer. The moon will be at our advantage too, so what is your argument?" he spat.

Riona blinked. As he wanted her to be, speechless. "Uh, well, if you put it like that, then..." she muttered, "Then I understand."

He snorted, "That is why I am the brains behind this ploy of revenge and not you. You are simply the one with the blade."

"A blade which could slit your tongue," she smiled warningly, much like a dog sneering with it's teeth. Drystan stared towards her. He had been caught off guard; nonetheless, the prince prevailed with his annoying ways of angering her. The evidence of his victory would be that the tips of her ears were blood red.

"I suppose," he said rather blandly before turning away.

Evidently his jaw itched to open and throw a different remark but just as it opened, a knock interrupted. "Enter," commanded the prince, scowling at the door. Riona turned her head, probably peeking at who it might have been. She smiled at the old grey butler who entered. Unfailingly, Drystan still glowered for he was not overly fond of the old butterfly. Much like the other members of the castle, he suffered from an illness that clouded one's judgement and decisions. This term, as Drystan liked to call it, was called <i>Favouritism</i>.

Once again, Drystan eyed the butterfly before him as he did to all. "With what can we assist, Ulric?" he prompted. The butler's old blue eyes travelled towards the snappy prince as he cleared his throat, "I have a letter for you, Prince Drystan." The pointy ears of the young man perked. A letter? It could only have been one person. His body almost broke out of calm character as he elegantly made his way towards the old butler with excitement bubbling in his gut. With swift fingers, Drystan snatched the envelope, wasting no time to open it.

Spunky had sent him the letter. It was Spunky without a doubt, his handwriting was as horrid as the one of Riona. Drystan could recall the days the both of them were forced to sit in the library, practising their spelling endlessly on moulded scrolls. The edges of the prince's lips tugged upwards as he read the lines of his best friend, appreciating every line:

Dear Drystan

I am pleased to announce that I am still safe and in good health condition. Although, my hair loses its shine rapidly in the dampness of the forest. You know how much I care about my hair.

But none of that, the Moths are close to invading. Hiding in these shadows is much more intense than the ones in the castle. The Moths do not own horses though I have seen them travelling with mice. I suggest the army should be armed with arrows and swords. We will fight in the sky and they will have to follow, abandoning the ground. Their armour is made of bark, which is all they have here in the forest. Their weapons are more spear-like though they have swords of their own too.

My friend, the Moths are dirty fighters. They use anything at hand. And they fight to win. The King of theirs is the fiercest. He slays alongside his army.

I hope you are aware of what is to come.

Your right-wing

Relief was the first thing that flushed through the built up nerves of Drystan. It vibrated calm waves through his tense wings. His friend was safe. That is what mattered the most.

Drystan's focus flicked towards Riona. "The Moths will invade soon. You must equip the troops with swords and arrows. We must kill them from a longer range for they have spears. Add a dagger to the pile. When they come close, we send them to the abyss," he instructed.

"Who told you all that?" she asked.

"A good friend, now be off, I must return to working out the troop arrangement." He waved her off to which she for once abided to.

She left after the butler. As the door clicked, Drystan slumped onto the wooden desk. His head tilted back, hair dangling as a hand swiped through the strands. <i>Hopefully, my plans will work out. The Moths would invade, Riona would slay them and then I kill her,</i> plotted the voice in his mind. But the thorn in Drystan's side was the struggle of figureing out how. How would he do it?

And... Would it be the right choice to seize the throne for himself?