The Penitent Magician

The sun rose to his highest position in heaven. Gold rays illuminated the whole land, bringing quaint hope to the melancholic castle.

Under his calming warmth, Primarosa diligently had her mind on reinvigorating the Moor prince from his wound.

“Oh, be alright, Azlan.” She quietly prayed as she held on to his hand—hoping against hope that a miracle would happen.

Kisses and tears had not been fruitful. There was no movement, not even a flutter on the eyelashes. Primarosa’s soul sank back to despair, desperate for Azlan to be safe.

“Can you hear me, Azlan?” She cried again. The chain that bound her eyes was now broken, letting all tears flow like the rushing waves of the Tiber.