She sat under the shadow of a wrought iron chandelier at the bar. There were three of them, following the line of the bartop from above, and she sat under the middle one. The fixture, though it looked heavy with its dozen of thick candles burning, still managed to sway softly every time the door was opened. That gentle breeze from outside was more than enough to send the fixture on its pendulum-like trajectory. And it also caused her shadowy spotlight to sway, threatening to let the cascading golden light brush against any of her extremities. At some point, it almost felt like a game, rocking her body slowly, back and forth, to stay in the seemingly cool shadow as if to hide. But that indeed was a silly thought and nothing more than a momentary lapse of a very overactive imagination. She had selected a seat at the bar, right smack dab in the middle -- no isolated and mysteriously dark corner for her.

There was nothing left to hide from.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

“I am the scariest thing that ever was -- or ever will be,” she said aloud, a whisper of comfort to her petrified inner child.

Gabriela had no idea how true that statement was. Her mind barely felt stable enough to start digesting her new reality. The mental fog had lifted, but now she stood before unknown terrain, with deprived vision and a sore lack of understanding. She remembered everything, but she did not understand it.

It was to hold a thing of dimension, weight, and volume but be unable to grasp its concept.

Somehow, that is what life had become. But at least she was no longer some dirty and utterly mad little savage thing. At least now she was no rotting corpse, digging with her nails into the ground with an internal desperation she could not explain mere moments before sunrise.

Golden eyes blinked. Molten gold shifted as smooth as liquid metal, burning everything in their path, down to her hands, which rested on the bar top. She examined her glass-like fingernails. True -- there was no dirt stuck under them and no blemishes to the long, slender, pale fingers. She had not slept in the moist earth last night, the night before, or the night before. She wore clean clothes, a white blouse with long cuffed sleeves that encircled her tiny wrists. Fabric was abundant because the shirt was simply too large, but even so, it had been neatly tucked into the waistband of her breeches. The bottoms fit her perfectly, a second skin in black that hugged the curve of her bottom and the shape of her thighs, down into where they disappeared into the folded edge of worn brown leather boots.

It was her traditional outfit. Yes, she was sure of that because when she saw the clothing upon the bodies of others, she had wanted them enough so that she stole their lives along with their outfits. She remembered that, but again, it was a distant thing. It made her physically flinch when her eyes lingered on the small white button on her cuff.

Best not to think of that for the time being.

“Let me guess, a cup of chamomile tea with a slice of lemon and honey?”

She regarded the man. He was large, old, and gruff -- but there was no beard upon his face. This man was not Frank, and this was not the Broken Chant Tavern back in Orisia. That place was destroyed. Had she destroyed it? Her brows pinched in a frown as she tried to remember, but she was looking at the barkeep. He seemed uncomfortable, as humans should rightly feel when in the presence of a lethal predator.

“It’s what you ask for every night,” he said nervously, by way of explanation for his intrusion into whatever reverie she had fallen into.

Gabriela realized her frown was distressing the man. Her expression smoothed. Her pale pink lips curled into an apologetic smile, and she lifted her small, rounded shoulders to make herself appear smaller still.

“Yes, sorry… that’s perfect. Thank you for remembering.”

He said nothing else and turned away to go about his business.

She watched him go, unblinkingly and wondering if he had suddenly become a problem. And then she felt it deep in the pit of her stomach -- that awful emptiness, that horrible hunger.

It was the sound of flesh slicing open rather than the smell of blood that alerted her. The knife didn’t clang or scrape. It simply slid—like silk over skin. A soundless gasp, just a momentary hiss between clenched teeth, and then that sound. A soft, wet parting. Audible only to her. A symphony of destruction and pain that no one else noticed. Flesh giving away with almost no resistance.

Suddenly, every breath she inhaled fell heavy as liquid lead into her lungs, pooling in her chest like a weight that would crush her—the manifestation of anxiety in her body before the inevitable attack on her sensitive senses. Unlike the sound of tearing flesh, blood was not loud, at least not at first. It was a faint tang, sharp and sterile—the smell of coins being held in a sweating palm, against sweating fingers. And it mingled with the wax of the candles and their smoke, and the bitter tartness of lemon, which was bright. All of it was invasive, inescapable, and utterly damning.

It took considerable effort to move at a pace that would not frighten the other patrons. So much so that thin, but deep scars were carved into the bartop, compliments of her fingernails, as she pushed away and got to her feet. There was a memory of powerful blood. Of something old and spiced in toxic aromatics. Something she had grown to love and crave once upon a time. But it was a momentary distraction that sought to pull her back and away from an irresistible calling.

There was nothing more delicious or decadent than the blood that flowed from that mortal man’s wounded hand. The barkeep had done injury to himself while slicing the lemons she had requested for her tea. She knew it without having to witness the scene or see the accident happen.

A glance toward the door, and by her peripheral view, she noted that no one had lifted their heads or turned to follow the path of her trajectory. Not that the attentions of the patrons could have saved the man, not that anything could have saved him. The blood that he spilled on her account belonged to her now, and she intended to claim it.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked, enjoying the jolt of the burly man’s body as it registered her soft voice behind him.

She was standing at a respectable distance, a bartop between them.

“Just a moment,” he said, visibly flustered as a curious blush rose in his cheeks. He was busy wrapping a white napkin around his bleeding hand.

Gabriela noted the size of his hand, the length of his fingers, and the shape of his nails -- how they ended in neat, white crests. Perfectly manicured. Her love and hunger only grew with admiration. She found herself rather enamored of the lines across his knuckles.

She wanted to ask his age.

“I cut myself,” he stated, like an accusation, a sharp and hard look over his shoulder.

“You should be more careful,” she replied, matter-of-fact.

Her golden eyes were upon his face. Studying the distress in his expression. He didn’t like her. She felt the distrust that shook his sturdy bones. However, there was also attraction, as evidenced by the mutual admiration shared between predator and prey. Reflected in his eyes, she saw the momentary lust, the way his pupils dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes as daggers.

“All because you asked for lemon for that goddamn tea you never drink.”

A hiss.

Every word was spat like poison from the tip of his tongue.

The blood soaked through the napkin. Bright. Vermilion. Not quite red. Not quite real.. The smell made her dizzy with hunger. Again, she became acutely aware of how empty she felt.

Would blood fill the void?

“I am sorry.”

Her brows pinched, a flicker of something soft—something like pity—threading through the hunger.

“You should tend to it. I can wait for my tea.”

Her hands had gathered on the bartop, and she stared at her fingertips to avoid staring at his.

“Yeah, thanks a lot for your patience,” he responded, his voice a whisper that was thick with sarcasm. He turned and walked the length of the bar only to disappear through swinging double doors to the kitchen beyond.

And there stood Gabriela watching after him.

It isn’t the first time Narcisse has seen this woman at the Broken Chant Tavern, but the first time he’s worked up the courage to speak to her.

The first time was nearly a year ago, long after he mastered the art of sneaking out of his room and slipping past the guardsmen, but before he learned to scale the palace walls without effort or incident, as if he were the king of thieves. It was after he learned to hide his regal mannerisms and the other tells of a posh upbringing, to bury the truth of his nobility beneath the finery of a commoner, but long before he was due to inherit the crown and shoulder the weight of his kingdom.

Before many things, and after many more.

Even so, that first night, nearly a year’s worth of life ago, was not so different than this night, for she sat alone back then, as well, with only her drink and the bartender’s flirting to occupy her time. And so she does now, beneath the central chandelier, alone even when surrounded by over a dozen others.

There’s something different about her. She’s no commoner, that’s for certain, but it’s more than that. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Being raised at court, one quickly learns to recognize royalty. It is in the air around her, exuded from a bloodline as ancient as it is powerful; in the way that the entire tavern seems to gravitate toward her presence. They don’t know it, of course, and may not even believe it if they were told—but he has watched, learned, and seen how the revelers always end their nights closer to her than where they started. And he can hardly blame them, for she is beautiful in the way of kings and queens, supple yet sharp, soft yet powerful.

Perhaps I’ve found a partner in crime? These escapades would certainly be more enjoyable with a friend. There’s only so much mischief one can get into by themselves.

But there is something in the air that night, thicker than the aroma of spiced meat and stench of cheap ale, more encouraging than intoxication and more charismatic than a beloved general’s final speech. Narcisse has no name for it, this mysterious thing that picks him up from his table and guides him toward her while the bartender departs to mend his wound, but he embraces it, letting the cards of fate fall where they may.

“He’ll be alright,” Narcisse says, his words as sure as a promise while slides into the seat on her left. “It wasn’t that bad of a cut.”

His attire is simpler than most others in the room, carefully curated from the servant quarters in the palace in an effort to avoid bringing unwanted attention toward his person. His brown leather boots had seen travels he himself had not, made from quality leather but muddied and in need of a cleaning; his pants, a dark gray, fit him well; and his shirt, a billowing, long-sleeved tunic gray as a storm cloud, he cinched around the waist with a belt from which both his purse and dagger hung.

“Narcisse,” he says, extending a large, calloused hand toward her. His eyes, so pale a brown as to be white sand, nearly glow against the dark skin of his bearded face. “And you are?”

Her attention was drawn downward to the bartop. There, nearly invisible against the dark grain of the wood, a single drop of blood swam among a sea of rich, dark brown. Muscles in her jaw tightened, and the surface of her tongue was as dry as sandpaper. Thirst teetered on dehydration. There was a sudden pounding in her head, and she could feel the pulse of a vacuum echoing in her veins down to her fingertips. That single drop of blood became a well, the only source of nourishment, the only thing capable of quenching her thirst.

She didn't look around. Gabriela was too self-assured of her anonymity. She was nothing. No one. The whole of her existence had become the unbearable thirst that drummed in her ears as heavy and loud as her heartbeat, which droned on at an agonizing pace.

She dragged her finger across the bar top, collecting the forgotten droplet of blood. She did not pause to think about it; there was no contemplation on the meaning of her actions, should anybody bear witness. What sort of monster might he be accused of being? What witchcraft could they claim she was trying to perform? It would be all wrong. She was nothing unnatural. If anything, she was the most natural thing in the world, if not the whole of the universe -- she was impulse, she was hunger, she was the law of physics that commanded that that which is empty be filled.

The bloodstained finger dipped into her mouth, and her tongue was painted with a smear of red.

It was neither good nor bad. The taste bloomed across her tongue, and she felt her jaw lighten from its crushing clench, relaxing under the metallic ting that vibrated the strings of muscles under her cheekbones. Some whisper of warmth had been left in the blood, drowning out the flavor of it that she might have contemplated had she not been quite suddenly aware that someone had moved within very close quarters of her.

A sprinkle of rose-petal dusted her cheeks. It was a near display of chaste embarrassment, of the innocent being caught, red-handed, reaching out to what is wicked for the first time. But even the supple shape of her lips or the wide, rounded eyes that peered up, below a curtain of dark lashes, could not fully convince anyone that she was nothing but the mockery of innocence.

He had sand-colored eyes. And like the rounded dunes of merciless deserts, they appeared dry, hot, and capable of stripping away everything soft and leaving only bone. He looked at her like someone who had never needed water -- someone who had never experienced thirst. They were simply unlike any eyes she had ever seen in her life. Not the indomitable sapphire blue ice of Raphal, the blood-red of demons and monsters, and certainly not the molten gold she saw whenever she managed to catch her own reflection. There was nothing soft in his eyes, not a glimmer, not a single lie -- only a quiet, only a grainy emptiness that whispered of things buried deep beneath the surface and forgotten. There was no shimmer to them, no rounded gleam of light causing them to sparkle like jewels. They simply were unchanging.

Caught off guard, she felt the immediate anxiety of distrust, of fear, of loneliness. Being so boldly approached, realizing that she had been observed for God only knows how long, pierced her with an awful sense of vulnerability. But Narcisse, even with his ancient and devastating eyes, seemed so utterly disarmed in his approach. He’d come to her, drawn in that way that only youth is drawn to danger and knowledge to divinity.

She felt seen.

“He’ll be alright,” the young man said as he helped himself to the seat beside where she stood.

“It wasn't that bad of a cut,” he went on, as if to reassure her, and for a moment, she wondered if the mockery of innocence that was her face had fooled him.

But then again, had her concern for the wounded man been genuine?

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore, especially not with the pounding headache starting to spread across her forehead. Her golden eyes lifted again to the doors where the bartender had disappeared. She had wanted his blood, but she had been unhappy to see him wounded on her account.

“Yes, I hope he will be fine…” she spoke at long last, though she wasn't sure what she agreed with. The bartender would be alright simply because he was no longer in her crosshairs.

“Narcisse,” he said by way of introduction while thrusting a hand in her direction, “And you are?”

“Ella,” she replied, having decided long ago that her actual name was dead and buried, gone like all the people of her past that she had loved but had also buried. Her smaller hand landed in his, and her fingertips smoothed over the calloused surface of his as they moved to fall fully into place, her palm against his.

The signs of fate aren’t always evident.

They do not always taken form in the prophesied birth of a hero, the fall of a legendary tyrant, the death of an era, or the rise of a mighty empire. More often than not, they mask themselves in the shadow of auspicious moments, make themselves easy to be mistaken for luck or pure coincidence. Fate, and its agents, require as much submission as they do blind faith, for to believe in Her is to relinquish all control, all influence.

But for a child a prophecy, such a thing is commonplace, for their future is no more their own than their present moment.

And for a man of prophecy, it is impossible to ignore the signs he has been trained his entire life by palace Mercers to seek.

“Ella,” she replies while offering a hand, her voice polished to a shine, absent of the local accents, of which he has heard many.

A foreigner then. How thrilling.

Ella’s hand fits against his with the perfection one can only call destiny. Her skin is soft as the finest silk in the realm, cool to the touch in a way a beverage quenches the thirst on a summer day, crisp and refreshing. And yet, for all her hand’s gentleness, Narcisse is abundantly aware of the power it holds, and more keenly, the effort to restrain it. This is not a hand that moves recklessly or without purpose, he reasons, all too aware of the havoc it might rain on those in its path. This woman is certainly more than he ever imagined she might be—more than her pale skin, her dark hair, her molten eyes and full lips—and each moment in her presence only whets voracious curiosity further.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Narcisse says, releasing her hand and returning his grip to the mug of ale he’s brought with him. “I’ve wanted to for quite some time,” he confesses unbidden, confused, but not appalled, by the unexpected bought of honesty. He leans into it, lets it carry him deeper into along the current of conversation. “I would tell myself for months, if she comes tonight and she is alone, I will introduce myself and ask to drink with her. And every night, you’d shown up alone, and every time, I’d talk myself out of it.”

Narcisse flips his attention back to Ella, though it never fully left, lips curved in a rogue’s grin. Sharp, inviting, and dangerous “But, we aren’t getting any younger, are we? So, here I am, hoping to learn more about you, the lovely and mysterious Ella. Sit with me a while?”

There was spice in his voice. Of course, his baritone was low and deliberate, everything that could be expected of a man of his build and boldness. But there was something else; like his sandstone eyes, it was a quality she had never experienced.

“Ella,” he repeated back to her, his lips savoring the simple name and releasing it up and out into the atmosphere with delicious hints of cardamom and saffron. Even the shape of his mouth seemed colored by these exotic spices that perfumed the warm air that blew out in her direction with every soft and easy exhale.

He was a beautiful man. He had sharp edges and strong angles, and he towered over her with an unexpected height—he was masculine for certain. But he was also elegant and fragrant, and he dressed in fabrics that made his sun-kissed skin appear as appetizing as browned and hardened sugar.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, finally releasing her hand.

The same assessment that she had made, she realized, had been done to her in turn. She noticed the way his thumb strummed the broad pads of his fingers — savoring the cold of her skin, the same way she knew would sip the warmth right out of his blood if given the opportunity. But while she could easily surrender herself to a dream-like landscape of sensory examinations of his hands, lips, or eyes, she could not risk being so careless as to ignore the weight of the comment he had made.

He had been watching her.

Like a single droplet of ice-water, she felt the tension roll down her spine and numb her to her fingertips and toes. A cloak of suspicion, the very doubt that kept her alive, fell heavy over her shoulders. It was a struggle not to let the weight of her wariness not round her shoulders inward in an attempt to make herself small. Having been the object of a fiend’s obsession once before had left deep and ugly scars upon her very intellect that would be nearly impossible to hide. But she didn’t want him to see the damaged parts — the scars written deep across her soul in language only monsters understood.

Narcisse was beauty, and elegance, and all things that delighted the senses. There was no ugliness here, or fear, or reason to doubt.

“I’ve wanted to for quite some time,” came his confession, and with it another pale dab of rose across her cheeks, but a smile as well.

“I would tell myself for months, if she comes tonight and she is alone, I will introduce myself and ask to drink with her. And every night, you'd show up alone, and every time, I’d talk myself out of it.”

He grinned at her; it was boyish and sweet, save for the dark, silken beard around his cheeks that gave him a man’s appearance. Once more, she found herself making the sad comparison to those in her past. Had a creature ever regarded her with this simplicity of emotion? There was no false polish to him, no carefully crafted illusion. He lacked the frightening artifice she had come to expect from men who wanted something.

And he did want something…

But maybe she was willing to give it for the first time in her life.

“But, we aren’t getting any younger, are we? So, here I am, hoping to learn more about you, the lovely and mysterious Ella. Sit with me a while.”

The metallic gold of her eyes drifted from his face and over his shoulder. She looked to the double doors where the barkeep should be returning. But there were no signs of him.

“I am afraid to stay,” she whispered, leaning close to him as if they were sharing a secret. “I believe I’ve upset him, and I don’t know if I should stick around for his return. But I am very curious, Narcisse, why after so many nights of longing for my attention — tonight was the night you decided to heed your curiosity.”

Rather than slip into a seat, Gabriela drew back and away a few teasing steps before offering a slight, careless shrug.

“How about a walk? These establishments are always, always, always built lakeside. If we explore, we’ll find some picturesque shore with a silver moon hanging just above and framed in the edges of deep, dark woodlands.”

She grinned. Her plump lips curled deviously as her offer was meant more as a challenge. He knew that she was something else. Perhaps not what she was exactly. But she saw it in his eyes, and the appreciation of her flesh against his, how he had been so thoughtful for just a moment after releasing her hand. She imagined he had his own suspicions — and she was more than willing to help him prove them true.

“I am afraid to stay,” she whispers, leaning in close. “I believe I’ve upset him, and I don’t know if I should stick around for his return.”

Two sprites dance in her voice—one a lie, the other, truth.

“But I am very curious, Narcisse, why after so many nights of longing for my attention—tonight was the night you decided to heed your curiosity.”

Why, indeed? It would be easy, perhaps even lazy, to simply blame his sudden boldness on the ale. It is not of any particular renown or quality, as the owner has always been the sort to deal in quantity to line his pockets, but it is an easy, smooth drink, making the journey to the inebriated mind quicker. It certainly wouldn’t be a lie, but still quite far from the truth of the matter—that life as he knows it is slowly coming to an end, for by this time next year, he will be wed, made husband to some woman he does not know from a neighboring kingdom he has only visited in the library and the depth of history studies.

I wanted to meet you, at least once, before I was never able to come here again, Narcisse confesses in the privacy of his own thoughts. I wanted to taste your name on my lips, and hear you taste mine.

Perhaps she sees the answer—desperation—in his pale eyes or, if not, perhaps she truly doesn’t care? For before he can speak, she’s already taken a handful of steps in retreat, the gesture as inviting as it is confusing. And then she proposes a walk.

The night is dark and full of terrors, but beauty, as well. The river she seeks is not far, less than a kilometer to the north, with a shore that gathers darkness like cloth and water that reflects the moonlight like glass. The Mercers would curse his foolishness, write lectures upon which future nobles would learn; sing cautionary tales about the Fool Prince, who walked into the dark with a beautiful maiden, never to be seen or heard from again. Something deep inside him recoils at the thought of being alone with her, away from prying eyes, shrouded in obscurity.

A primal, instinctive thing.

But the man in him, the heir apparent doomed to a future he did not ask for, ignores it. “A walk sounds lovely,” Narcisse says, rising from his stool. He offers her his arm, and then they faded into the song and dance of the crowd, disappearing as if they were never there.
---
“If you’ve a heart for sightseeing, you’ll meet no better,” Narcisse says, guiding her through the foliage and onto a beaten path. “I know these lands better than most.”

It was his father’s wish that he learn the ways of the ranger, for a man is not a man if he cannot hunt and trap and navigate for himself, and a man is not a king if he does not know the land he is to rule. And so for much of his youth, Narcisse spent his Spring and Summer out in the wilderness, learning to fend for himself and survive with the bare necessities. All for those grueling, excruciating moments to be used not for survival, but to escort this ethereal mystery to a river.

The soft, gentle swishing of the water fills the air long before the shore comes to view. The thicket falls away behind them, as if cut by a giant’s blade, leaving a grassy clearing that feeds itself into the waiting river. “And here we are,” he says, gesturing at the pastoral scene with a wave of the hand. “It is as you prophesized – a shoreline, a crescent of moon above us, all framed with dark, gorgeous woodlands. This is the river Ouras, the largest in the land and from which many of the smaller rivers in the kingdom form.”

Still, Narcisse remains at her side. “And to answer your question from earlier, I suppose it’s because the opportunity to introduce myself was rapidly dwindling away. At some point, there’s no more time to think or consider. You either act or you don’t.”

Glancing down at her, Narcisse smiles. “I’m glad I did.”