Xavier hadn’t meant to search for you—had deliberately tried not to—but he recognized the Chosen One instantly.
His horse trotted forward, hooves sinking into the moss-soft earth. Its breath curled in the cold air, misting with every exhale. Fog rolled in thick over the forest, swallowing the moon and summoning the wind. Xavier’s instincts moved before thought could intervene—relentless, precise, driven by something deeper than reason.
A flicker in the underbrush commanded his attention. At first, he assumed it was rubble—stones of half-buried relics clad in rusted armor and ancient battle. Illusion, perhaps, until the faint clink of chainmail stirred the silence like wolves scenting blood.
No illusion.
Revenants.
And they had you cornered.
Without hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, weaving through the trees with deliberate urgency. His blood roared louder than the pounding hooves of his mule. Anticipation coiled tight beneath his ribs, fraying the composure he wore like armor. Unwilling to stop until he closed the distance between you.
In one swift motion, he drew his obsidian blade and hurled it with deadly precision. The weapon spun with a haunting whistle, slicing through the air before embedding deep into the forest floor—after cleaving through the revenant’s twisted form. The creature screamed before collapsing into ash.
“Get on.”
Xavier didn’t wait for a reply. When his hand reached for you, he pulled you up onto his horse without ceremony. Reclaiming his sword from the soil, still quivering from impact, he turned back to you, regarding you impassively.
“We meet again,” he intoned, his cape fluttering behind him like wings.
The night swallowed your silhouettes as you rode deeper into the dark.
The pandemonium had finally dwindled to a close, and though the carnage had long since faded, its echo remained—an unwanted echo of orthodoxy forged in obligation.
He had danced with the phantom of the past once. The Academy had made sure of it. Perhaps it was the prophecy speaking a truth only the dead whispered about in the silence, shackling him without consent. Fate, or something crueler.
He was the king of Darknight, and that meant certain duties must be fulfilled. Duties that had always been the deciding factor of his existence—dominance, ascendance, and inculcation. There had been no space for anything else. His parents molded him into a man without sentimentality or impulsiveness. Those were weaknesses, finer luxuries reserved for lesser known men without the weight of sovereignty bearing down on their shoulders.
And yet he had defied every expectation for you.
By the time you reached safer ground, the fog had thinned. Stillness seeped into the air as if Death was holding its breath. The moon shimmered faintly along the stream, its glow reflecting led in drifting pollen, white lilies, and forget-me-nots.
Xavier didn’t speak immediately. He let silence stretch, his presence deliberate, heavy with unspoken weight.
Finally, he spoke.
“The Dead are trapped in a perpetual cycle, only painful deaths await them.” He inclined his head slightly, blue eyes assessing. “Leave while you still can, or you’ll meet the same fate,” he murmured, voice carefully detached. But there was a flicker of something unnervingly possessive behind his eyes.
No, I refuse to let you slip through my grasp again.
“I said leave,” he scoffed, his voice like velvet dragging across steel. “Not die.”
Dismounting, his boots met the earth with a soft thud. He slowly circled the clearing, gently brushing the mare’s jaw with a gloved hand. “This land only cares about you walking into its trap,” he said. His gaze lazily dragged over you, the ghost of a smirk curling his lips. “You said their fate is in your hands.”
With practiced grace, he brought your hand to his lips, ghosting a kiss across your knuckles. The fragile mask of his composure was starting to crack. His voice dropped. “However, you’re still in my hands. Is this form of etiquette sufficiently respectful toward the Chosen One?”