To the blood lost.

War was a brutal affair. The lethal dance of life and death. The passionate kiss of crimson blood and white snow. It had been raging for nine years now, entering its tenth, the kingdoms of Khidel and Civuk locked in relentless conflict. The once-green fields were now scarred with trenches, the forests reduced to smoking ruins, and the villages to lifeless husks. The air was thick with the acrid scent of flames.

Khidel had been pushing forward lately, taking Civuk territory inch by inch. No smidgen of land was lost without it being soaked in Civukan blood. Soldiers fought. It was a battle of honor, a fight to keep their families safe.

King Edbart of the Xorin bloodline pressed onward, his soldiers trained and fresh, armed with weapons Civuk had never even seen until now. They were destructive, as if demons from the deepest rings of hell had ascended and lent them power. Civilians died every day. Children became orphans. Mothers lost sons and daughters. Khidel would not back down until it had conquered Civuk completely. Until its king and queen were in its fist, on their knees, begging to see the sun one last time.

Edbart was ruthless. It was as if blood were his life source, and without it, he would no longer be. He had two sons. His youngest, Runan, was his spitting image. Some said Edbart had asked the gods—or the devil—to take a part of his soul and breathe it into his next son. They were too much alike: the same thirst for destruction, the same hunger for power.

His eldest, Rain, though… They say that for every evil one there must be a good. One to destroy, and one to give shelter. The metaphor fit them perfectly.

Rain stayed on the sidelines most of the time. Watching. Learning. He knew his father and brother well enough—they could be as reckless as their thirst for blood demanded. He knew that someday, it would be their downfall. He was next in line for the throne, but his father still had many years ahead, so much more life to take.

Edbart and Runan were busy with war—planning the next battles, deciding which villages to attack to cause the most damage to the farms providing food and medicine for the troops. They didn't notice when he left the tents; the guards were too busy killing to realize the Prince of Khidel had crossed the border.

Rain wore a disguise, moving like the wind: silent and precise. He avoided eye contact and covered his hair. His ashen locks were a dead giveaway of his origin. The Khidelian genes ran deep within his bloodline.

He knew which villages had been ruined—the ones people still stayed in, perhaps to keep their names alive. He brought food. Medicine. Blankets. Sometimes even toys for the children.

Sure, Rain knew the risks. He would be sentenced to death for treason, for going against his own kingdom, for disobeying the king, for helping the enemy. Death by a thousand cuts would have been his punishment. Knowing his father, it would have been two thousand—just to prove a point.

But he still went. Still did what he could. He never revealed his name. Never stayed long enough to hear thanks or the people's prayers for him. He left as quickly as he came, almost like a ghost.

Things don't always go as planned, though.

Rain had just crossed the border and reached a village. He was taking out what he had brought from the large sack he carried, his knees on the dirty ground, when he felt the sharp coldness of a sword at his throat.

He slowly looked up. He knew that face. He had seen the paintings.

It was the heiress. But why was she so far from the capital?!

Rain clenched his jaw, his violet eyes observing the young woman standing before him. With a flick of her wrist, she tore the hood from his cloak, revealing his silvery locks.

The people around them gasped. Some hid their young ones behind them, shielding them from the enemy.

"I mean the Civukans no harm." Rain slowly raised his hands, showing he was unarmed. Defenseless.

"I brought medicine," he added, keeping his voice even. "Food."

The heiress's eyes were defiant, sharp as her blade.