War was a brutal affair—the lethal dance of life and death, the passionate kiss of crimson blood and the white snow.

It had been raging on for nine years now, going into the tenth—the kingdoms of Khidel and Civuk locked in a brutal and 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 Civukan territory inch by inch. No smidgen of land was lost without it being soaked in blood first. Soldiers fought a battle of honor—only to keep their families safe.

King Edbart of the Xorin bloodline was a warlord the historians would write about, his soldiers all trained and fresh, with weapons Civuk had never even laid eyes upon until now. As destructive as if demons from the deepest rings of hell had ascended and powered them. Civilians died every day. Children became orphans. Mothers lost sons and daughters.

Khidel would not relent. Not until it had Civuk in its grip, on their knees, begging to see the sun one last time.

Edbart was ruthless. It was as if blood was his life source and without it, he would no longer simply be, his foul-souled father of two sons.

His youngest—Runan—was the spitting image of himself. Some whispered Edbart had asked the Gods—or perhaps the Devil—to take a part of his soul and breathe it into his next son. They were too much alike that it was unnerving. They shared that thirst for destruction, the hunger for power.

His oldest—Rain—though... The say for every evil, there must be a good—peace in chaos—one to destroy and one to give shelter. The metaphor fit them perfectly.

Rain stayed on the sidelines—observing. He knew his father and brother well enough. With their wrath, recklessness was inevitable. He knew someday that'd be their downfall. He was the heir to his father's throne, sure, but everyone knew whom Edbart—who still had many years to live and many lives to take—would choose to take his place, and it was not his eldest son.

Edbart and Runan were busy with war—planning the next battles, 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 was crossing the border.

Rain wore a disguise, moving like the wind—silent and precise. He avoided eye contact. Covered his hair. The ashen locks accompanied by his violet eyes would give him away. The High Khidelian genes ran deep within his bloodline.

He knew of the villages which had been ruined. The ones that people still stayed in, perhaps to keep their names alive. He took food with him. Medicine. Blankets. Sometimes even toys for the children.

Sure, Rain knew the risks. Treason would bring him a painful death. Going against his own kingdom, disobeying the king, helping the enemy...

Death by a thousand cuts, his punishment would be. Knowing his father, he would've made it two thousand just to prove a point. But he still went there. Still did what he could. He never revealed his name. Never stayed long enough to hear *'thank you'*s, or the people's prayers for him. He left as quickly as he came.

But things don't always go as planned.

Having crossed the border, he was kneeling—knees deep in dirt. He was about to lay what he had managed to bring on the ground for the villagers to find when he felt the sharp cool of a sword at his throat.

He looked up. He knew that face. He'd seen the paintings.

The heiress.

So far from the Capital...?

Rain's jaw tightened, violet orbs observing the young woman before him. With a flick of her wrist, she tore the hood of his cloak, revealing his hair.

The few who had gathered in the past few seconds gasped, hiding their young ones behind them.

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

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

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