7 - Crack
The inn room was modest-clean, quiet and unforgettable.
Exactly how Crown Prince Zafiel preferred it.
He sat at the edge of the narrow bed, black coat draped neatly over the chair beside him. The late afternoon light filtered through thin curtains, casting long shadows across wooden floors. On the small table nearby rested the golden canister delivered by the fiery eagle of Forebros.
He had already read the letter. An invitation. Polite. Measured. Strategic. His lips curved faintly.
"Grand Duke Maximus..." he murmured under his breath. "You never move without purpose."
Across the room, Sir Leonhard leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You intend to accept?" the knight asked.
"In due time." Zafiel removed his gloves slowly, setting them aside with deliberate care. "For now," he continued, voice lowering, "there is something else to address."
Leonhard's expression did not change-but his posture subtly shifted. He knew that tone. "Shall I secure the perimeter?"
"Yes."
Without another word, Leonhard stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Silence settled. Zafiel exhaled once. Then he smirked. It was not warm. Not amused.
It was the expression of someone who had uncovered a hidden pattern in a flawed design. He reached behind him and grasped the hilt of his greatsword-Violaperditus. The blade slid free with a low, resonant hum.
Purplish-black metal shimmered unnaturally in the dim light, veins of faint violet energy pulsing beneath its surface like a living thing. Most men could not even lift it. Zafiel wielded it one-handed. He stood. Raised the sword. And slashed. The air split. Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Reality itself cracked open like fractured glass, a jagged tear forming before him. From within it bled an inky darkness threaded with faint violet lightning. The temperature dropped. The shadows deepened.
Without hesitation-
He stepped through.
-
On the other side-
Darkness. A vast, windowless chamber swallowed in pitch black.
Beneath his boots, a massive magic circle glowed in ominous shades of purple, ancient runes rotating slowly along its circumference. The air throbbed with unstable mana. And at the center of the circle lay an object that did not belong: rectangular, glossy, black. A cellphone.
Zafiel's eyes narrowed. It pulsed faintly with unfamiliar energy. Not mana. Not demonic. Not human. Divine.
Golden light flickered around it in erratic bursts, clashing violently against the purple circle that restrained it. The air trembled. The golden energy surged suddenly, forcing a ripple through the room like a shockwave. Zafiel did not flinch.
"So," he murmured softly. "You are the source."
For weeks now, he had sensed it. An anomaly. A distortion in fate itself. Subtle-but present. As if threads of destiny were being rewritten by an unseen hand. His gaze darkened.
"Divine interference," he concluded.
The golden aura flared violently, as if reacting to his recognition. It attempted to expand-to break through the circle-to assert control. Zafiel's smirk returned.
"Pathetic." He raised his greatsword. The violet veins along the blade brightened. Golden and purple energies clashed in the air, sparks of raw power snapping like thunder.
Then-
He swung. The blade carved through the golden force in a single, merciless arc. A deafening crack split the chamber. The divine energy shattered like glass struck by a hammer. Light fragmented, dissolved. Vanished into oblivion.
The cellphone fell silent. Dark. Powerless.
The magic circle beneath it dimmed, stabilizing. Zafiel lowered his sword. For a moment, he stared at the now-lifeless object. An artifact from another realm. A tether. A beacon.
Someone-or something-had tried to interfere with Clematis.
To alter fate. His eyes grew colder. "I do not require guidance from gods." With another slash, the fabric of space tore open once more. He stepped through. The crack sealed behind him as if it had never existed.
-
Back in the inn room-
Leonhard felt the air shift subtly as Zafiel reappeared. He did not ask questions. He rarely did. "It is handled?" the knight asked simply.
"Yes." Zafiel sheathed his greatsword. "There will be no further distortions."
Leonhard nodded once.
Outside, the fiery eagle circled in the distance, awaiting response. Zafiel turned toward the balcony. "Prepare to visit the Grand Ducal Castle tomorrow," he said calmly. "It seems impolite to ignore such hospitality."
-
Meanwhile, inside the safety of her overly luxurious prison-
Mariana was losing her mind.
"He's here, fuck!" She paced back and forth across her pink-and-gold carpet like a general planning retreat from certain doom.
Okay. He hasn't summoned you. He hasn't stormed the gates. He hasn't publicly embarrassed you yet. There's still time. Time for what?
She didn't know. But pacing felt productive. A knock sounded faintly outside her door.
"Your Highness?"
She froze. "No."
"Your Highness, the Grand Duke requests-"
"I am ill!"
Technically not a lie. Existential dread counted as illness.
She marched toward the door and-very deliberately-locked it. The click echoed with finality. There. No one could drag her out now.
She leaned against the door, sliding down slowly until she was sitting on the floor. Deep breaths. You survived college finals. You can survive one emotionally constipated Crown Prince.
Probably.
She stood again and resumed pacing. "I just need to avoid dramatic confrontations. No clinging. No crying. No jealous tantrums."
Outside her window, the sky darkened slightly as clouds thickened.
Far away-
A divine tether had just been severed. Fate itself had shifted in a way she could not perceive. And in a modest inn room within her own territory, the man destined to end her life in the original story had just declared silent war on the gods.
Mariana stopped pacing suddenly. "...Why do I feel like something just got worse?"